Frank Tuttle - The Banshee's walk

If she’d been depicting a subject, it was one I couldn’t discern. There were lines of grey, touched with crimson, across a black background.

“Finder,” said Evis. His ashen halfdead face wasn’t made to express concern.

“Watch my back. Give me ten minutes. Hit me in the head if I start painting bowls of fruit.”

Evis cussed.

I dipped my brush in blood-red paint, and put it to the canvas.

And then I closed my eyes. I thought about Buttercup, thought about her playing with dolls, running, laughing, like the children in the paintings I’d seen painted in that very room.

I thought about Buttercup, and I hummed the tune, and remembered the words-

“Don’t you fret child

Don’t you cry,

Mama’s gonna make the black-birds fly.

And when those black-birds fly away,

Mama’s gonna make you a bed to lay…”

Evis put his hand on my shoulder and shook it.

“Markhat! Markhat, wake up or I swear I’ll start pulling off ears.”

I blinked. I dropped the brush. I forgot I was holding a board filled with paint and spilled the whole works down the front of my shirt.

“Markhat!” Evis slapped me. I shook my head and raised my arms, just in case he hadn’t been exaggerating about the pulling of ears.

“I’m back, I’m back. Easy.” I found a rag and dabbed at the paint that covered me.

“Back? Where the Hell were you?” Evis glared at my canvas. “Markhat, what have you done?”

He held the candle close, and I saw too.

I’d painted. I tried hard to remember what I’d painted, or why. You know those dreams, the ones you wake up from, the ones that instantly start to fade as soon as you try to grasp them and hold on?

I’d painted, though. I’d painted a white ring that took up most of the canvas. In the center of it was a strange white shape.

No. Not a shape.

A character.

Not one I knew. Not one that would be known to Evis or Mama or even the Corpsemaster.

I couldn’t remember its name or its significance. I didn’t even try. I had a lingering sense that merely knowing such a thing would injure me in ways far beyond that of the huldra or even the catapults waiting outside.

“Finder!”

“I’m here. I’m here.” I was having trouble talking. I spat out a short harsh word and then spoke again. “It is done.”

I didn’t know what I’d said, or why I’d said it is done. But as soon as I did, all around us, the artists started collapsing.

Easels went down. Artist’s tools and artists themselves fell clattering to the floor. A few moaned and blinked and looked around. Most simply settled down with weary sighs and fell into what I hoped were simply deep exhausted sleeps.

Evis turned about. A knife had found its way into his hand.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” he said.

“Old Bones.” I worked my jaw, found the right words. “Old Bones is sleeping. Right below us.” Parts of the dream scampered past-laughing children in the sun, a castle in the air, Buttercup playing in a marble fountain that bubbled with lights amid the waters. “They’ve been painting dreams. Old Bones’s dreams.”

“How?”

“Wasn’t the Lady. Wasn’t Hisvin. Old Bones herself. Patron of the arts.” I shook my head to clear it. “Gather up the paintings. Help me clear the floor. We need them in a circle.”

I heard myself say the words, but wasn’t sure why I spoke them.

“Like Hell we do. Markhat. Wake up. Remember what Hisvin said? We can’t let this thing out.”

“We won’t be letting it out. It’s going to let us in.”

“In? In where? In how?”

“The paintings. Prop them up in a circle, all around the room. Put this one in the center. A door will open.”

“A door? To where?”

Whatever knowledge had been impressed upon me ended.

“My head hurts.”

Evis regarded me warily. His knife was uncomfortably close to my liver. “I’m not surprised. Is that you in there? Tell me your fiancee’s name.”

“Darla. And she’s not my fiancee.”

Evis grinned. “Sure, pal. Whatever you say. Let’s get out of here before you start channeling dead alarkins again.”

I shivered. Stray images from the dream flitted about me, half-seen and fading.

Snores began to sound from all over the room. Serris moaned and stirred but did not awaken. “What about them?”

“Leave them. They’re as safe as they can be, these days. Come on.”

Evis tugged at my elbow. Even the gentle prodding of a halfdead has considerable power. I found my legs and made them move, and we left a roomful of snoring artists behind us.

The Lady met us at the end of the hall. Marlo was at her side, looking grim and determined. He had a bruise right below his right eye. His axe sported a fresh chip out of its handle, just below the head.

“I see you’ve been improving morale,” I said.

He glared. “I ain’t saying I much blame them, Finder. They’re scared. Things in the yard, soldiers dying, and that pair of catapults is set to throw any minute now.”

The Lady chimed in. “The House won’t stand long against them, Finder. You know that. I’m about to start moving people into the tunnels.”

“Better have a look around first.” I gave her a quick sketch of the cylinders rising from her lawn. “Not sure if they’ll have any presence underground, but if they do, you’ll want to keep your distance.”

The Lady nodded. I didn’t notice her paleness and exhaustion until then.

“For what it’s worth, Lady, I’m sorry about all this. I wish there had been another way.”

“This wasn’t your doing, Finder. And I apologize for your treatment by my household.”

I waved that off. “Forget it, Lady. They’ve watched their homes burn and seen their own killed. I don’t blame them for being scared.”

She nodded curtly. “Marlo and I will inspect the tunnels. I invite you and your party to join us, of course. You will not be attacked in my presence. I can assure you of that much.”

“Thank you. When and if the time comes, I’ll take you up on that.”

“Marlo.” And they were off.

I could feel eyes on us. And feel their intent. The ghost of the huldra chose that moment to intrude. It babbled on in words I didn’t know but in tones that were unmistakable — they seek to do you harm, so do them harm first. And it tried to show me ways to do just that, by coupling strange words with shapes traced in the dark.

I cussed aloud. Evis titled his head.

“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s go.”

And at that moment, I heard, from out on the lawn, the shouted word “throw.”

Thunk, as a rope was cut. A rush of wind, the agonized shrieking of timbers moving against each other, and then the ground-shaking thump as the throwing arm slammed into the stop and the contents of the basket were hurled toward us.

I dived for the floor, reached up to pull Evis down with me, grabbed only empty air.

The projectile struck.

The House shook. Stones broke. Timbers twisted and tore. Plaster sprang from the walls, clattering to the floor in hand-sized chunks, which then in turn shattered and skidded. Bits of the ceiling rained down, peppering my back and neck like a sudden hard rain.

Shouts rang out, and screams. Great rolling clouds of dust boiled down the hall.

Another impact, this one from the rear of the House, sounded. Plaster fell. I heard a monstrous shifting, as though a great mass of stone moved against another.

Evis hauled me to my feet. “Time to go,” he said, and when he set me down my feet were on the stairs.

We charged up them, through the dust. The shouting behind us grew closer and took on a decidedly determined tone.