The Banshee's Walk by Frank Tuttle Page A

woods. They were on the move. Hoping to flush us out, flank us, just walk up and bury a pair of black-bodied oak bolts right in our chests.
    “Keep your head down low,” I said. “Sidestep every third step. Move fast, be quiet, and don’t stop, not for anything.”
    Gertriss went wide-eyed. “But—”
    “Just do it.” I fumbled in my rucksack, found Toadsticker and yanked it out in a shower of fresh socks and at least one clean pair of underpants.
    I stood, pulled Gertriss to her feet and gave her a shove.
    Then I took a deep breath and stepped out of cover.
    A couple of things happened then, more or less at the same time. First, a muddy, wild-eyed bull calf came trotting out of the trees on the other side of the old road and sauntered right toward me, bound, I suppose, for anywhere but the cattle-paths and the stink of the slaughterhouses and the city.
    Next, from the ruined road that lead south toward Wardmoor, a pair of skinny, cloak-clad teenagers trotted up, jaws agape, their pimpled expressions those of confusion giving quickly way to fear.
    Finally, and much to my relief, dogs started barking. Out of sight, but close and loud and getting closer and louder. I knew the Watch uses dogs outside the old walls, and I knew my crossbow-fancier knew that too.
    The kids stopped, eyed my sword warily. The bull calf snorted at me and without slowing, ambled past, passing so close I could have patted his muddy head had I been so inclined. I suppose bleeding man, indifferent cow and upraised sword made quite a scene, because the youths exchanged looks and took a step back before speaking.
    Neither held a crossbow. Neither would have known what to do with a crossbow had they held it.
    “We’re looking for a Mr. Markhat,” said the taller of the two. He had long greasy hair and his boots didn’t match. “We’re supposed to meet him and take him to Wardmoor.”
    “We don’t have any money,” said the other kid, quickly. “And we didn’t see nothing, either.”
    I listened. Wind and trees and barking dogs. No telltale whisking of bolts through pine needles, no clunk and throw of a Stisson. But I did hear the rattle of a wagon, just around the bend, and a man urging on a horse and another man yelling something as he laughed.
    “Gertriss,” I said.
    “I’m here,” she replied. I didn’t think she’d taken more than four steps despite my shove and my warning. She had a big stick in one hand and what appeared to be one of Mama’s well-worn kitchen knives in the other.
    “Come on out,” I said. “Let’s get moving. It’s bad business to keep the client waiting.”
    “So you’re Mr. Markhat?” asked the tall kid. He didn’t try to hide a frown. “We made it over the old Bar bridge after all, got further than we thought. What happened to you?”
    Gertriss stepped out into the road, her hands suddenly empty, pine needles in her hair, dirt on both the knees of her good new britches.
    “Nothing,” I said. A fat drop of blood formed at the tip of my nose, and I wondered just how deep and long my new scratches were. “The cow made lewd remarks about my apprentice. We had to have words. How far to House Werewilk from here?”
    The wagon rolled into view. Two men rode the wagon, one driving, one stretched out in the back with his hat covering his face. By now I was sure that my new friend with the crossbow and the grudge was halfway to the cattle-road if not already across it. Three barking jumping mutt-dogs followed, nipping at the wagon wheels and yelping at each other and even though they were not and would never be huge somber-eyed Watch dogs, I could have hugged them all.
    “Not far,” said the greasy-haired kid, who was already eyeing Gertriss with the kind of leer she’d teach him to regret if she caught him in reach of those finely sharpened claws of hers. “You and the lady can ride.”
    I hefted my rucksack, and only then did I discover the crossbow bolt lodged deep within it. I’d later find it