The Banshee's Walk Read Online Free Page A

veritable flood of bare-chested ladies in paintings for two centuries thereafter.
    I was never much of a student, but for some reason that stuck with me.
    I grinned and wondered for the thousandth time if that hadn’t been King Throfold’s idea all along and then the cab pulled onto Cannon and I had arrived.
    I tipped the cabbie and set foot along the cheery galleries and elegant cafes that lined the shaded streets.
    I took in a few window-fronts as I walked. It seems art doesn’t keep banker’s hours, something I hadn’t considered when I set out, and every gallery I passed was most unapologetically locked up tight.
    But the windows were open, and the sun was out, so I could see what passed for art in Rannit these days well enough.
    I wasn’t impressed. Like old Throfold, I preferred my art to be pleasant to look at. What I saw, in window after window, was the War.
    Heroic soldiers faced down slavering Trolls. Banners waved majestically in smoke-choked winds. The fires that ringed every battle only served to illuminate the fierce patriotic resolve that lined each soldier’s face with courage.
    I was there, people. It wasn’t courage that kept us fighting. It was the simple lack of any other choice.
    I fell into a damned march cadence without realizing it, and into a deep scowl when I did. Window after window revealed paintings of battles, sculptures of upraised swords, and tattered old regimental flags encased in glass and the like.
    I did come to one conclusion. No veterans ever shopped these places.
    They’d just not have the stomach for it.
    I was about to hail a cab and head for Eddie’s when I came upon a door propped open with a brick and a pair of workmen carefully easing a blanket-clad canvas into the place. Being an inquisitive fellow, I fell into step right behind them and became the day’s first patron at Moorland Galleries, Established 1998.
    “Where does this one go?” asked the nearest workman, of me.
    “With the others, please,” I replied. No need in prompting a fusillade of questions at this hour of the day, after all.
    They grunted and made their way through a rear door, and I took a moment to browse.
    General Stark on horseback, sword uplifted. The Battle of Three Gates, ringed by fire. The Charge at Impriss, wind blowing the majestic banners the wrong bloody way. And then something unexpected—the Fall of Right Lamb.
    I was gritting my teeth and thinking inartistic thoughts when someone softly cleared his throat right beside me.
    “One of my personal favorites,” said a voice from below my shoulder. “It’s a Kelson, as I’m sure you know. Only Kelson can do twilight with such foreboding, don’t you think?”
    I nodded. To me, it looked like someone had painted the awful thing using only three shades of dark bloody red and then blotted it liberally with lamp oil before leaving it out in the rain.
    “Kelson is a master of subtle twilights,” I said, sensing mention of lamp oil or rain might offend my new friend’s delicate sensibilities. “Are you perhaps the proprietor?”
    Laughter, mild and polite. “Goodness, no, sir. I am Steven, the manager. I wake before noon, you see.”
    I chuckled and turned, and we shook hands. It wasn’t his fault the War was staring me back in the face from all sides.
    “My name is Markhat.” Steven was a short skinny man, pale and bookish, but he had a scar running all the way from the crown of his bald spot to his shoulder, and I had a feeling he didn’t like these fine works of high art any better than I did. “You’ve got some interesting pieces here.”
    “Thank you, sir. Is there an artist you’re interested in? We have quite a range of styles and techniques.”
    I nodded, tried to tear my eyes off the Fall of Right Lamb. I’d been there. I’d seen it. Hell, I’d nearly died there, half a dozen times in that awful last night.
    “Actually, I’m wondering if you know of a Lady Erlorne Werewilk,” The faces fleeing the Trolls in the