Lich, Please 97: Post Mortem

Author Note: This was originally supposed to be the end of the last arc, but my crit partner vehemently thinks I should make Janvier's end the end of the arc lol. He's probably right. Let me know if you have thoughts. 

Chapter 97

Post Mortem

Pleased with the latest addition to my decorating, I can now turn my attention to more important matters. My loved ones are all looking a bit battered. Repairs and healing are in order. Then I must figure out the business of rebuilding and ultimately ruling the kingdom. I am a little grouchy about this as I suspect it will be difficult from a woodland cottage. I miss my cottage so much.

First things first. The Fairhaven girls were all injured fighting that ratbag Phylas. I stitch a new leg onto Sara’s torso, all the while extolling the virtues of caution, of common sense, and of knowing when to charge down a hallway waving your daggers and hurling fireballs and when to hold back. My wisdom falls on deaf ears. In truth I cannot blame them. In their positions I would have done exactly the same.

Sara and Karine took most of the damage. Sara is easily mended, (rainbow daisy chain stitching, carefully embroidered while the teenage draugr watches me like a hawk) but Karine dies of her injuries the following night.

I patch up her body as best I can and bring her soul back with a word of caution.

“This body might be tough and strong,” I say, as the brand new draugr flexes her undead muscles, “and you won’t need to sleep, but it will deteriorate over time, with injury and wear. You can still die. You are not immortal. You need to be carefull. Do you understand, Karine?”

“Yes, yes,” the dead hellion answers, before rushing off to lift a cart over her head with a giggling Gabriella inside.

I sigh and set aside my needle and thread. I cannot shake the feeling that the Fairhaven girls are not taking the risks seriously. Living in a haunted castle, surrounded by undead probably has that effect on growing minds. They are only girls after all. But perhaps they have the right of it. Not everything needs to be suffering and misery. If they pass from this world at least they burned brightly.

Next I go to see Roland who is in a sorry state indeed.

“My dear,” I say to him, as I attach a new arm. “I think it is high time you considered a new body. There is only so much I can do with a needle and thread.”

He smiles sadly. “I suppose you are right, my lady.”

“Think of the body modifications we can make,” I say, brightly, my needle darting in and out. “With new flesh.”

Strangely this argument does not seem to sway him.

Once Roland is darned and patched to the best of my ability I go in search of Jenkins, finding him eventually, curled up on the comfortable chair in my tower. My poor cat is looking rough.

Cradling him on my lap I inspect him for damage.

If I had tear ducts I would have turned his black, furry hide wet as a forest spring. He does not seem to mind his missing chunks of fur, or the newly exposed ribcage but I do. He head butts me softly, his purr constant, if a little subdued. Tickling him behind the worn ears I ask him to please stay home, and to stay safe until I can… I don’t know what to do exactly. I suppose I can find him a new body, but that does not seem right.

Realistically telling him to stay out of trouble is as useful as telling fish not to swim. He is a cat after all, and a witches’ cat at that. Liching Jenkins is the only sensible solution.

“Lady Maud,” says Roland, jolting me from my reverie. He sticks his freshly mended head around the corner.

“Yes, Roland, what is it?”

“A messenger came from the Temple at Barrowmere. The clerics request a meeting.”

“What? The Archon? And Friar Julian?”

The little well mended draugr looks solemn. “All of them, your ladyship.”

“Ahh. Thank you Roland.” Pausing, I examine the slender bones of my feet for a few moments. “If they want to meet,” I say. “Tell them they can come to Fairhaven, and do it in my throne room, as is proper.”

“Your throne room, my Lady?”

“Your Highness,” I correct gently. “If I am to be queen, I had better start right away.” I know one thing. This queen will not be wearing shoes.

Roland smiles and bows. “Of course, your highness. You think they wish to continue the truce?”

I smooth my skirts carefully over my knees. “I certainly hope so. I will write them a letter.”

***

The meeting is arranged. Word is sent forth in a flurry of jasmine scented, pinecone and sparrow skull wrapped scrolls, with ebony black velvet ribbons. Somewhat to my surprise the delegation agrees to meet me in the capital. An auspicious move.

I fly back to Fairhaven to oversee the arrangements, and to take stock of my city.

It is a mess. Most of the buildings are still being dug out. The ice continues to melt but the process is slow. My people have been focusing on making parts habitable for the humans who want to return to their homes, and I can see it has been gruelling work so far. It always seems to me greatly unfair that it takes so much longer to build than to destroy. Crafters and makers should be held in far greater esteem. A seamstress or carpenter is of infinitely more use than a trained killer, but what does society value more? Once I am properly queen I will take steps to change this.

Castle Rock itself is in ruins. The old king’s seat of power at the top of the city bore the brunt of the violence and Janvier’s initial attack. It is now a sorry pile of stones, with blown out walls and wind whistling through its extremities. The lower half of the castle, and the interior rooms are quite functional, with the exception of the eastern flank, where a wight dragon clawed its way up to the parapet, taking half the stones with it. The burial chambers in the hill are untouched. The gardens and greenhouses are destroyed although I am able to liberate the souls of many of the plants whose remains still lay encased in the ice.

My wights dig Janvier’s obsidian throne out of the wreckage, and hauled it to what I will charitably call the throne room. It no longer has a roof, but that is not really a problem. Some draugr trees improve the ambiance mightily and make the whole set up bearable. Despite the devastation, I think there is a certain majesty and drama to holding the audience atop the windswept spire.

For now, I sit, legs neatly crossed at the ankles with the great curved skeleton of the wight dragon behind me. The throne is a little big for me, but with a discreet cushion or two, and my largest pauldrons I think I cut an imposing figure.

The clerics arrive.

They file in, rows of clanking paladins, shivering, blue robed Wave Walkers, and a handful of the Blind Queen’s acolytes, all of whom look as if they have been sucking lemons all the way from their abbey to my front door. Eyes dart here and there, to the onyx pattern of the floor that I have let radiate out from the throne, to the enormous dragon skull behind the throne. I spot Friar Julian and Sister Lorelei in the crowd, and nod in greeting. The Sister has her usual inane grin plastered across her face, and the Friar’s eyes are solemn. The Archon is there too. I wink. She does not respond although the line of her mouth could curdle milk.

I am slightly alarmed at the quantity of clerics, but being of a suspicious mind myself, I  am prepared. There are wights and draugr hidden in every airy alcove. My void knights line the broken dais behind me. The living breathing leaders of my city stand on either side of my throne, all of them in their finest (if hastily made) attire, and armed to the teeth.

I will take no chances, and forgive no duplicity. If this arrangement is to work I will not hide what I am.

The Friar, an acolyte, and a resplendent sun paladin step forward. The silver bell around the acolyte’s head tickles, and I wince at the sound. She appears to be wearing a crown of brambles.

They incline their heads. I incline mine but do not get up.

“Well?” I say. “Shall we be at each other’s throats or can we continue the truce? I would prefer the latter. I have better things to do.”

Diplomacy has never been my strong point.

To my relief the Friar smiles. “Peace,” he says. “We would prefer peace.”

“Good.”

“Not so fast,” says the acolyte. “We do not absolve you of your sins. Of your evil.”

“I did not ask you too.”

“This is a truce only. A pact to heal the land.”

“If you do not attack me and mine,” I say, evenly. “I will not attack yours. Simple. I have always wished to live peacefully.”

“Uneasy are the Bright One’s servants,” booms the paladin. His sheen of golden hair ripples as he throws it over his shoulder. His eyes turn to Rachel, standing tall in her fire-mage robes, to the witches and alchemists behind her, to King Dunwiddy on my left. “But we note that you are honest in your ability to tolerate the living. This speaks in your favour.”

He continues to waffle, waving his arms dramatically, his voice rolling off the stones. He talks about gods, and family, and peace and accords. I am listening, I really am. But my eyes are fixed on the ruined wall behind the clerics.

They cannot see it, only those of us on the dais can see it.

Grains of sand are trickling from between the cracks in the walls.

Softly, softly they fall. Softly. What omen is this? The grains bounce on the ruined stones and settle in the crevices. I wrench my eyes away, trying to concentrate on the words spoken by the pompous cleric, but I cannot. The trickle is becoming a rustling torrent, a dry waterfall heaping itself on my floor.

An oppressive weight settles itself on the chamber, drowning out the paladin’s words. His boom baritone becomes a murmurous whisper. He clutches his throat in alarm, choking. The acolyte turns, eyes wild, but this time her bell does not ring. She sees the sand.

“Treachery!” she cries, although the word comes out hoarse and quiet.

“It is not my doing,” I say, rising to my feet. And it is not.

The clerics go for their weapons, but they are frozen in place.

Bitter scents caress my cheek with deathly fingers. A tear opens in the fabric of reality, an eye, a narrow, unblinking eye, and through it hisses a noxious wind as cold as the grave. I can see glimpses of a bleak, dark desert. Sand pours out of the portal, like it is being displaced from the other side. More sand, more sand, and then an enormous onyx boot, followed by the giant figure of a man.

The Whisperer steps into my throne room and straightens to his full height.

I fall to my knees.

His presence is crushing. Soft like torrential rain is soft, battering me from every side. Soft like the weight of the stars. It is hard to think. My thoughts are moths in a midnight hurricane, ripped to shreds before I can finish them. I stare up at the darkness radiating from him in suffocating waves, dampening all sound, suppressing all colour, leeching the light away. Wings flare at his back. There are images in those wings. Images and madness.

Tearing my eyes away, I look instead at the rusted silver hammer the size of a tree trunk, held casually over one shoulder. There are runes there, creeping and crawling like insects over the tarnished metal.

“I am displeased.”

The Whisperer squeezed an enormous fist. The clerics closest to him burst. Crimson fountains of fragments, splatter the walls with chunks of flesh.

A single, desperate silver eye bursts into being, blazing across the bramble haired acolyte’s forehead. Light pours from it, streaming into the whirl of darkness. A tiny light in that swirling darkness.

“The goddess protects us!” she cries. “In absentia lucis! Tenebrae vincunt!”

Her words pierce the spell.

Eyes appear, gleaming on each acolyte’s forehead. The paladins glow through the joints of their armour, gold flaring, but still, they struggle to break the god’s grip. The acolyte stretches her arms, I can see the muscles straining, she manages to spread them wide. More eyes bloom on her palms, reminding me uncomfortably of the grimoire.

The Whisperer turns to her, whispers swirling around his form like little hissing insects.

She opens her mouth, to shout a spell, to shout- something- and vomits sand.

He swings his hammer once, and she is gone. Again, another cleric dies, again, again. The floor runs thick with blood and bile.

Friar Julian’s sea blue eyes stare up at the descending hammer, the whites of his eyes showing the whole way around. A bead of sweat coats his tattooed brow.

“No!” I scream, starting forward, my arms outstretched.  Not the friar! Fool though he is, his my friend. My ally. Then I too am held immobile.

The hammer pauses.

I fight to get free, fight to reach for my axe but it is futile. I am bound by bruising steel.

The susurrus of nightmares swirling in my direction.

“No?” he says. “No? Maud. Heed my words. You have served me well. You have sent many souls to my desert to wander for all eternity. Together we have feasted on the dead. You have spread my influence. I have been pleased with you, my scion. But this is too much. I will not share.”

The hammer descends.

The friar’s life is snuffed out, his remains a crimson smear.

“Heed the warning,” says the Whisperer. “Do not test me, again.”

And then he is gone.