Lich hunt liches get sti.., p.20
Lich Hunt: Liches Get Stitches Book 4, page 20
“Oh, I’ve seen him,” I say. “But thank you. Anything else unusual.”
We spend the next hour poking about, picking through various broken bottles, and tapping bones, and finding absolutely nothing of interest. Jenkins conducts his own experiments, sniffing and poking his nose into every corner. A while later, I turn and see him staring avidly into a corner, as is the way of cats. Actually… Perhaps he is looking at something I can’t see?
I root around in my bag, looking for my eyepatch and dandelion eyeball. Maybe there are fairies here that I cannot see? Alas, that would mean living things, although my hope has begun to wane. I push the eyeball into my empty socket. Being skeletal does have its advantages, and the eyeball pops right in.
Straightening, there is that odd moment of distortion.
At first, everything looks exactly the same. Hang on—why did I think it was different? I glance at Wisp-Jenkins. Ah, now I can see what occupies his attention so intensely, his rear wiggling, ready to pounce. He pounces. In the corner, squeezed between a square-jawed skull and long thigh bone, some of the bones take flight. No, not bones—tiny winged skeletons.
I move closer, fascinated. The bone fairies are just that—inches high humanoid skeletons with delicate webbed wings made of vascular tissue. Their wings are as fine as lace, I’m surprised they keep the tiny creatures airborne. They flutter away at my approach, and Jenkins turns to scold me.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter.
Do they count as living or dead? I steal a soul to check, and it streaks into me like a tiny star. Living then, and tasting of bone broth and dust. But the note said ‘dark place where nothing grows’ so fairies are fine. However, whatever the semantics, I do not think this is the right place.
Or perhaps it is because I am not properly clad in silver? Three little bells do not count as ‘clad in silver’. Maybe I should come back, once my new dress and armour are ready? But there is clearly nothing here of any interest. Unless… the rest of the little bone fairies have fled, fluttering away squealing and shrieking into the wall, pushing themselves into a crack. Is there something there? Or just a hole in the bones?
“Jenkins?” I say. “Is there anything here? A room? Or a passage?”
I know there are secret passages down here, Dunwiddy used one to lead the people underground in safety. That route caved in during the war, however, leaving only a mess of rocks and rubble. Jenkins sticks his ghostly paw into the crack, swiping at the fairies. Then he turns away and comes to a stop next to a goat’s skull that protrudes from the wall at the centre of a decorative spiral of bones. He regards it meaningfully.
“The skull?” I say, and hurry over.
I poke at it, and suddenly it clicks loose. The darkness shifts and groans, and a pillar sinks backwards next to the crevice, revealing a stone corridor. A secret chamber! But all I find within are a rotting old wardrobe, a desk and a broken old bed. Phylas’ old living quarters? There are some notes written in a spidery hand, lists of names that mean nothing to me, and some old vats that stink of embalming fluid.
I do find some rather nice gemstones, which I pocket. There is a nest of some other types of bone fairies, these ones with round faces, pointy teeth and legs that splay out like spiders, but that is all. I search fruitlessly. Jenkins gives up and goes to sleep curled on the old lich king’s bony lap.
After another hour or two, I am ready to admit defeat. How incredibly disappointing and annoying.
“Jenkins,” I say, mournfully. “I don’t think I’m ever going to find this place. A dark place where nothing grows? Where could it be?”
Wisp-Jenkins cocks his head to one side. Leaping off the skeleton’s lap, he pads over, chirrups, and butts my knee with his head. Ears up, his tail swishes from side to side. I know that look. It is the same look he gives me when he has dismembered something particularly exciting and wants me to admire it in the back garden.
“What is it, Jenkins?”
He gambols around my legs and then jumps into the air, his paws landing on nothing. Then he looks at me, expectant. Clearly he is trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what. Inspiration seems to strike him. Jenkins does a succession of aerial tippy taps and then disappears with a whoosh.
“What?” I repeat, grumpily to the empty air.
Wisp-Jenkins pops back into being a moment later.
He regards me closely.
“I’m looking!” I say.
Satisfied, he vomits something onto my lap.
Sand.
I lean closer. Not just any sand. Miniscule tiny skulls, each one exquisite and perfect, grinning up at me. Sand from the Whisperer’s desert.
The words click in my brain. A dark place where nothing grows.
“Oh,” I say, a little dumbstruck. “Oh. Thank you, my love.”
Chapter 28
Troll For Initiative
It makes complete sense. The Whisperer’s realm is as dark as the underbelly of the night itself. Even the sand itself is made of the dead. I have not spent much time in his realm. Besides the utter lack of good company, I dislike the lack of… well life. Death does not bother me, but I prefer it as a cycle: death and rebirth. Flowers need to grow from the muck of past lives, beauty rising from gore. The Whisperer’s realm has its own beauty, I suppose, if you like lifeless deserts and spinning starless voids.
But why would someone choose the Whisperer’s own home as a location to plot against him? I suppose it has the element of… stupidity? Surprise? Unexpectedness, if I am feeling charitable. If it is some kind of trap or hoax, my wrath will topple empires. I do not think the clerics have the means to travel there, however, and the mysterious candle shop merchant aided me substantially in the past. No, whoever this is, they are on the side of life. Because of me, because of that gift, Fairhaven is a thriving, vibrant city of the living once more. Or she will thrive, once I have organised some trade.
With these thoughts rolling around my brain, I make my way back above ground.
Jenkins, satisfied with our adventure, disappears, back to whatever business lich cats have to attend to. He has taken to his new life with an enthusiasm that brings me joy. That is something, I suppose.
Back up to the attic I creep, ridiculous lich that I am. As I sit with one leg awkwardly slung over the attic window, I am accosted by a flurry of black feathers.
“Elding!” I say. “Do you bring news?”
The crow does indeed bring news in the form of a large envelope clutched firmly in his beak. Tucking my broomstick under one arm, I tear it open. I scan the letter swiftly. It bears a seal from the Guild of Goblin Artificers, in the form of a crest neatly stamped in wax and depicting a cog, a lamp, a diamond and a pair of goggles.
There is but one solitary sentence:
“Underbridge Tavern, Lowcroft Gorge, tomorrow midnight.”
I read it three times, my mind barely able to focus on the letters. A tavern? A secret tavern under the Lowcroft Bridge? I had no idea there was such a thing! But then, I have never looked!
“Thank you,” I say to Elding. Lighting crackles between the big bird’s shoulders as he ruffles his feathers.
Making haste, I scrawl a hasty note to Roland, and watch Elding flap off towards the castle. Then I hop on my broom, and leap out into nothing. Such is my thoughtless enthusiasm that I come very close to smearing myself across the Fairhaven cobbles below. My heels scrape the street before I get the broom under control with a few hastily whispered words. Muttering under my breath comes naturally, but not in such exciting moments. With a scream I am airbourne once more, scattering startled shoppers, and on my way to find the beastie for the longer trip south.
It is late evening when the beastie drops me off at the edge of Downing forest.
My soul welcomes me home with the peace I always miss when I am away. A hare moon rises silver above the treetops to the east, drenching the Lowcroft bridge in pooling light. The sky is clear and the air sharp, with a touch of late frost, and the wind is up. I can hear it wailing through the treetops. No. Not the wind. Someone is singing, but I use that term generously.
Making sure my lion’s eye is firmly in place, I walk out to the edge of the ravine. A woman is the source of the song. She sits crossed legged in the middle of the bridge, balanced precariously on the mossy stone wall. On second glance, I realise she is not a woman, although in moonlight, she shares a similar shape. A troll maiden. Hair like straw sprouts from either side of a rugged face, reaching down to her hips. Closer to, her features are too wide-set to be mistaken for human; large eyes, round cheeks, round… other parts. Naked, she appears to have stripes like a dark blue bumblebee criss-crossing the grey, rock coloured folds of her skin. Leafy twigs sprout from between her shoulder blades. Like wings almost, or like she went to sleep for a very long time, and things just grew on her.
The troll-maiden holds a grass-green bottle in one hand. She sings and swigs in turn.
Spotting me as I approach, she lets out a mighty belch.
“Ho lich! ‘Ware the lurker!”
“The what?”
She points down.
Following the course of her finger, I lean out and over the bridge. The ravine it crosses is deep, the sides almost sheer. I am familiar with it, having traversed this way many times on my many adventures between Downing and the wider world. Far below, I can see the water, a frothy, crystalline tumble. Steep arches of sandstone keep the bridge up and are built into the sides of the gorge, tapering away into the river below.
With my lion’s eye, I can see a short platform jutting out from the underbelly. The tavern entrance? It would be impossible to reach without flight, even if you knew it was there.
I don’t see the lurker, whatever that is, and I open my mouth to ask more, when a hunched shadow detaches itself from the dank stones.
How… unusual. A potbellied, rock encrusted giant scratches itself lazily under one armpit, before resuming its stillness. In the dark, it looks like part of the foundation of the bridge itself. An ambush predator then. Has it always been there? I really need to make an effort to look for the fae world in unexpected places.
“Thank you,” I call to the troll maiden.
She lifts her bottle in salute.
Tucking in my petticoats, I settle once more onto my broom, leaping out into empty air. This time, I descend gracefully. My ideas of a dignified arrival are shattered, however, as I misjudge the tight space under the arch of the bridge and fall face first onto the slats. Whipping out one hand I catch my broom as it threatens to spin into the void below.
The lurker’s oozing, moss encrusted toes fill my vision. Each one is the size of a decomposing pinecone. Gleaming, inky-black eyes open, and it makes a low, rumbling sound of excitement, swiping at me with one slow furry arm. Ducking, I scramble to my knees, narrowly avoiding the rock coated mass of twigs and moss. The lurker’s fist slams into the slats, smashing them and sending the splinters shooting into the air. The space beneath the bridge is cramped and wet, and there is nowhere for me to retreat that it cannot reach. Its limbs are so long the knuckles drag naturally on the ground.
It is nearly three times my size, but fortunately, it seems to be ten times as stupid.
Somewhat hesitantly, I kick it off the ledge with one well-placed foot to the stomach. It is so endearingly stupid, it feels more like a potential pet than a threat. But alas, I do not have time to make friends with dim-witted ambulating rocks. And really, I have more than enough pets as it is.
The lurker makes a rumbling cry of distress as it falls through the air, disappearing into the darkness below with a distant splash. This is followed by the sound of rasping giggles from atop the bridge. Dusting off my hands, I straighten my skirts. Where is the tavern? Ah, yes.
The door is low and almost but not quite round, set back into the stone of the archway. ‘Underbridge Tavern’ is carved into the rock above the frame in an uncivilised hand. A cheeky horseshoe made of blossoms dangles from the knocker, and from within, faint strains of music wash out into the night. Cocking my head on one side, I listen. Ethereal harp chords, fluting tin whistles, and the more raucous pound of a bodhrán, vigorously played.
The music is here one moment, gone the next, like a memory of sound. Tantalising. Beckoning me. How many travellers hear that music beneath the full moon and wander to the edge of the deep ravine? But then, most sensible folk have long since sought their beds by this time of night. The only people abroad at this hour are the fools, the witches and the desperate. I put aside the thought that I am all three, and push open the door.
A wall of sound and sensation rushes over me. The tavern within is a magical cavern, walls threaded with silver veins and tree roots, the room round and hunched in shape. It is not large, although what it lacks in size, it makes up for in merriment. It appears to be a natural formation in the bedrock of the ravine, as if it grew, instead of being laid by hands. Perhaps it did.
As is traditional, in all taverns fae and human, there is an instant, awkward moment of stillness, as every occupant turns to look at the newcomer. Strings vibrate, drums pause as I stand there, framed in the doorway, staring in. I take courage in the knowledge that I stopped to change, and am now wearing a particularly fine blouse embroidered round the arms with opulent daisy knotwork and a selection of tiny human skeletons dancing in ivory silk. No one can truly be anxious with such a blouse.
I step inside, and the spell breaks. The boisterous buzz of conversation and wingbeats resumes. The fae musicians strike up again, a pulsating slip jig accompanied by whoops and drunken dancing. Unlike a human establishment, the air smells fresh and faintly floral, although there is an underbite of metal that sets my teeth on edge.
Like everything with the fae, the appearance of the place is pleasing, but I have no doubt this tavern has seen its fair share of blood, and deals, and death. I scan the crowd for goblins.
Fire spirits dance energetically in the hearth, emitting ever changing colours of light and warmth. Sparkling, bobbing lights twinkle like mist-shrouded stars and hover everywhere, illuminating the occupants who are decidedly non-human. There are no elves, and most of the fairy folk are small—pixies, imps, and spirits. Of the larger occupants, there is another troll behind the bar, a slime covered hag, and yes, there, a table of goblins are waving at me from a corner.
I walk over, doing my best not to step on anyone.
Chapter 29
A Lich In Shining Armour
I had half-hoped to see a bearded tree spirit smiling at me from a chair. But then, why would he smile at the sight of me? And why would a tree spirit be in a tavern anyway? I push past a woman who seems to be made out of bubbling water and make my way to the waiting goblins.
Presumably they are my representatives from the Goblin Guild of Artificers. Clustered around a low table, most of them wear goggles, either over their eyes or perched atop their hairy green foreheads. As I draw closer, I recognize two of them—the goblin gatekeeper who lives in the base of the magical oak tree, and Greeter of New Arrivals, the Keeper of Gold, Secrets, and Books, and the Maker of Pleasing Sandwiches from the fairy market.
An elderly goblin stands as I approach, and bows.
“Your Majesty,” he says. “I am the Chief Tinkerer, Master Artificer of the Guild of Goblin Artificers, also known as the Wonder With Cogs, and Rampant Cheese Enthusiast.”
His flat cap is clasped nervously between two hairy, little green hands. Dressed in workman’s clothes, his brass goggles amplify his big yellow eyes. They look like the bottom of two golden jamjars.
“How do you do,” I say politely, sitting with as much queenly grace as I can muster.
Alas, the table is meant for much shorter, slighter creatures than me, and once seated, my bony knees are almost level with my cheekbones. My petticoats balloon out around me, like the petals of an overstuffed flower. I feel like a little girl playing tea party with her ugly green dolls.
“A drink, madame?” asks Chief Tinkerer, politely.
Greeter is nursing a cup of some foul smelling liquid with her spectacles perched disapprovingly on the very end of her small, green nose. No goggles for Greeter.
“No, thank you.”
One of the others leans over and whispers urgently in the elderly goblin’s ear. He blanches, wringing his cap into a twist. I assume he has just been informed as to the nature of my diet, so I sit, straight backed and demure, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.
“Shall we get down to business?” I suggest into the rather tense silence.
“Yes, yes,” he stutters. “Yes, Your Majesty. And yes, we are interested in a discussion about trade. But first—weapon and armour? What exactly do you seek?”
“I am looking specifically for an axe upgrade, pauldrons, a helm, and perhaps grieves. Not a full set of armour, I will be wearing a dress beneath.”
“I see, I see, no problem, no problem,” says Chief Tinkerer. “May we see your current axe? We always try to tailor the weapon to the owner.”
With some difficulty due to the confines of the space, I draw out my beloved axe, and lay it on the table with a clank. There is silence as the goblins inspect it.
Lying there, my beloved axe does look rather pitiful. It is not really a suitable weapon for a monarch, and certainly not for a lich queen. Once upon a time, it belonged to a brave adventurer named Tristan. I have not thought of him in many a long day. He saved my life, back in Little Downing, on the night that the necromancer came. Me, a stranger, a random peasant woman, a lowly hedge witch destined to be gutted on an altar for the sake of someone else’s power. He saved my life, although he died thinking he had failed.
To say I carried it to honour his memory would be a lie.
Those early days I did whatever I could to survive, and his axe was handy. Why I continued to keep it when I had so many chances to upgrade? That I do not know. But lying there, with the wooden handle repaired, repaired again, and stained with the blood of so many of my enemies… The heart I do not have is sore for the person that I was, and the people I have lost. It is time for a better axe, but still I mourn.
