Lich hunt liches get sti.., p.22
Lich Hunt: Liches Get Stitches Book 4, page 22
This is fine, I suppose, but then I spend half a day dithering over which outfit to wear for the journey. I have enough flesh on me that I am uncomfortable naked, but I simply hate the idea of abandoning a dress in the Whisperer’s Realm. I love all my clothes, and they have all been made with great love and care.
In the end, I decide I am being ridiculous and settle for bloomers and an old blouse with my least favourite stitching. I will try not to think about it too hard.
Finally, I am ready.
I kiss my mother and Jenkins goodbye. Holding my rather large sack with exceptionally well padded silver outfit close, I trot into the forest to find a safe place to sunder reality.
This is a spell I dislike, and one I have used only once. But I am prepared. I just need to step through the void, and get dressed as quickly as I can. All will be well.
I realise I am staring at a patch of forest. A couple of ghost butterflies are twinning around each other in the air. Or are they wisps? I have my lion’s eye in. No matter. Clenching my fists, I whisper the spell.
“Quo vadis?”
The effect is immediate.
The air ripples in ebony shockwaves. The earth shudders, tilting as I adjust the grip on my sack of precious things. Inky waves radiate away from me, the forest turning into a black ocean, the trees rippling jetsam. I am a stone dropped into a deep, dark sea.
Thrum
The land is liquid. The tree roots turn to skeletal hands, grasping at me from beneath the waves. Everyone I have killed rises from the water. There are so many. I cannot find purchase for my feet, the world is jet black quicksand and I am sinking, I am drowning in my nightmares.
THRUM
No. I am master of myself, of my own fears.
THRUM
No, I am drowning.
No.
Reality rips open, a tear, eye-shaped and evil; glaring, greedy. Staring at me. Beyond, I see the sand of the desert, and the dark starless sky yawning above.
Hefting my sack, I step boldly through the rift, the lace on my bloomers fluttering in a wind that reeks of a tomb.
Chapter 31
A Dark Place
The sand scrunches beneath my feet as I step forward into darkness. The dune shifts treacherously, and I stumble, the heavy sack yanking me off balance.
Behind, the portal closes with a pop.
I am alone in the breathless, lifeless void that is the Whisperer’s desert.
Dark oblivion stretches away above me. This sky holds no twinkling stars, no clouds, no birds, no mist. Just an eternity of yawning emptiness. It is bone-numbingly cold. There is no sound but the dull hisssssss of the sand, trickling in dry waterfalls as I move, as I attempt to get my bearings. I must make haste. There is no landmark or feature that I can see. The portal spat me out halfway down a dune, so I struggle up to the top to get a better view.
At the crest of that dry desert wave, there is nothing: just more sands, a deathless, motionless sea of dunes stretching away on all sides. For a moment, I doubt. What if there is nothing here for me? Am I on a fool’s errand? But then, I am not yet clad in silver. I need to hurry. The whispers will soon find me. If they have not already.
As I put down the sack with a padded thump and reach for the drawstring, a slither of black detaches from the night, skittering towards me. I can see and hear it coming, an angry, inky smudge coiled like a snake, ready to strike.
“What arrrrrrrrrrrre you doing, Maaaaaaud?” it hisses, soft with repressed anger. “Ssssssssssssstop. Whateeeeeeeeeeever it issssssss.”
My fingers are guilty on the string.
Not the Whisperer, not the Whisperer, thank the goddess. Not the Whisperer. An echo of his voice only. I tug urgently, but the knots are too tight and will not come loose. The whisper flits around me like an angry lover, drawing a line of agony across my cheek. With shaking fingers, I yank frantically, but I am too slow.
More whispers hiss through the air, encircling me. Seconds later, I am at the centre of a dark vortex. The silver would chase away his presence, but then he will know… Well, he will know that I am doing it intentionally, that I am able to banish his spies, his influence. And so far, I believe—I hope—I have managed to deceive him. I am about to put this theory to the test, because it seems my luck has run dry.
The whispers coalesce into the shape of a figure, towering above me. Winged nightmares flare at its writhing shadowy back. I am a shrivelled acorn before his rotting majesty. My thoughts scatter to madness, and I cling to them desperately. Is he actually here? Or is it a projection? A sending? Like Jenkins, I realise with a start.
It is too late to ponder.
Too late for rational thought. Too late, too late—
The rusting hammer slams into the sand beside me. I am sent flying with the granules, and land chin-first in the sand.
“I give you giftsssssssssss. I give you power. Great power. My power. All the power a human could want. I give you everything!”
The weight of his voice is oppressive, and greasy. It is like being smothered in a vat of oil. No air, no breath, just slipping, cloying agony. Barbed coils spin slowly, hypnotising, unravelling my mind with insidious softness. The softness of ten thousand years, of ten thousand currents dragging against the stone. It hurts to listen, but I have no choice. I am dragged to consciousness from the bottom of that river of madness.
“Why Maud? I give you giftsssssssssss and you do not usssse them? Why don’t you use them, Maud? Where issssssssssss my domain? Where are my dead? Where are my souls? My playthingssssssssss! I hunger! Where isss my dominion?”
“I—”
“Ossssssa sssssssaltare’.
Transparent silver chains lash into existence. Snaking through the air like vipers, they latch, stinging, around my ankles, and wrists, wrenching me to my feet, then up, up, up. Barely visible, the chains are as strong as steel. I know better than to pull against them, but I cannot help myself.
The Whisperer dangles me, suspended high in the air, like a rag doll. I knew I hated this spell. One tug and he could rip my limbs from my body. I stay very still, keeping my face composed as I stare into the darkness of his cowl. No guilt here. His eyes are not visible, the bone white chin and jaw only partially revealed in the shadows.
“Thisssssss spell. Hard won. Hard fought. You do not ussssse it? Why not? Do you not like my giftsssssss?”
The chains lash, pulling me tight. He is going to rip the limbs from my body, my muscles are beginning to tear. Pain lances through my joints. I try to speak, but he is not done.
“Sssshould I dispose of you? SSsssssseek new toys that better obey? Why are you here, Maud?”
“My territory grows,” I stutter. “I know my methods are… unconventional, but I serve you always! My influence spreads, and through my influence, yours. Even now, I turn my head to the Quellac Isles. I will be Empress before the winters pass us by. You cannot deny that through my agency your dominion has grown.”
“Empresssssss…”
There is a hint of interest in his hiss, and I lean into the lies, squashing down the terror.
“I’m playing a long game. Now I have a foothold in the fairy realm, our influence will spread there—”
“Why not consssssume it alllllll?”
“I will! But I must go slowly! If I am perceived as too great a threat, the mortal lands will band together to destroy me! I cannot fight a war on three fronts! For now, the fairy realm is neutralised, and I grow my wealth, hoarding it for my next assault! I will control not just Einheath, but all our neighbours, mortal and fae! You will have their souls, my lord! The meat of their flesh will feed my plants, and I will spin their hair into cloth and sell it back to them, and use the money to create more engines of war! My empire of death and destruction will grow vast and powerful. My ambition knows no bounds!”
This last, at least, is true.
The Whisperer lowers me, slowly, although the chains still hold me fast. Have I convinced him?
“Maud. Do not dissssssapoint me. Do you understand?”
“I won’t! I do! I serve you with everything I have!”
The Whisperer stops lowering me. My feet still dangle yards above the desert. He is going to drop me. Is he? Something flickers beneath the cowl. The chains tighten. The Whisperer pulls.
I scream as my limbs are ripped from their sockets, shriek as each stringy fibre of muscle snaps apart in bloodless agony.
They go flying through the air—pitiful bits of flesh and tattered skin, bright against the grey of the sand. Lancing, pulsing, searing pain streaks through me again and again. My vision blurs. And as all the parts of me hit the sand, the darkness closes in.
When I come too, I am still lying where I fell, staring into the empty void above me. I sit up, with difficulty. The Whisperer has gone, and for that I am grateful. The pain in my shoulders has lessened to a dull ache. My arms and legs lie a few yards away, discarded. Gritting my teeth, I worm my way over to them, half rolling, half crawling. When I reach them, I sit up and simply stare at them.
They look so ridiculous and tiny. So weak. Bones barely covered in skin, and even less flesh. What should I do now? I need to retrieve them, to sew them back on, but how can I sew my arms back onto my body without any arms?
If I could cry, I would cry.
I feel incredibly vulnerable lying here. Suddenly, everything I have done seems incredibly foolish. Although I have seen no predators, that does not mean they do not exist. Of course they exist, this is the realm of the god of the dead. But what can I do? Is there even anything I can do? My sack of glorious clothing lies mercifully undisturbed at the bottom of the dune where I dropped it. The same colour as the desert, it seems the Whisperer did not notice the bag, or simply did not care. Fortunate for me, although, what can I even do with them in this state?
Still, I turn and worm my way over to it, sliding the last few yards face first in the sand. I tear the knot open with a vicious yank of my teeth. The silver pieces tinkle and chime as they jostle against each other. The remaining whispers flee. Much good it does now, but at least it makes me feel like I am doing something. Rebelling, I suppose. My power may be tied to his, but I will sacrifice it all to rip his maggoty, whisperery head from his shoulders and feed it to my roses, even if it means I must join him in death right after.
My silver armour gleams bright in the darkness. A beacon. The glorious runework of the armour, axe and helm reflect off the bright metal. Perhaps my mysterious co-conspirators will find me. I cannot dress myself without hands… and who would meet me this way, anyway? Who would want me in this state?
I flop backwards into the sand, staring up and grinding my teeth.
Have I miscalculated? The Whisperer has done this on purpose. Leaving me vulnerable and useless. Hurting me just enough that I would suffer, but not enough to kill me. The only way home now is death. Perhaps I could kill myself… somehow… I could bare my throat to the silver axe… Wedge it in the sand, and throw myself at it?
No. I will not waste this. All the silver, the plotting, the hours of sewing. The crystals! The love I put into each delicately hammered sequin and stitch! I am not ready to abandon it here, all for the sake of a petulant god who abuses me and tosses me aside like an unloved doll.
Something flickers at the edge of my vision. I turn my head sharply. A whisper? A lost soul? Occasionally I see them, wailing in the distance, although they never last long. The noise attracts the whispers like fish to bait. Not a spirit, but… a fluffy black cat.
“Jenkins!” I cry.
He bounds across the sand, landing in front of me, square on the stupid lacy bloomers, and shoves his furry little head into my belly, purring loudly. He glares up at me when I don’t pet him.
“Hello, my love,” I say to him. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have hands to tickle your ears.”
Jenkins looks around, sees my discarded limbs and leaps up immediately, padding across the sand. He does not leave paw prints. But then, he is not really here. He grabs my right hand, sharp teeth puncturing my skin. It seems he is only here when it is convenient. How very much like a cat.
“Gently!” I say, and he adjusts his grip. Carefully, he tows it over to me, depositing it in my lap. Then he goes back for the others.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very thoughtful. But I don’t have a way to reattach them.”
Jenkins looks around, sapphire eyes narrowed. His presence is an immediate balm, although I don’t really see what he can do to help. What is he looking for? His eyes fasten on the ever present bag at my side, always filled with a few crystals and my sewing kit. He nudges it forward with his nose, and then sits on his rear, expectantly.
“Yes,” I say, wiggling the stumps of my shoulders at him, and letting out a big sigh. “Thank you. But I can’t sew. Not like this. I need my hands to sew, and I can’t sew without my hands. And your paws are the wrong shape.”
I can see the thoughts turning over in Jenkin’s sweet, furry little head.
He disappears, his body vanishing like mist in the sun.
Before I can wonder if he has abandoned me, he pops back into existence. This time he has something in his mouth. A struggling, angry, ugly little gnome creature. About five inches tall, it looks like the kind I have seen before in Downing, living under the mushrooms and in the roots of old willows. Only this one is properly dressed in workman’s clothes and seems to be holding a tiny shoe. Is it a fairy cobbler? He has two tiny, nobby little hands. He should be able to manage a needle.
“Clever Jenkins,” I say. “This might actually work.”
Radiating smugness, Jenkins spits the tiny cobbler out into my lap and nudges it forward encouragingly. The gnome shakes the shoe angrily up at Jenkins, an incomprehensible stream of high pitched gibberish issuing from its mouth. Then it turns and sees me for the first time.
It screams and sprints off into the desert. It doesn’t get very far, being so small and sinking immediately into the drifts of soft sand. Surrounded by tiny granules, each perfectly skeleton shaped, the gnome’s eyes roll back in its head, and it appears to faint. Overcome. Poor, useless thing.
Jenkins grabs it between his teeth and gives it a shake.
The gnome remains unconscious. Jenkins growls between his teeth, and disappears once more, taking the little fae creature with it. This time he is away a little longer. I shift uneasily in the sand, and attempt half-heartedly to open my purse with my teeth. I attempt to thread a needle and accomplish nothing more exciting than skewering my stomach. Jenkins is back before I can quite turn myself into a pincushion. This time he brings with him three little pixie skeletons, vein fine wings fluttering.
“Could you help sew me up?” I ask them carefully.
Between the three of them, and Jenkins’ careful observation, we manage. The little bone fairies’ stitches are clumsy and large, but I’m really in no position to complain. As soon as one arm is mostly attached, I am able to do the other one myself with only a tiny bit of help. Once I have two arms again, I am able to repair myself to full, if not aesthetically pleasing, function once more.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing Jenkins lightly on top of his head, and giving him his well deserved head scritches. “And thank you all too. I will be alright now.”
Goddess knows how long I have been sitting in this dreadful desert.
Grabbing my sack and enjoying the feeling of having fingers once more, I spill the gleaming contents onto the sand. The silver banishes what whispers linger immediately.
I dress myself in haste. At least the sleeves will cover the emergency stitching, and before much time has passed, I stand in my splendid gown, in the centre of a purified sea of stillness. I fasten on my pauldrons, admiring the shimmering runework etchings. I slip the bell bracelets onto my hands and feet.
Jenkins is a particular fan of the dangling bells. It is worth the headache. Strangely, after a few minutes, it goes away. As I lift the magnificent silver stag helm onto my head, the movement sets my whole outfit ringing softly. I cock my head. No pain. How strange, but I am not complaining.
“There,” I say quietly, content in the knowledge that the Whisperer cannot hear me anymore.
The air around me is clear for as far as I can see. No insidious hissing, no twisting threads of darkness, no coiling whispers. Even the susurrus of the shifting sand is soft and natural. Mundane. The Whisperer cannot perceive me, even here in the heart of his realm. To him, I must have simply vanished.
Picking a direction at random, I set off through the dead landscape. Jenkins trots after me, taking gravity defying leaps down the dunes, half flying, half bounding. The little bone fairies and I follow, sparkling and shining, my mood improving with every step. I give a little skip, and all the bells chime in harmony. My axe shines with rune-light, as does my armour, throwing back the light of the silver and setting everything agleam.
I alone emit light in this dark, dead desert.
My presence must be like a beacon, for those with eyes to see it.
Now. Where is my audience?
Chapter 32
Hare Moon
An outfit like this deserves to be witnessed. It deserves to be shared and enjoyed. I want someone to admire the little crystals sewn into flower shapes on the bodice. I want someone to see the shininess of me. I want someone to tell me that I am beautiful. That what I have done matters.
Alas. I am just a foolish skeleton in a pretty dress, skipping through a dusty desert, with no one to watch.
Jenkins and I wander in companionable solitude, as lost as any of the Whisperer’s stolen souls. In the distance, I see whispers curling; dustdevils of inky black threads, but they do not come near us. My outfit sees to that. At times they solidify into faces, screaming, silent, tormented holes where their eyes and mouths should be, before the soft breath of the wind whisks them away once more. Once or twice I think I recognise a face. People I have killed, people whose souls I have devoured. And not just people—looming forests of darkness, flowers, shrubs, animals, trees—all that I have taken from the world.
