Lich hunt liches get sti.., p.6
Lich Hunt: Liches Get Stitches Book 4, page 6
I catch a glimpse of weathered bark skin, sideling behind the ghost oak.
As I suspected.
The last time I saw the tree-spirit, at the tail end of winter, the branches that sprouted antler-like from his forehead were bare. Now they are budding green, and there are tiny blossoms in his beard. He has traded his mistletoe crown for daffodils. I can just make out a hint of cloven hoofs beneath mossy trousers. Thank the goddess he is wearing trousers this time.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I call. “But as you can see, I already have plenty.” I gesture to the delicate blooms of my ghost roses that cluster along the garden boundary.
“Don’t you like them?” the spirit demands, shoving his head out from behind the trunk. The branches of his antlers shiver in agitation. “These are better!”
“No, no, they are very lovely,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “I will bring you more tomorrow.”
“But why are they better?”
He stares at me in confusion, honey-brown eyes fixed on mine. “They are alive,” he says at last. And then he vanishes into the gloaming.
Hmph. What a strange creature.
I find a spot for the potted crocus, placing the shoe next to my neglected witching altar and patting it gently. They are lovely, and I hope the corruption of my lichdom does not harm them. The primroses are thriving in their old boots, but then, it has only been two days. My soul corruption may yet claim them still.
Grumbling under my breath, I return to my cottage.
Chapter 8
Ezekiel Cried Dem Dry Bones
After some intense and very therapeutic spinning, I decide I really need to get on with my hunt. There is no point getting discouraged. If deicide was easy, everyone would be doing it. But where shall I search? I could go to the cathedral city and see if there is more information from the clerics that remain? That sounds boring and unpleasant. Where else can I look for information? Ah, my throwing bones. Perhaps a passing god or spirit will be interested in providing me with a clue! The Whisperer is not popular after all.
Now, where are they? Everything has gotten moved around, but I eventually locate them inside a fat ceramic jar labelled ‘sugar’ on a shelf in the kitchen. I fish out the small bag of precious items and spread them on the kitchen table.
Jenkins is curled up on the new kitchen chair. His friends seem to have left for now. He sticks his chin up inquiringly at the rattle of the bones, and reaches up a paw to pat the nearest one.
“That one used to belong to an old king of Einheath,” I tell him. He noses at it curiously, then swats it off the table with a contemptuous flick. “Hmm. I don’t care for the monarchy, either.”
“A fine thing for a queen to say!” calls my mother from her position on the shelf.
I jump. I had forgotten she was here.
“It’s true. I don’t. But if someone has to be queen, it had better be me.”
Jenkins leaps onto the kitchen table, eagerly inspecting my trinkets. “And what have you been up to, Jenkins?” I ask him, scratching his poor worn chin. He headbutts my fingers affectionately, but does not say anything, as is usual for a cat, even an undead one. “I don’t begrudge you your social life, mind. I’m simply curious. Do you think the bones will tell us anything useful?”
“You know, a husband would stop you from talking to your cat like a mad woman,” says my mother.
“Perhaps I should use your skull as a ladle,” I say, inspecting the pieces.
Jenkins jumps off the table and settles on top of the cupboard, watching me with half-lidded, beady green eyes. I’m surprised he is not bald yet, although he is running the risk in several places.
“I don’t hold with all this divination nonsense,” says my mother. “It all seems very flaky.”
“Or, I could bury you upside down in the garden, with two draugr slugs in your eye sockets to keep you company?”
She snaps her jaw, but wisely decides not to say anything more.
I sort out my bones and my precious objects, laying them out on the throwing mat, turning them over in my hands, one by one. To an uninformed and ignorant observer, they might look like a pile of junk, but to me, each is significant. Some of them are trophies, like the Acolyte’s little silver bell. The first silver bell I encountered as a lich. A memento of my first victory over the clerics. The bell serves a dual purpose—that of significant object, and that of making sure the Whisperer does not influence the reading.
This means, in theory, that other deities can send me messages, as I am sure they have done before. Dare I ask for a clue to the Whisperer’s demise?
If I am to discover anything, I must.
Excitement grips me, as it always does before I throw the bones. Today is doubly daring. The Whisperer would crush me without a moment’s hesitation if he caught any whiff of this, my undead life snuffed out in an instant. But I have faith in the little silver bell. It hasn’t let me down yet. I stare down at it, shiny as a star.
Last time I consulted the bones, they helped me find Janvier’s phylactery. The time before that, they helped me locate the mysterious magical item shop. While divination is not my area of expertise, having outside guidance from time to time is very nice. On the other hand, I have no idea who, exactly, is guiding me, or what their agenda is. The bones are the Wavewalker’s domain, and I’m not sure he will help me after I stood by and allowed the wholesale slaughter of his beloved clerics. Not that there was anything I could have done, but since when are gods ever reasonable?
Still, I feel it is a gamble worth taking. So I fetch some fresh yarrow from the forest, light it, and waft the bitter curls of smoke over the pieces. Each is doused in turn; the rusted key from my original cottage door, the bark, the paladin’s molars, the old king’s finger, all the bits and pieces of my life from the last year.
When they are finished, I set aside the burning herbs.
“Are we ready?” I ask the bones. They look ready. The bell is ready. I am ready. “Alright. Resurgemus iterum.”
The bones wake.
I give them a moment to get used to the sensation and welcome them back. I’m not sure if talking to them helps, but it is a habit I have gotten into, and it seems to do no harm. I’ve always enjoyed talking to my plants as well, they are much better at listening than most people.
Once I am sure the bones are settled, I ring the bell. As always, the sound cuts through me like a blade, rinsing all trace of whispers from the air. Picking my bones up in two hands, I toss them lightly into the air.
“How do I kill the Whisperer?” I shout, as they soar. “Show me the way!”
“Oh my god, Maud,” murmurs my mother from her shelf.
“Hush!”
The bones fly high in a wide arc, and I follow their progress with eager eyes. They land, bouncing and jiggling on the cloth.
“Come on,” I mutter, as they hop and drag themselves around the mat. “Come on!” Something is certainly trying to communicate something. Of that much I am sure. I turn my head this way and that, trying to decipher their meaning as the objects crawl about in fevered necrotic animation. At last they lie still.
“Are you done?” I ask them. There is a pause where they all lie still. Then a large incisor tumbles into its spot. I wait. Nothing else moves. I lean forward eagerly. For once, the vision is clear. The bones have arranged themselves into the form of a cat’s eye. Huh. Or… could it be a dragon’s eye? As if sensing my doubt, the bones start to scurry once more… wiggling over the cloth to drag themselves into new positions.
“Thank you,” I murmur, a little taken aback.
The image on the mat is of a skeletal cat. It is unmistakable. A domestic cat. I glance up at Jenkins, who is washing himself on top of the cupboard.
“Well,” I say, “Jenkins, my lad. It looks like it is time to turn you into a lich. And then…”
My voice trails off. And then Jenkins will lead me towards the answers I need to know? This is fine. I’ve been meaning to lich him anyway. Two birds, one bone. Hur, hur.
I send the bones back to sleep, and sweep the bones back into their special bag, with a few words of thanks. Then I bustle off to fetch my notebook, the one detailing the recipe for the Whisperer’s Holy Water. I keep the recipe hidden within a larger cookery book because I doubt anyone would think to look for a way to make the dark god’s holy water sandwiched between jam compote and sourdough starters.
I find it without too much trouble, and flick the page open:
The Whisperer’s Holy Water
Blessed is the night, and holy is the madness!
To traverse the rivers of ritual death:
Take the penitent bones of seven clerics, the mashed tails of six rats, the putrid eyes of five grave worms, the rotting roots of four belladonnas, the malignant juices of three cave spiders, the steaming blood of two virgins, and the last wail of a dying man.
Boil for a night, a day, and one night more. Add a drop of tears and a pinch of salt.
Stir widdershins at midnight, under the light of a waning moon.
May the darkness bless you with its quiet embrace.
Since I have been planning this for some time, I have many of the ingredients already prepared. Penitent clerical bones I have aplenty, due to uh… recent events. The cave spiders I can gather from the crypts below Dunbarra Keep. Belladonnas are easy, I can gather them from one of the village gardens. A quick trip to the local cemetery is enough to dig up some grave worms, leaving just the steaming blood of two virgins.
Tricky. Virgin blood is difficult to source ethically, let alone steaming hot virgin blood. I check my almanack. The moon is waning. Perfect. I can begin brewing the potion at once, but I need that blood.
After some thought, I head out, looking for some ugly bandits. Actually that is too judgemental. Plenty of people find love who are ugly. A pretty face helps, but nothing makes up for a wretched personality and subpar hygiene. I set off, searching for some young, smelly, and particularly foul-tempered bandits.
It takes me a surprisingly long time. The roads around my forest no longer attract robbers in quantity. Probably because they are worried they will get their faces chewed off by a rogue little monster or a wight goose. This is wise. In the end, I have to fly the beastie quite some distance.
I find exactly what I need in a wood to the west. An encampment of rank smelling reprobates are in the process of assaulting a group of travelling merchants. As I descend upon them, the merchants run off into the forest clutching their wares and shouting, “Praise be the undead queen!” and other such bizarre platitudes. I then spend an enjoyable hour or two interrogating the confused bandits on their sex lives.
Fairly sure I have what I need, I consume the souls of the socially active, and transport the rest home via beastie.
Bustling around I assemble the clerical bones, blood, the rat’s tails and so on, laying them all out in readiness. Humming under my breath, I clean out a cauldron and set the fire to burn. It is bubbling away in short order, a vile looking stew, letting off the occasional noxious fume. But then how could it be otherwise? The blood is easy enough to add, and the remains of the bandits go onto the mulch pile for later.
I look fondly at Jenkins. He has given up on the cupboard and is now perched comfortably on top of a basket of yarn. Eyes half-shut, his toes are tucked neatly under his body. A low purr fills the kitchen with happy rumbling. Almost, he looks like he is sleeping, but I know the dead cannot sleep. Maybe Jenkins has mastered the art of daydreaming? Either way, he looks very comfortable. I can see some of his ribs showing through his side.
“Don’t worry, Jenkins,” I say, scratching his ears. “I will make sure you are fine.”
Regardless of my plans for the Whisperer, knowing Jenkins will survive me helps me to gather the courage I need.
“You obsess about that cat too much,” says my mother’s skull. “Haven’t you got better things to do? You are a ruler now! All these people look to you!”
“Be quiet, mother,” I say, and turn her to face the wall. “I did not ask for your opinion! Besides, the bones say Jenkins is the key. And I’ve been meaning to do it anyway, it is only sensible.”
She chatters angrily for a few moments but subsides when I threaten to put her back in her grave.
Where was I? Oh yes. I have put great thought into Jenkins’s lichdom. Should I test the procedure on a lesser creature first, to make sure all goes according to plan? The chance of error is great. My own existence is a testament to the dangers of such an upset. It might be wise to practise, although that means creating another lich which well… I’m not sure how it will turn out. I don’t want to make a human, for sure. Two liches was already more wickedness than any sensible kingdom could contain, and our fighting nearly brought Einheath to its knees. I have not gone to all that effort to destroy Janvier only to make another rival in his stead.
Not a dragon, no, nor any naturally powerful creature. A lich dragon would be a disaster. Whatever I create will not be compelled to obey me, like my wights and draugr. Who knows how it would behave? It would come into existence answering only to the Whisperer, and its own wishes. A mundane animal then. A wolf? No. A sheep? A rabbit? A hen? Those are possibilities. I toy briefly with the idea of a lich goose, but decide that would be simply too monstrous, if amusing. It needs to be something I can easily destroy, if it behaves in an unsatisfactory manner.
In the end, I decide against it. The consequences of letting a lich loose in my forest are too grave and conversation with the Whisperer is risky enough.
That decided, there is nothing left to do but plan my outfit, fantasise about stabbing the Whisperer, and wait for the potion to finish brewing.
This will take another day and another night. To make the best of the time, I sit in the kitchen feeding the fire, and spin the rest of the wool.
Chapter 9
A Bargain
Once the potion is ready, I dress carefully for the occasion. To meet the Whisperer, my skirts are ink-black silk embroidered on midnight velvet. I am a vision in complementary shades of darkness. The starlight of my hair should be held back by the fine, obsidian tiara that circles my skull, but alas, I am currently as bald as an egg. Despite this sad state of affairs, the black stone does contrast fetchingly with the pale ivory of what little flesh I do have. The outfit gives me sorely needed confidence.
I waver on the doorstep, looking at Jenkins. I assume the Whisperer will want to bargain. That is a given. Does he need to be present? In the end I decide not, leaving him safely in his yarn basket to keep mother company. He will have to meet the Whisperer during the ritual, but I will worry about that later.
On my way out the door, I trip over a sweet nettle nestled inside what looks like a child’s shoe. I suppose I can blame myself for the fact that the tree spirit thinks plants and footwear go together, but all of his gifts do seem to be thriving amongst my other dead plants. I add the nettle to my growing collection of living pot-plants, and shut the cottage door firmly behind me.
Instinct warns me that discussions with the Whisperer should take place in private. In private, and far from anything breakable or precious. I journey deep into the loneliest parts of Downing Forest. Tonight the air is wild, living trees bending and buckling in the wind. The dead ones rise up like twisting corpses. Scraggly fingers rake the storm clouds which boil overhead.
As it is, I am tempted to linger between the blustery trees, watching the new petals sway, but no. No dallying. Not tonight. It is delightfully auspicious, but I find myself humourless and wracked with nerves.
At length, I come to an appropriately secluded glade.
Here, I am far from any of the new settlements, from the village and the castle, far even from the tree spirit’s handsome oak. It will do.
The wind drops to a murmur.
The shadows gather, clustering thick between the black trunks as if they know what I am about. Whispers skitter between the branches, twisting in oppressive strings, humming and hissing. I have the spell to summon Him well-memorised, but I have never before used it. Now is the time.
I open my mouth.
I shut my mouth.
Come on, Maud.
Anxiety pools like sickness inside me. Say the words, Maud. For Jenkins. For revenge. For myself. The irony of the Whisperer unwittingly being a party to his own demise is delicious, I must remember that. The Whisperer has no way of knowing the traitorous thoughts in my head, after all. No way of knowing what I plan.
“Vox susurra in tenebris,” I whisper.
An ebony shockwave ripples out from my feet. The fabric of reality undulates in waves of earth, and moss, and brush. A mocking, sibilant echo of my voice bounces around the midnight glade, “Vox susurra in tenebris. Vox susurra in tenebrisssss… Vox susurra… Vox, Vox, Vox…”
A tear rips open before me, a pine-high, hissing slit, a creeping, insidious violation of the world’s essence.
THRUM
I do not run. I am calm. Everything. Is. Fine.
I will face him.
Calm.
For Jenkins.
Darkness bleeds from the wound in my forest, seeping into the air in swaying fronds, skimming across the ground, inching across the treeline with tar-slick fingers.
“In tenebris…” hisses the wind. Snatching at my clothes, it licks the edges of my hearing. “In tenebrisssssss…Vox susurra in tenebrissss.”
THRUM
I stare at the rip. The absence of light is hypnotising. Within the abscess, the darkness is so deep I am almost blinded. It draws me in, tempting me, blotting everything else from my sight. No gentle candle portal, this, but a hungry wound that will consume everything in the world, given the chance.
Sand trickles out of the portal. I squash down memories of Castle Rock. It is not my time to die. The Whisperer does not know I plot against him.
THRUM
