Chapter 67

Maud vs Undead Plague

It is a still, clear night. The moon rises high, reflecting white as I trudge through the forest. The destroyed settlement is not far. I am hopeful I can be back in my cupboard before the night is old.

I am dressed in full battle regalia with pauldrons, breastplate, horned helmet, and long velvet skirt slitted to mid-thigh, to allow for ease of movement. My pantaloons are visible when I kick. It feels a little, um, lewd but then anyone who sees my underwear is about to have their face smashed in by my foot, so it seems reasonable.

My feet are also bare. I could theoretically wear shoes, or boots, but I like the feel of the snow between my undead toes. The cold is my friend. What is the point of all this if I can’t run around barefoot when I want? Tonight I am wearing deep, mulberry coloured ribbons on my horns, to match the pantaloons, and the embroidery on my hem. This knowledge brings me deep satisfaction and the certainty that I can face anything and succeed.

Right now, I am just a beautifully dressed, ambulating corpse tripping through the snowfields enjoying the company of the stars and the moon.

It is enough.

I swing my axe at inoffensive bushes, knocking the leaves clear. Ice crystals sparkle gently as the wind moves through them. It is so good to be outside, alone and away from the bustle of the castle. Well, almost alone. My crows drift overhead, their outstretched wings blots of ebony against the starfield. Fluttering behind them come one or two of the smaller birds, and lastly, the graceful frame of an undead barn owl.

There is also Old Jennet. Her ghost trails after me, like a possessed, geriatric cloud, trailing words like raindrops.

“Where are we going?” she says, as if I had invited her for a stroll. “What are you doing? What’s that? Look at that funny tree! I thought that fire girl killed all the infectious dead?”

“I hope she did,” I say. “But I need to see for myself. I need to make sure. If what she says is true then even one beastie left alive could be catastrophic.”

“What have you got against the dead?”

“Nothing! I don’t discriminate! But I also like living things. If all the farmers die there will be no one to look after the sheep. If all the sheep are dead there is no wool. If there is no wool there can be no knitting. Do you follow?”

She grunts at me, and we carry on in silence.

I briefly contemplate the existence of sheep. Panic threatens to grip my stomach with its icy little hands. Not having created draugr sheep has been a terrible oversight. I will acquire some as soon as possible, in case all the animals in the world die. All the living things. I will do my best to prevent that eventuality but it is always wise to prepare for the absolute worst. Hmm. What kind of wool would draugr sheep produce? What could I do with it? The thought excites me.

“Why are you here, anyway?” I ask Jennet, once my knitting fantasies have run their course. “How are you even able to come so far from your cottage?”

I had always assumed that ghosts and wraiths had to stay with their bodies. Or at the places they had died? The specifics of ghost behaviour are unclear to me, although I am learning more every day.

“I’m bored, dearie,” the old baggage proclaims.

She drifts through the branches of an old oak, pausing to glare at a sleeping owl which startles awake at her spectral touch. “No one ever comes to visit, and that new Fairhaven family that moved in are as dull as dishwater. Every time I tried to talk to the children, the mother starts screaming. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hold a decent conversation with someone who is shouting and trying to hit you with a frying pan? Well, I do. So I got Roland to bury a bit of my body at the castle. Now I can visit there too. Such an obliging lad.”

“How nice of him.”

She bobs her head in agreement, then a strange expression crosses her face. “Can’t go much further,” she mutters.

I glance at her. Her ghostly frame looks pale and weak. I can barely make it out against the backdrop of snowy forest.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, unkindly. “Are you straining yourself?”

“Yes,” she says, and her already wrinkly brow creases even further.

She disappears with a pop.

I stride on in blissful silence, listening to the forest breathe under its frosty blanket. My birds coast after me in the heavens, but we don’t speak and I like it that way.

It does not take me long to find the destroyed settlement.

The remains of the outbuildings are a charred testament to the destruction Rachel described. The place is a burnt-out husk. Blackened remains, both humans and animal, lie everywhere. The majority are clustered around the remnants of a half-built tower. Here, the snow has been churned into an unholy quagmire of blood, mud and soot. Nothing is moving. Only winter’s breath stirs the soot, wafting across the debris in a chilling mockery of life.

I poke around but the dead seem content to remain so.

Out of interest I raise one of the least damaged bodies. With agonised words it merely repeats the tale Rachel told. No new information. Thoughtfully, I transfer its soul, and those of its fellows to the crystals I carry in my bag, putting them away for later.

The vast majority of the blackened bodies appear to either be soulless, or to belong to someone else. Maybe both? These then, are the feral undead. The plague carriers. I examine one carefully but it yields no particular insights. It is just a corpse, hard worn, but otherwise uninteresting. Perhaps the Bright One’s fears are unfounded and my future wool supply is safe?

I walk the perimeter looking for… well I don’t know what exactly. The barn owl ghosts past, her feathers lightly brushing my shoulders and making me jump.

“Here, Lady Maud,” she says. “Something is here.”

She leads me to a trail, partially obscured beneath heavy boughs, a dozen or so yards from the ruined settlement. It does not belong to Rachel. Her wagon tracks leading toward the castle are visible on the other side, I saw them when I arrived. This trail leads in the opposite direction, a mess of mud, muck, and gore, as if something squishy and leaking was dragged bumping through the snow.

I follow it into the shadows beneath the sleeping oaks. The forest is dense here and I must push my way through the thickets.

I hear it before I can see it.

There in the treacly darkness an abomination sits, gnawing on the bloody carcass of a crow. For a moment I think it is one of mine, but then Elding and Tora alight on twin branches beside me, staring down.

“Angry,” says Elding, tilting his black feathered head.

“Angry, ka,” echoes Tora. Fragile veins of lighting crackle between the pair. And they are right. The creature is extremely angry.

A torso only, with one desiccated arm, it must have been human once. Its face has been mostly burned off, its remaining flesh in the advanced stages of decomposition. A single, ruined eye fastens on me. The sight seems to enrage it. The maw snaps, issuing inhuman, growls and grunts.

I poke it with the haft of my axe and it lunges, gnashing its jaws. I step back, to see what it will do. It appears it cannot move fast, but then there is not much of this one left. Scrabbling along, it claws and grasps toward me, towards the crows, reaching with its skeletal arm. When it is denied it bites at the ground, screaming into the sod.

The crow it was chewing flops aside, a bloodied mess. Dead, I thought. Properly dead, but seconds later it takes to the wing, startling me as it zips past my nose. Curses! The thing is most likely infected, and it is now airborne! I slash frantically, and miss, managing only to bury the blade up to the shaft in a nearby oak.

I chase it through the trees, dodging branches and swearing so loudly my mother can probably hear me on her shelf at Dunbarra Keep. After several botched attempts I successfully manage to swat it down, impaling the dead crow against a pine.

Blood sprays black across the rough bark. It was freshly dead then. Recent enough that blood still flowed in its veins. The carcass wriggles for a second and then goes still.

I glare at the mangled bird. So small and so dripping. If the undead plague is able to spread through the forest creatures, I have a real problem on my hands. Study is required. I will neutralise the horrible torso abomination and take it back to the castle to experiment on.

“Mistress!” Elding calls me from above, but I do not need the warning.

I can already hear them coming.

The forest rings with the sound of running feet. The ominous patter and stamp implies a great variety of approaching beings. I do not wait to see them. The trunks are too tightly packed for me to swing my axe clearly. Of course, I could fight with magic, but the truth is I find great enjoyment in hitting things.

Spinning on my heel I rush away to find a suitable clearing and prepare myself for battle. The first frosty glade I reach is small but it will do. Skidding to a halt I turn to face whatever it is that is coming.

A pack of ragged humans bursts out of the trees accompanied by various forest creatures, and to my absolute horror, one undead sheep.

Rachel was right. These are not normal wights. Not like my own wholesome, mindless goons, no, these are something far worse. Something insidious. My wights are docile. They will attack things that attack them, of course, or if I order them too, but they don’t charge about filed with rage and blood-lust. Alright, maybe the geese but they were a special case. And they certainly weren’t infectious.

A bloody claw swipes at my face.

I dodge, then pull the raging abomination forward, catching it by the slippery elbow. Slamming it face-first into the ground, I stamp on its back, smashing its spine with the weight of my foot.

Another attacks me. A mage? Once upon a time. His robes hang in mangled tatters. Matted hair, he has one bloodshot eye hanging by a string. Greedy arms grasp and pull at my horns, snatching at my ribbons with bloody fingers. I behead him with one powerful blow. The sheep is next. It charges at me with open mouth, eyes wild. The sight of the monstrosity fills me with blind panic and the next few moments are a blur. I hack and spin and chop, until the ground beneath me is churned and moist with snow and entrails.

Still they come.

Deer and owls, and humans, and one dead bear crowd me on all sides. The glade rings with their yells and shrieks. Many rotting hands grasp my arm and pull with obscene strength. It doesn’t hurt like it would if I were alive but the feeling of my flesh giving way is unsettling in the extreme. They rip my arm clean from my torso.

“Glacies tempestas,” I whisper.

A gelid hurricane whips through the glade. The temperature plummets, snow and sleet lashing together to form a deadly maelstrom of cold. When it is gone the abominations are all encased in ice.

Huffing, I retrieve my arm. Muttering curses to myself, I take a seat in the snow and rummage for a needle and thread. I chose mulberry thread to match my pantaloons. After all, spring is coming. It is always awkward stitching an arm back on using only one hand. Fortunately, Elding makes himself useful. Wedging the severed limb between a tree trunk and the bird, I am able to make decent stitches.

The magic that binds me does not take long to take hold and soon I am as good as new again. Well almost.

With a grunt, I get up and finish off the icy abominations.

Gritting my teeth I turn to hunt for stragglers.