Chapter 70

The Cathedral City

Leaving my busybodies to their tasks, I pack a small bag with emergency sewing supplies, and crystals. I make sure to include both fully charged empty gems, and some with souls in case I should have need of sustenance. This last seems unlikely. Since my sojourn in Fairhaven, I am almost as fat as a human, and I have never been so powerful, but if I have learnt anything over the course of my undead life, it is that it pays to be prepared.

The cathedral city of Barrowmere should be flush with clerics. There will likely be nuns on every corner, and priests and friars cluttering up the pavements. Arguably, this should make my shopping easier. On the other hand, I am not looking for a fight. I have had my differences with the holy orders in the past; mostly because they insist on trying to murder me and get upset when I murder them back. Intelligence is not a trait required of most holy orders it seems.

It is only the people who refuse to stay out of my forest who end up on the wrong side of my axe. It is a simple concept that the churches have trouble grasping. I have tried to explain to people repeatedly, to no avail. Do not cross me or mine. Easy, or so you would think. The fact that my forest now extends to Fairhaven is neither here nor there.

Likewise, I would have been content to leave undisturbed his highness, the self-proclaimed King of Einheath. I may have even briefly enjoyed his attentions. But now I have been slighted and retribution is required. I cannot demand blood for he has none, but I shall use his bones for a chandelier before the midsummer shines on us.

I linger in front of my wardrobe. Dressing for an occasion such as this takes a little thought. Full battle regalia is my fashion of choice but it does tend to attract attention. Peasants and merchants generally do not wear pauldrons. Striding off into the heart of Barrowmere with my lichdom clearly visible is probably ill-advised… some stealth might be in order.

After some thought, I settle for a black velvet skirt, corset, silken pantaloons in matching ebony, and a diaphanous veil. My hand wavers over an iron tiara, but I resist. The veil can be held in place by more mundane means. I select instead a sensible, sable trimmed cloak to top it all off.

Turning this way and that, I admire my reflection in my looking glass. With the veil and the hood, my distinguishing features are adequately concealed. Could I pass as a very stylish wealthy widow? Yes, if you ignore the assorted weaponry.

I set off through the forest, heading east into the morning.

The snow is still deep on the ground so I am forced to leave my draugr horse, Star, behind and travel on foot. It is slow going. The drifts are high, but too soft to hold my weight. The sky above me is vivid blue. Sunshine reflects off the snow like glittering fluffy, earthbound clouds, each one cascading into a torrent of crystals as I push by. It is all very pretty. If only I could roam about in the forest all day. Alas, for responsibilities.

Elding and Tora ghost after me, their wings stark against the winter forest. I give the stone altar at the roadside a wide berth. It has become an embarrassingly popular gathering spot for the local peasantry, only compounded by the events at Fairhaven. Every few days I send wights to clear the offerings. Most of them are useful. Food and livestock can be used to satiate the endless hunger of my new charges. Unwanted humans are adopted out to friendly settlements. The truly heinous are consumed by yours truly. Ribbons and material I mostly keep for myself. Flowers and wreaths, likewise. Although it has been a long time since I have had flowers. I miss them. Perhaps when spring comes they will bring me flowers again? I do hope so.

When I join the forest road, I am able to pick up my pace. Here the snow has been trampled by many passing feet and I no longer have to fight through the thick drifts. There is no one in sight but after a while my ears pick up small noises behind me. There is the occasional snap of a twig, a muttered word. I turn with a hiss but the road is always empty.

“Tora?” I call, softly, and the crooked-beaked crow flits down to land on my outstretched arm. “Is there someone following me?”

“Ka! Yes, Mistress! Forest peasants. From the altar. Watching for you. Always watching.”

“Great,” I say. “Do they look like they are up to something?”

As I utter the words it crosses my mind that ‘up to something’ might be too vague a concept for Tora to comprehend. It is tempting to consider the crows small brained; they certainly act that way, at times. However, I am not fooled. These are not crows, merely old souls wearing crow bodies, and they have already proven once that they are capable of great deception. Their thought process is merely alien.

Tora shrugs, her shoulder blades moving under the piles of her feathers. “They follow, Mistress.”

Very helpful.

I sigh and continue on my way, ignoring the little mice who creep after me. I would rather be worshipped than attacked, if it comes down to it.

There is not yet sign of a proper thaw but midwinter is only a few weeks past. The bridge over the gorge separating Downing and Lowcroft is still crusted stiff with ice. The icicles are dripping, however, and from the depths of the gorge comes a faint sound of trickling water.

Leaving my forest, and the gorge behind I set off into the hills, following the winding road. The cathedral city of Barrowmere is a good half days travel, but the walk gives me time to think.

I am seeking holy water to combat the undead plague. It is only fair to assume that each god has their own variety of the stuff. Apart from the Green Lady, who, as far as I know, never fussed with such things. I, myself, know precious little. Once, when I was small, a classmate invited me to a service of the Bright One at the Lowcroft church for their midsummer celebration. There were lots of flowers, and it was loud, very, very loud. There was singing. I have a vague recollection of a beaming white robed priest in a golden, sunburst headdress, decorated with marigolds. She was flouncing about with candles and splattering people with water. Lucky blessings for the sun, or something.

Each to their own, I suppose. I had always assumed the water to be purely ceremonial but I do remember the day afterwards was particularly nice. Someone gave me a toffee apple, and I found a shiny copper penny lying in the street. Hmm.

Ideally I should acquire holy water from each religious sect and then experiment. However, the possibility of acquiring three willing clerics with the knowledge to brew the stuff seems unlikely. Murder is always an attractive option, but impractical. I will have to get live ones. It stands to reason that if I kill a cleric and raise them as a draugr they will be unable to use their own god’s blessings. Like poor Timothy.

So kidnap it is. All I have to do is find the right ones. Somehow. No problem at all!

I grind my teeth and carry on tramping down the road.

I pass a few ruined villages, and some burned out farmsteads lying sad and abandoned in the snow. Were their inhabitants ravaged by the undead plague? Or was it his Frosty Highness on his way to Fairhaven? Or something else entirely? I am unfamiliar with this part of the country, and I cannot remember what was here before.

After a few hours of travel I arrive at the cathedral city of Barrowmere.

It shines brightly in the winter sunshine, rays bouncing off domes and cupolas, temples and shrines. I pause on the rise above the valley to inspect the city below. It is impressive, if you like that sort of thing. The golden spires may be cheerful but the mood on the streets is anything but. The guards at the gate look tired and worn and outside the city wall is clogged with refugees in tents. Grey faced peasants slog through piles of dirty slush. The market stalls are half empty and the shivering shop keepers call out to passers-by with defeated voices.

I buff my way into the city easily enough. A silver mark greases my way, and brings brief joy to a wretched man’s face. Before long I am passing beneath the marble arches. From close to the city walls are grimy and coated with ash. Only the religious buildings are spotless.

I’m not here to sightsee however, so I set off in search of my first victim.

As I suspected, I am spoilt for choice. Pilgrims and priests clutter the pavements and I cannot throw a bone without hitting some type of church. I eye up a small Wave Walker’s temple, shell decorated with little well shrines dotting the entranceway. Ribbons hang from every available surface, bringing bright flutters of blue and aquamarine to the otherwise dour street. On the square opposite there is an enormous statue to the Blind Queen. The marble carving is imposing in the extreme, with iron scales balanced across the stone goddesses’ shoulders. There is a line of justice seekers snaking out of the door of her church. I do not feel like queuing for the privilege of kidnapping an acolyte. Briefly, I consider slipping down a side alley and leaping the wall. I can feel eyes on me however.

My attention turns to the glorious sandstone cathedral of the Bright One. It rises above the slush with boneheaded, sunshine bonhomie - perfectly reflective of its worshipers. There are fat babies carved into the stonework, with little wings protruding from their backs, and other such asinine horrors.

Setting off toward the entrance, I do my best to ignore the patter of feet behind me. I had thought I might lose my followers on the road but it seems not. Worse, they seem to have been joined by some of the city folk. I should have murdered them on the lonely wastes while I had the chance, but it is too late now. At one point I turn, and catch a peak of vanishing skirts, heads ducking down behind stalls and corners. Other supposedly random shoppers stand dead still, not meeting my eyes as I glare at them. Bah. It is unsettling but I’m not sure what I can do about it without causing a scene.

I march past a stall selling sunburst jewellery, and another with little golden statues. They are rough things, badly carved and slopped with gold paint that is more yellow than lustrous. Nonetheless they seem popular with the poverty-stricken crowds, who gather, if not to buy then to admire.

I come to a stop outside the cathedral entrance and look up, craning my neck.

From this angle, the building is imposing. I am surprised to find myself a little nervous. The building has… a presence. An aura. It exudes pressure that smells faintly and suggestively of fires, burning hot fires. Hot enough to burn bones. I am surprised the yellowed glass in the windows is not melting from the heat. Clearly this is not my territory, and I am unwelcome here. My skin positively crawls with the need to be gone. But I have not come all this way to be cowed by a few fancy stones.

I steel myself and march forward. It is like trying to walk through a wall. A hot, heavy wall with an attitude. I try again, lifting my foot to push against the barrier with all of my not inconsiderable strength. It is no good. I can go no further. This is holy ground consecrated to the Bright One. My hands curl into fists and I hiss through my teeth. If I cannot enter the cathedral, I will have to kidnap a cleric off the street. I look over my shoulder at the throng of shoppers and refugees. This might take longer than I originally anticipated.

Just as I am turning to go the heavy vaulted doors bang open. A yellow robed nun stands in the doorway, looking out at me with a smile.

“Greetings, sister!” she trills at me. “Have you come to attend the service? It’s due to start any minute! Welcome, welcome. I don’t recognise your face? Are you new to the city? Please, won’t you come in?”