Chapter 74

The Lich’s Guide to Defensive Gardening

The clerics are delighted. The Wavewalker Friar and the Bright Sister send word to their respective churches immediately. Their joy is tempered by the knowledge that they need a lich to reproduce the potion, but then the feeling is mutual. It is not an ideal situation for any of us, but it does ensure that until we can do away with the undead plague permanently, there must be an uneasy truce. I doubt it will last. Once the last abomination has been vanquished from the earth the clerics will resume their vendetta and they will remember their mandate to wipe all traces of the Whisperer’s presence from the earth blah, blah, blah.

It is fine.

It has given me time to study the clerics, and most importantly it is giving me the opportunity to focus on the destruction of the self proclaimed king.

The Sister, the Friar and I set about brewing vast quantities of plague ending potion. Fortunately, I have large quantities of dittany and mugwort growing in my ghost garden, and I quickly plant more. It is not an unlimited supply but all that is required to produce more is time.

Once the potions are brewed, we distribute it as best we can. A large vat is shipped to Barrowmere, with instructions. I send barrels to Greater Downing, and to all my outlying settlements, and the neighbouring villages. The sheep farmers get extra, but no one needs to know that. We experiment with the best way to use the potion. No one wants to get the concoction on their skin, and no one wants to get any closer to the infected abominations than absolutely necessary.

After a few false starts, we discover that the safest solution is to tip the water into clay bottles. These are then stoppered with corks and sealed tight with wax. The clay is thin enough that the bottles will shatter on impact. They are a little delicate, but less so than glass, and less problematic in the shard department. Another consideration is that there is only one glassblower in Downing, while we have many people capable of making pottery.

Hordes of the excited Fairhaven crafters are soon firing up their kilns. They get a little competitive. Clay vessels in all shapes and sizes appear, with individual crafters glazing and painting, and customising their own designs. I leave them to it.

Thomlinson is quite excited by the whole thing and comes up with a way to deliver vast quantities of potion across large areas via a modified trebuchet. Swoon. My favourite undead siege engineer has also commandeered a vast hollow cave beneath the castle to use as his workshop. This craggy pit has become one of my favourite places in the world to be, second only to my garden, and the wild forest. I have to actively stop myself from spending too much time there.

I knew there were many caves down there but this one was discovered when the builders knocked through some walls, as a part of the renovation project. The natural cave is easily big enough to house several of the Bright Ones’ cathedrals, although that particular god is unlikely to be found lurking in those depths. How I will get Thom’s interesting creations out of the cave so that they may be of use… that is a matter for future Maud. Hopefully, being the smart and resourceful lich I know her to be, she will have discovered how to make portal candles by then. In the meantime, the beautiful engines of war are safe from prying eyes and quite, quite secret.

My eyes glaze over the rows of modified catapults, and the half finished siege towers. It is a worry that preys on my mind. So far, all my attempts to recreate the portals have failed. I consulted my throwing bones but they remained stubbornly quiet on the topic. I consulted the grimoire but it only giggled, and told me ‘all in good time’, and then demanded to play with my head.

Most unsatisfactory.

The things I could accomplish with portals! The places I could visit, the materials and fabrics I could acquire! My victory over his frosty lordship would be assured. Alas. In the meantime I bid everyone keep their eyes and ears open for news of candle mages, unusual chandlers, or mysterious shops that come and go as they please. What I seek is hardly a secret. After all, half of Fairhaven travelled to Downing via portal.

I might as well use the resources I am given. So far, there are no credible leads.

I rub my hand along the oiled edge of a nearby ballista, narrowing my eyes at the mechanism. It is not the nuts and bolts of the siege weapon I see, however, but the candle merchant’s pointy ears. Was he truly an elf? At the time, I was too preoccupied fighting for my life to consider the evidence of my own eyes.

Elves exist. Probably.

I have never seen one before, and I know no one who has. There are stories however. Legends, folktales, yarns spun around the hearth on cold winter’s night. Occasionally, even in Downing there were tales of elven peddlers - elegant beings selling magical items, deep in the woods, or high in the mountains. Always far from civilization. Always illusive.

Superstition, my mother mumbled. Charlatans, I had assumed. Canny merchants donning costumes to fool idiot peasants. Now I believe otherwise. I am no foolish chit, and I experienced the magic myself. At the time I assumed meddling gods. I still assume meddling gods. But if I am to get to the root of this I can trace it via the meddling god’s mortal agents. Or immortal agents. I don’t know. What I do know is that if elves do exist, I will find them and I will learn their secrets.

However, with or without the aid of portals, I must reclaim Fairhaven for my own. Janvier will doubtless have hordes of brainless, violent abominations ready to send at me, that is a given. Now that I can counter his plague, I must look to my own surprises.

First thing first, however: I need to get rid of the clerics. They are beginning to cramp my style. A case in point - I am minding my own business in my garden at twilight, getting some mulching done when Sister Lorelei surprises me. To say it is awkward would be an understatement.

Knee deep in rotten flesh I hear a small noise. I look up. The good sister stands before me, her mouth open. My own arms are covered to the elbows in rotting remains and fluid, and I wipe them off self consciously.

“Greetings, Sister,” I say, amiably. “Can I help you with something?”

The Bright Sister’s eyes widen as she takes in the decomposing bodies, scattered around like, well, like compost. She stares at a half-rotten hand that still has a silver ring fastened around one finger. It bears a sunburst sigil. Oops.

“What have you done?” she screams. “What are you doing? Oh my god- ” Sister Lorelei clutches her cheeks, raking her nails across her skin.

“It's fine!” I say, in alarm. “I’m just feeding the plants!”

The nun starts wailing, shouting something about evil and going too far, and how the Bright One could not possibly condone this. I finish patting one last set of decomposing limbs around a draugr rose, before clambering to my feet.

“It's really very practical,” I say, my tone soothing. At least I think it is soothing. “Think about it! Because of these people, others will live! Who wouldn’t want to be useful?”

Apparently Sister Lorelei.

For a brief moment I think the nun has seen sense, but then she starts sobbing afresh. Wails ripple across the garden in an unending tide. She embarks on a damp, but rather epic rant about desecrating corpses and respect for the dead.

I honestly don’t understand, and not just because of the quantity of snot. What better way could there possibly be to honour the dead? These bodies will become flowers. They will transcend! They will live again, in this forest or the next, transforming into new life, to feel the sweet kiss of starlight gentle against their ghostly petals. And it's not like their souls are even there. I have made sure of that.

But I can see that Sister Lorelei is not to be reasoned with. My attempts to comfort her are rebuffed. She wails and shouts, and then runs off into the forest like a runny egg escaping a hot pan. This is a problem. I need her cooperation and I do not want her swaying Friar Julian.

Sitting back on my heels, I call into the sky: “Elding! Tora! I need you!”

There is a crackle of lightning, and a flutter of dark wings. The two crows land on my garden wall. Jenkins hisses at them from under the beehives and Tora clicks her beak at him.

“Yes, Mistress?” they say together.

“I give you permission to eat Sister Lorelei’s memories of this meeting. But only that! No more! And do not harm her! Is that understood?”

Their beady little eyes brighten.

“Ka! Yes, Mistress.”

“Quickly now!” I say. “She went that way!”

“We need the rest of us,” says Elding, barely containing his eagerness.

“The rest of us,” echoes Tora.

“The beastie?” I say, in alarm. “It’s at Dunbarra Keep? There’s no way it will get here in time, I thought-”

“I come.”

I spin at the sound of the soft whisper.

The beastie comes gliding out of the darkness, its grey tendrils trailing the snow covered forest floor like threads hanging loose from a nightmare loom. The shiny, chitinous shell floats at head height. As always, I can see no sign of eyes in its head. It is, however, clutching two bloodshot eyeballs in its tendrils. They swivel towards me as I look. They are large and brown, probably too big to be human. Cow’s eyes? It does not matter. Time is of the essence.

How did it get here so quickly? Or has it been here the whole time? I regard it with great suspicion, but as always seems to be the case with these three, there is no time.

“Quickly! She went that way.” I point into the trees.

The beastie floats off, leaving wiggling trails over the light snow. It moves with deceptive swiftness. There is a small shriek from between the trees.

I arrive in time to see the creature tenderly wrapping Sister Lorelei’s head in its tentacle-y embrace. She screams once, muffled and terrified. Then her body goes limp.

“Gently!” I say. “No, no, leave her eyes alone!”

The beastie releases her and the nun turns towards me with a beatific smile. She blinks, confused. Then she sees me.

“Lady Maud!” she says, her eyes brightening. “I was just coming to visit you in your delightful garden! How are you doing this fine, frosty night?”

The beastie withdraws to the shadows, as soft as a whisper. The crows are watching from a nearby tree, heads cocked on one side. No harm, no foul.

“I was just coming to the village,” I lie.

I walk her through the twilight forest. The nun chatters with vapid energy about her life, the church, her hopes and dreams. It is clear she remembers nothing. I bear her inane chatter as best I can but am relieved when the fortified wall becomes visible. Once I have located the good Friar I make sure they both remain occupied and ignorant, and then return to my mulching.

The pair leave the next day, to my immense relief.

Now I can get on unimpeded and indulge in a little therapeutic gardening. My cottage garden has expanded to thrice its original size and it is gorgeous. I have also made an important discovery that needs my immediate attention. It will have incredible defensive applications, I am sure of it.

Mulch made from plague corpses has unusual properties! The draugr and ghost plants that are fed with these remains have become uniquely aggressive. Fortunately they do not seem to be contagious, but otherwise they behave a great deal like their zombified shuffling counterparts. I gaze fondly at a snapping snapdragon. The tiny, skeleton-like petals quiver in rage, and try to take my finger off as I pat more mulch into place.

I haven’t been so excited in ages.

The possibilities are endless. The thought of turning his highnesses’ malice against him is inherently delicious. It has always been my dream to incorporate gardens into my defensive strategy. Now I finally have the means to make it happen.

My mind is filled with visions of poisoned hemlock hedges, stinging rock nettles and thorny brambles. Can I grow butterworts aggressive enough to eat man-flesh instead of insects? There is only one way to find out!

The next few weeks I spend cultivating and experimenting. Little Downing’s fortified wall is bolstered with some extremely violent poison ivy. As all the other plants, it cares little for the snow and tries to strangle anyone who gets too close. Around the base of the castle I plant vast thickets of ghost devil’s snare and enormous black roses with thorns like whip cord. The fragile, gleaming mauve trumpet flowers of the ghost snare are stunning. They bely the strength of the toxic fumes that the plant pumps into the air if disturbed. Oh yes, this is wonderful.

This will be my life’s work.

If only I could abandon all other responsibilities and garden to my heart’s content. Dunbarra Keep is still half covered in scaffolding and partially built walls, but slowly the stones of the haunted towers are rising once more. I have to resist the urge to create window boxes and roof gardens. All in good time, but I need to be careful not to make the place too deadly for the living inhabitants. The poison ivy will strangle a draugr or wight just as happily as a living, breathing human. Gardeners are going to need very careful training.

Inside the curtain walls, I create a more genteel courtyard garden. This one I layout in pleasing lines and populate with the peaceful ghost and draugr plants. If I am besieged, I want all the ingredients at my fingertips, so it only makes sense to duplicate the plants. Also they look gorgeous.

The wraith castle already rises like a beacon of chaos and beauty from the surrounding countryside. Now it is just that much more beautiful, and woe betide anyone who comes to those walls threatening violence.