Chapter 78

Skeletons in the Closet

Janvier Sebastian of Merrow was how Lord Lich introduced himself to me. I know little of Merrow, save that it is a small settlement in the fiefdom of Kara Crag far to the distant north of Einheath. Knowing that I would be going there to search for his soul I have made enquiries.

There is not much to know. It is remote, it is icy, as befitting the personality of the pompous twit whose frosted backside currently occupies the throne of the kingdom. It is known only for the quality of its porcelain, its copper mines and the beauty of its mountainous surroundings.

All this I gleaned from the travelling tradesmen and one or two conversations with the witching council in Greater Downing. Old Jennet had a fine tea set that came from Merrow. The ghostly old woman talked about it extensively, but the pattern of the little blue flowers and the quality of the glaze gives me no insight into the location of Janvier’s soul. I will have to rely on the bones and my wits for that.

So I fly north.

Elizabeth's bony wings carry me over snowy forests, over villages and towns, over frozen rivers and over snow limned gullies. Above populated areas, I make sure to fly high. There is plenty of cloud cover to disappear into. Hopefully to any observant watchers we appear as a mere speck in the sky — here one moment and gone the next. I make sure to journey well west of Fairhaven, away from the coast and from any prying eyes. It is unlikely his glacial highness would spot us but I do not want to tempt fate.

While a lindwurm versus terrible lizard fight sounds exhilarating I will defer the entertainment till I am more suitably dressed. And till I have some nice, brutally effective long range weapons.

After a day of travel the great northern ranges become visible.

The northern mountains are jagged and majestic. Scraping at the heavens, storm clouds boil at their peaks. They dwarf the hills and low ranges I frequent at the edge of Downing, but I must admit, their feral grace is beautiful to behold.

Alert and wary, I guide Elizabeth in to land in a hollow valley, where she should be protected from casual eyes. We land softly. I dismount immediately, palming my axe but the rugged mountains are calm. It is late afternoon and the weak winter light is fading already.

“Quietly now,” I whisper to Elizabeth. “I want you to stay hidden, and not to make any noise. Can you do that for me?”

The hollow eye sockets of the enormous skeleton stare into mine. Then she nudges me with the vast beak of her elongated snout and settles into the snow.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

After covering her with some ivy and branches, the skeletons' stillness makes her uncannily difficult to spot. Good. Nothing seems to have changed with our coming, no cries of alarm fill the hushed mountain air. I keep an eye out for bearded vultures but see no birds or animals at all. Nothing is moving besides myself and the excited little scouts I have brought with me.

Pleased to be out of their bag the undead birds and one solitary bat stretch their wings. Elding and Tora groom themselves on a nearby branch. The crows seem untired by the journey but then why would they be? The dead are relentless. I send my spies off to scout with a whispered command to be silent and discreet.

The robins should not be remarkable. I hope. Being mostly human souls in avian bodies, my spies have a full understanding of the price of failure. They will do their best. Elding and Tora go with them and I am left alone with the tentacle beastie. There is nothing for me to do but wait. The beastie floats besides me in a contented silence that does nothing to assuage my nerves. I am uneasy at the silence of the unfamiliar rugged landscape.

To distract myself I examine my surroundings but I can see little from this hollow. A wall of granite, the sky streaked with clouds, mist pooling beneath the trees. Spring must come late to these mountains, if it comes at all. There is the metallic tang of magic in the air.

I keep watch anxiously. The minutes crawl by.

After a while I get out some embroidery. Then I put it away. Aggressively stabbing the cloth is doing it harm more than good. I pace backwards and forwards across the glade, and then wander over to examine the trees. They are stunted. They are dead. Bah. Blackened stumps of various mountain firs, grown twisted and bent against the prevailing wind.

Scraping away the thick layer of snow beneath me I can see that the earth below is hard, not just because it is frozen but because of the onyx-like pattern of decay worked into the ground. The same pattern spread by my own corruption when I hunger. It is unsettling to see it in a place I have never been. Was Janvier so on edge when he came to Downing for the first time? Better not to think of it.

I pace some more.

After an eternity my spies return. I count them quickly. Everyone has made it back.

“Well?” I hiss.

“There is a castle on the crag, ka,” says Elding. The black crow looks unruffled, lightning sparking gently between his toes.

“On the crag,” says Tora. “A ruin. Tall.”

“Tall and ruined,” says Elding. “Ice, ice everywhere.”

“Water,” pipes up one of the robins. I refuse to learn her name, she reminds me too much of Frances, although she is not as quick. “A lake.”

“Water, frozen water,” says Tora. “All the ice, ka. A lake of ice and frozen waves.”

“There is also a village,” says Gunder. The bat has climbed back into the bag and is clinging to it upside down. “It's all iced over as well.”

“Like Fairhaven?” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“And who is there?”

“No one,” comes the quiet murmur from multiple piping throats.

“No one at all? No living? No dead? No animals?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I look gravely at my little spies. They all nod their confirmation.

How convenient.

Too convenient. I cannot believe Janvier would abandon this place. If I am sure of one thing about the nature of liches it is that we are territorial. We don’t relinquish what is ours. We don’t like it when other people touch our things. Merrow, if I am correct, is the place of Janvier’s birth, his family seat, the burial place of his ancestors. He would never willingly give up this ground even if he has moved his main base to Fairhaven.

Which means this is clearly a trap, but one I will have to spring in order to search for his phylactery. How closely will he be watching? That remains to be seen. How fast can the message travel to Fairhaven, how fast can he get here? Perhaps the trap is not for me, and I have crossed a line from cautious to self obsessed.

Hmm. I do suspect that after my interference in Fairhaven he considers me to be a thorn in his side. His letters have intimated such. I plan to show him briars before this is done. But first… my bones. I will use every advantage at my disposal.

Fingers fumbling on the ties I extract my divination collection from my bag and lay them out on my new throwing cloth. It's a darling little thing made from the flayed and cured skin of one of the less hairy paladins. The leather was almost impossible to embroider neatly but I got by with some patience.

Gently, I brush my fingertips across the now familiar items; the shell, the rusted key, the teeth, the many special bones I have collected in my travels. Bones belonging to friends and enemies past. My index finger lingers over the bark from Downing. It smells of home. I inhale deeply and then put it back.

Lastly, but most importantly there is the silver bell, won from the Acolyte in one of my first battles with the clerics. The bell that will allow me to seek guidance from other gods, if my hunch is correct.

Delving once again in my bag I bring out a brush of yarrow. Setting it alight, I gently waft the smoke over each and every piece. The ravens perch nearby, their eyes bright and curious. The little spies cluster around them, all of them leaning forward eagerly.

“Keep watch,” I mutter. “Don’t all look at me.”

I detest having an audience.

Once I am sure the pieces are properly smoked, I dump the yarrow in the snow where the dried leaves smoulder out with a hiss. Gathering the items in two hands, I balance the bell on top. This part always makes me nervous and excited in equal measure.

“Wake up!” I whisper. “Resurgemus iterum. Help me find Janvier’s soul!”

I throw the bones high.

The silver bell tinkles, cutting through the air like a knife. The shadows flee. The bones fall, and the glade is awash with the scent of brine.

Bouncing, the bones hit the cloth and… and lie still. Completely lifeless.

I let out a groan.

“Come onnnn…”

I can feel the weight of the watching gods… or whatever it is that likes to watch this. It is like lying at the bottom of a pond, staring up at the sun through murky water. I feel like I can grasp the answer but everything is heavy, everything is hard to see. Why can’t I see? In Fairhaven voices sounded in my head, there were visions to guide me. This time there is only a jumble of unmoving bones, and that oppressive weight.

“Any ideas?” I ask my spies.

They hop over and examine the fallen pieces.

“It just looks like a pile of stuff,” says Gunder.

I sigh. He is right. It does. Maybe I need something new? An object belonging to Janvier to help guide the rest of the pieces? I like that idea.

It is time to explore.

I thank the silent bones, and tumble them back into their bag, Then I set off up the slope towards the supposedly empty ruins of Merrow. I instruct the ravens and the little spies to fan out, and keep watch for anything that moves. Gunder stays with me, quivering gently against my sleeve.

“I’m watching,” he murmurs and I nod.

Moving quietly through the snow I keep a sharp look out of my own. My spies are correct, however. To say the town is dead is an understatement. Where Downing hums with activity this place did not survive its master’s transition to lichdom. It is a tomb, an empty, hollow tomb.

The buildings lie in a sheltered valley. There are streets, homes, barns, and the remains of kitchen gardens. Smelters, cobblers, all of them shells, devoid of life. All of them are coated with the same unnatural ice. I have never cast ‘Glacies tempestas’ on this scale, and I don’t think I want to. Not considering it seems to be Janvier’s signature move.

I can see people, or rather the remains of people frozen solid inside the ice. Entombed in midstride, fleeing, or cowering in terror, their expressions are still cleary visible in some cases where the ice is as clear as diamond. The bodies do not look old. How long ago did this happen? It might have been a while, the frigid temperatures have likely slowed down the process of decomposition.

I press my palm against the ice where I can see a woman close to the edge. She looks calm, her mouth slightly open. Wrapped in furs and carrying a bucket I suspect that, unlike the others, she did not see her death coming.

“Decipula alma,” I whisper. I have to see for myself, but of course her soul is gone. She is a husk. All of them. Not even ghosts, they are just puppet trophies commemorating lives that once were.

I wander down the street like a lonely tourist.

Rising above the town is a great, spear shaped mountain, a frozen waterfall rising in a column of silver next to it. The silver plunges into a lake. Mist curls on the frozen surface, licking slowly towards the shore as the sun sets. At the edge of the lake, set aside from the town is Merrow Keep. The castle is impressive, more palace than brutal bastion. It towers with wicked, crystalline grace, casting its shadow over the streets below. This too is covered in ice. The turrets pierce the air high above, while icicles dangle precariously from every surface.

Parts of the stonework have collapsed. The base appears to be partially submerged in the lake. The architecture seems to echo the shapes of the surrounding peaks. I can tell it was built by someone who loved the mountains.

My earlier care seems unwarranted, truly it seems there is nothing here. Just this pile of ice, and the remains of what once was. My little spies tell me there is nothing here, my eyes tell me the same. Only the light moves, and the whispers of mist creeping along the ground.

I turn in a petulant circle. If Janvier’s phylactery could be any object, then it could truly be anywhere. Encrusted in ice would be a decent protective measure, I suppose. I eye the frozen buildings. If I have to smash every single thing in this place, I will be here forever. It might be quicker to tame a dragon and bring it here to melt everything down… or to spend a year playing with the alchemists and my potions, constructing an explosion large enough. Bah. Janvier is too arrogant to store his soul in a mundane object. I am fairly certain of that.

On the other hand… he is not stupid. I doubt he will have it on pedestal with a sign reading ‘here is my soul’. My eye drifts to the frosted ice palace sparkling ominously in the late afternoon light. That seems like the logical place to start searching.