Chapter 86

Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun

The heart I no longer possess is bursting with joy. I do not believe Phylas would have spoken to me thus if Janvier was missing his phylactery. The same phylactery that rests at my side right now. Running into the castle courtyard, I beam toothily up at my foreman and the draugr on the walls.

“Well done, Roland! Good job everyone!”

I am doubly pleased that they had the sense not to release Elizabeth from her tower. The bony flying monstrosity is a surprise I would like to keep secret as long as possible. It is a pity that Phylas saw the beastie but… well he can make of it what he will. There is nothing I can do about that now.

Janvier has his fancy dragons. Dragons, plural, most likely. He won’t have been waiting in idleness while I have been building and brewing and punching clerics and swimming in his icy lake uninvited. It will be an interesting match. He has the city, the ice, and the undead plague. I have my siege engines, my potions, the beastie, and my imagination. And apparently, my witches.

The courtyard is filled with them; more witches than I have seen clustered together since I evacuated Fairhaven. Men and women both, because witching is not a gender specific activity, whatever many might think.

I open my mouth to ask what they are all doing here but then realise they are all staring in terror at something behind me.

Tendrils wriggling in the shadows. The demure crackle of lightning sparks off the stones, illuminating the ghosts of a long dead court that runs past screaming, pursued by transparent horsemen in black armour. Ah yes, the beastie. The beastie who is considerably larger than the last time anyone saw it.

Roland’s mouth has fallen so far open he will be able to swallow a trebuchet.

“It’s just the beastie,” I say, as if it is the most normal thing in the world. “Not to worry! We went hunting and I fed it a bit.”

Elding and Tora spiral down from the skies to land on the battlements, making loud ‘ka’s’ of appreciation. The beastie pulsates proudly on the spot as they admire it.

“Is… is it safe?” asks one of the witches, looking up at the floating shed sized monster.

“Oh yes,” I say, brightly.

“What happened to your eye, Lady Maud?”

“Nevermind,” I say. “Now, what do you all want? I’m very busy, and I know you all are too?”

An elderly gentleman steps forward, his steps unsteady but his back ramrod straight, periwinkle blue eyes twinkling. He wears black robes and on his head rests a wide brimmed hat with a conical crown. “We heard rumours, your ladyship.”

“Rumours?”

“Rumours that you are soon departing for Fairhaven. We want to know our part in the retaking of our home.”

I curse under my breath. I have been working hard to keep my activities secret. “Anyone who has been talking will be flayed. Alive or dead. I will peel the skin from their bones slowly but surely and use it to make gloves for the grimoire.”

The elderly witch’s eyes widen in alarm. “No one shared what they shouldn’t,” he says, quickly. “We read the news in the bones.”

“Ah.”

I suppose I can’t complain too much, when the bones have divulged other people’s secrets to me. The Wavewalker should mind his own paddling pool, however, and keep out of mine.

“This war is no place for the living,” I say. “Not if you want to stay that way.”

“If we fall you can raise us!” shouts a young woman.

I spy Gabriella in the crowd, the young witch as enthusiastic as ever, dressed in green finery, and fancy hat, with the rest of the Fairhaven girls clustered around her. Including the undead Sara who grins at me and waves. I have not checked in on them recently but they seem happy enough.

“It is our home,” says the eldery witch, simply. “We wish to fight for it.”

I shrug. “It is up to you,” I say. “Not you Gabriella, you are all too young. But anyone who is of age and wants to fight is welcome. You know what you face.” They all nod grimly. “My methods will be brutal and effective, and probably frowned upon by all the other gods. I aim to take back Fairhaven by whatever means necessary.”

“This we know,” says the elderly witch, bowing his head, solemnly.

“Good,” I say, turning on my heel. “I will let you know when you are needed.”

I beat a retreat through the crowd to the deep cellars under Dunbarra Keep, sorely in need of some peace and quiet. Sorely in need of some serious crafting to soothe my jangling nerves. If I think of warfare as a giant crafting project it becomes infinitely more palatable and I really can’t wait to see the look on Janvier’s face when he respawns and I am waiting for him.

My plans have progressed satisfactorily in my absence but I have one pressing problem. Two problems, actually. The first and most worrisome is that our forthcoming battle will likely be one of air supremacy. I have no doubt that Janvier assumes he has the upper hand. I am currently worried that he is right.

My wights have been hard at work in the castle basement, excavating under the strict supervision of the architects (as the last thing we need is to undermine our own castle and have it collapse on our heads.) So far they have uncovered two more lizard skeletons. This is good but two skeletons does not an invasion make. I was hoping for more.

I plan to ride the beastie to war, now it is large enough, but even with three Elizabeths that will not be enough to turn the tide against those dragons.

Already built and sewn are a scattering handful of little monsters, stitched together from various flying animal parts. They range in size from robins to a couple of rather majestic vultures. Too small. They will not be enough. The wight geese I can always rely on for their unbridled savagery and I have slowly been increasing the flock. Still, I am worried. What to do?

Should I go hunting for enormous birds of prey? Try to get the alchemists to invent some kind of flotation devices? No, that would be ridiculous. The dragons would make mincemeat of them. Unless… hmm… flaming arrows? No. They might look pretty but I do not feel the effort is worth it for the aesthetics. Just this once practicality trumps style. Janvier has the whole of Fairhaven covered in thick layers of ice. A few oil soaked arrows will do very little to change the situation, although I might feel differently if Castle Rock was made of wood.

The trebuchets and catapults can fling projectiles high into the air but they are sitting ducks if not adequately defended. Hauling massive siege weaponry across the countryside only to have them baked by a dragon in the first five minutes would be vexing, to say the least.

Turning the problem over in my mind gets me nowhere.

Frustrated, I go to check on the siege workshop in the basement. Where my second problem awaits.

Keeping everything underground seemed like a good idea at the time. Secrecy and all that. Past Maud was fairly sure she would be transporting everyone to Fairhaven via portal. Despite my best efforts no portal candles have manifested. So now I am stuck with a bunch of glorious siege engines deep underground and a looming deadline. Great.

With gritted teeth I discuss options with Thomlinson. We call over all the available engineers and architects. After an hour of fruitless discussion I come to the horrible realisation that the only way to extract the siege engines is to dig a passage up to the surface. This will be back breaking work as some of them are quite sizeable. The alchemists say they can blast a way forward which will save time. Hmm.

By this point in the proceedings the smile plastered on my face has people edging around me nervously. My future victory is hanging by a shoestring. I think dark thoughts in a dark corner and decide I need to retire to my broom cupboard to recover before I do something I will regret.

The small broom closet is the only place in the castle where I can be reasonably certain no one will bother me. Easing into the quiet darkness I sit with a sigh. Sitting there I gradually recover my equilibrium. Absent-mindedly, I take out the piece of cloth I keep hidden behind a loose stone and replace it with Janvier’s rag-wrapped phylactery.

I start to sew.

The best ideas often come to me while my fingers are occupied. Please, Green Lady, I need all the inspiration I can get. Besides, I cannot kill Janvier dressed in rags and tatters. Oh no. I must look the part. Lich murder is a serious business and must be accompanied by flowing sleeves and a veil of darkest midnight.

My mind wanders as I stitch ebony oak leaves into the lining of new black silk pantaloons. No one will be able to see them but I will know they are there. They will lend me moral fortitude. While my needle darts in and out of the material I think of my adventures in the deep icy lake, of the ghosts in the water. I think of the surprising oak spirit. Perhaps I will visit him later.

My eye lands on a broomstick resting in a corner. It is a mundane thing, nothing special. A household besom, a bundle of sticks tied to a stout pole. Dead wood. Wood that used to be a tree. Ash stave, birch twigs. The usual sort of thing.

“Decipula alma,” I whisper.

It is soulless. This wood is no longer a tree and its spirit has long since departed. Thinking once again of the oak spirit with the mistletoe crown I am surprised to find I am relieved. Still, it is a corpse of a sort. All wood is. Like the wood that the siege engines are made from. Hmm.

I nudge the broom with my foot and it falls against my thigh with a thunk.

“Ow,” I mutter, a trifle melodramatically, especially given that I am the only person in the cupboard. I look at the broom speculatively. In my pocket I have a handful of crystals. I pull one out. A mundane crystal, if you can ever call a soul charged crystal mundane, it is filled with little fluttering bird spirits and a few ghosts. Looking them over I chose the soul of an eagle and with a few muttered words send it streaming into the ash handle.

The broom shimmers as the soul sinks into the dead wood and disappears.

I wait a moment and then heft it in my palm, managing to knock over a pail in the confined space. Nothing of interest occurs. Perhaps the broom is a fraction lighter? It might just be my fancy.

“Fly,” I say to it.

Nothing happens. Well, that is not quite true. I can feel the soul respond, the eagle’s spirit struggling to flap wings that do not exist. What a shame. Not really surprising, I suppose. I lean back against the stone wall, frowning at the soul infused broom.

My eyes land on the birch twigs bundled at the end. Then, because the idea will not let me rest, I spend the next half hour adding souls to individual twigs. Robins, bats, larks, an owl, all the winged souls I have trapped and to hand.

By the time I am done the broom is positively throbbing with energy. Still it refuses to fly but it is definitely lighter. I am on to something here, I can feel it. But I have only filled half the twigs and I am out of bird souls. Where can I find some winged creatures, and quickly? The area around Dunbarra Keep has been decimated of wildlife thanks to the geese.

I get up, spilling my sewing onto the ground. Popping it back into its groove, I replace the stone, and exit the cupboard, taking the broom with me.

“Where are you going, Ma’am?” asks Roland, as I stride purposely through the shrieking castle courtyard.

“Just an errand,” I shout. “Won’t be long.”

I make my way through the blackened forest until I am out of sight of the castle walls. I don’t really want an audience for this experiment, especially if it fails. Which it might.

When I am well clear I stop and rummage in my bag for the scrap of material containing the lynx eyeball, and the ghost knife. I pop the eye into my empty socket, and poke it into position with my fingers. With one hand covering my ‘normal’ eye, I go hunting for some of the little sprites that I saw earlier. I’m sure some of them had wings.

With the lynx cat’s eye in my head the world once again subtly shifts. The light, already getting on for evening, is more diffuse. The dead landscape is no longer devoid of movement. Wisps dart here and there through the blackened stumps of dead trees. A myriad of eyes blink at me from beneath a tree stump but when I bend they disappear.

I chase a gleaming flicker of light through a grove. The wisp is as slippery as a transparent mist eel.

“Decipula alma,” I whisper.

One in the bag. Or the crystal. The soul is as light as a feather.

Under a nearby rock a horde of stout little people no more than four inches high are washing their caps in what looks like a pool of blood. They are very ugly with ruddy cheeks and nobbled crooked features. I look at them through the other eye, covering the cat orb and they, and the crimson puddle disappear. Interesting. Did I brain someone here? Once? Ah yes, it looks familiar. The site of one of my many running battles.

I switch back, and the little people nod at me, their ugly faces serious and wary.

The little ugly red caps are interesting but I need spirits that fly.

I manage to nab two more wisps, and then stumble upon a group of small bat winged imps, resting on a corrupted bough. Each one of their souls zip into my crystal with a streak of whining darkness. Out of interest I consume one instead of trapping it. It is sharp and bitter, but not unpleasant. A little like the liquorice I once tasted as a girl. Vaguely medicinal.

Putting the broom down, I count the twigs. I should have enough.

With anticipation pooling in my belly, I infuse the remaining birch twigs with the souls of the wisps and the bat-like imps. I make sure the binding is secure, and twist the ends into a witch knot of protection.

The broom vibrates against my fingers. It is both like and unlike my monster constructs: several souls sharing one body. These souls are light, however. They miss the feel of air beneath their wings. They long for the open sky. They yearn for the kiss of starlight and the current spiralling high. The dead wood’s soul has departed. The vessel does not fight back against their collective yearning.

“Fly,” I whisper.

The broom levitates into the air with a satisfying swish. I grin with deep satisfaction.