Chapter 88

Monstrous Regiment

Donning my best war helmet and specially sewn battle skirt (axes round the hem, in black thread, so it’s subtle), I bid farewell to Roland and my home guard. Dunbarra Keep should be adequately defended during my absence. A contingent of wights lines the walls as I wave goodbye. The defensive gardens are in full bloom, and then there is the wailing spirit of the castle itself.

The witches’ council at Greater Downing has shored up their defences as well. A chain of watchfires and little undead spies link Greater Downing, Little Downing, Dunbarra Keep and the surrounding new settlements and villages. The outlying dwellings are the most vulnerable, but they all have deep cellars as a last resort. If there is an invasion, they should receive adequate warning; enough to retreat to the safety of either castle.

I well remember what happened last time I left my forest unattended, but dithering will buy me no favours. My soul is settled into the soil, into the trees and roots, living and dead. Janvier’s soul is tucked into a ratty hole at the back of an airing cupboard and its master’s body awaits the bite of my axe. Everything is as well as it can be, it is time to be off.

The crafter’s guild formally gift me an embroidered eyepatch. I strap it over my ruined eye socket with great ceremony and climb aboard the beastie, who has been kitted out with a black leather saddle, saddle bags and velvet streamers. Not that the beastie needs streamers, it has all those precious wiggling tendrils.

Leaving takes slightly longer than expected. First I have to remove Jenkins from the end of a broomstick, not once but twice. Then I discover a giggling bunch of Fairhaven girls secreted in the back of one of the siege towers.

“We told them they would drown,” says one of the skellies, smugly.

“Idiots,” shouts another.

“Tattletails,” says Gabriella.

“Whhhhhhy can’t we come?” moans Sara, as I drag her out by one ear. “Fairhaven is our home too!”

“You might be dead,” I say, firmly, “but the other girls aren’t. Yet. And I would prefer to keep it that way. At least for now. There is plenty to do here. Go and plant some acorns. Practise your… whatever. Soon enough you will all be old enough to kill yourselves however you deem fit. But not today.”

All five girls start complaining at once.

King Dunwiddy, who is riding on one of the flying lizards, swoops over to yell at his daughter, and the whole pack of girls run back into the castle grumbling.

“Alright, let’s try this again,” I huff once they are safely inside.

As my feet leave the forest floor I have to quell a moment of panic. Leaving my soul is always difficult, like leaving a sense I never knew I had. I am suddenly overwhelmed by a premonition of dread, but I squash it down firmly. Everything will be fine. I will be back soon.

The beastie surges into the sky, tendrils first, and my hair streams out behind me in a starry blaze. Rachel the fire mage rides Elizabeth to my left. Her eyes are hard. She never fully recovered from her experiences with the abominations and she has the look of someone out for revenge or death. Dunwiddy the beggar king of Fairhaven flies on my right. The third lizard is ridden by a draugr, one of the alchemists who had an unfortunate accident whilst brewing explosives, but insisted on coming anyway.

By mutual agreement the witches fly high, their brooms laden with potions and alchemic brews. The twigs are bristling with charms. Witch-knots are braided into every surface and dangle from every handle. Beneath them, in what I will charitably call formation, fly the rest of the volunteers from the Adventurer’s Guild, all of them grisled veterans, their brooms shining with polished steel. Below them still, fly the draugr, kitted out in a mix of leftover gear and new uniforms. Draugr ghosts and birds, and flapping monsters dart around us. Elding and Tora lead the flock.

It is a glorious sight. Enough to strike fear into the hollow cavity of the most obnoxious lich.

Before we strike out for Fairhaven, we escort the siege engines to the boats. It also gives us a moment to get used to flying together, and to work out how to do so with the minimum of collisions.

From the clouds I watch the corpse balls haul catapults and trebuchets laboriously across the rough forest floor to the waiting vessels by the river. They are soon loaded, and the ground army starts its long trip towards the sea.

Timothy and the void knights are in charge of the ships and siege engines, and the wight army. I have been loath to use them, preferring to keep the void clerics for a rainy day. Their capabilities, that of fundamentally interfering with the divine magic of other gods, is most effective against the living. I will not be fighting holy warriors at Fairhaven. Janvier’s troops already belong to the Whisperer. However, I have to consider the possibility that if I do not throw everything I have at Janvier, I might not survive to fight further. And the void knights’ expertise on the battlefield will be invaluable. So they march with us, black ichor oozing from their breastplates and rust blooming across once shiny steel.

Making one last loop over the treetops, I am satisfied that everything is in order. I give the command, and my monstrous regiment sets off for Fairhaven.

When I next lay eyes on my forest it will be as Queen of Einheath. Queen Maud. It is not a job I ever thought I would have but then, I can’t think of anyone better to fill the position.

__________

Crouched in the shadow of a large oak, Phylas watched the female lich fly away.

As the last broomstick zipped out of sight, he straightened, scowling, and lifted the ratty, green and brown hood from his head. He wasn’t wearing the same body that had last accompanied him to Downing, but his newly borrowed skin still crawled with the memory of holy water. The scorching flesh… the skin dripping from his bones. It had been unpleasant. An experience he was keen to avoid.

With this in mind he had opted for stealth. Instead of arriving on dragon back, or at the head of an army of undead, he had travelled on foot, disguised and hooded, with a mere handful of wights. So far it had worked, although he had deliberately kept his distance from the lich’s territory, sticking to the living forest far removed from her festering boundary markers.

Phylas eyed the nearest one with distaste. It seemed to be some kind of wind chime made with dangling femurs, chicken bones, raven feathers and what looked like some kind of brightly coloured wool. Scratched into a dangling piece of wood in elegant cursive were the words ‘get lost’.

Briefly, he wondered what his lord would make of her flying army, but then shook his head. King Janvier would be ready. Of that Phylas had no doubt. The female lich’s flying circus would be no match for Janvier’s measured preparations. He turned to the wights, who were similarly cloaked and hooded and opened his mouth to tell them to move.

A clod of earth hit him square in the chest.

Phylas pivoted sharply, looking for the culprit. There was no one there. It was just him and the idiot wights, standing beneath the boughs of a stately oak at the top of a hill. He looked up at the tree, the bare branches brittle with frost, each reaching to the heavens like splayed, old man fingers. Phylas narrowed his eyes. He didn’t have time to mess around with foolish spirits.

“Come,” he said to the wights, and together they set off together into the lich’s wood.

Phylas stayed alert, regarding the wet forest with some disdain until he was within sight of the blighted castle. This, he felt, was the most logical place for the lich to hide her soul. Although her actions repeatedly defied logic.

He had one job, and it should be easy enough. Janvier had attempted to destroy the female lich’s phylactery before, but had been unable to locate it amongst the possessions of her hovel. Phylas suspected he had been looking in the wrong place. It was crucial, when searching for a soul container, to have a deep understanding of the psyche of the individual.

Maud had retained her woman’s wiles in death. Ironically this very feminine unpredictability had no doubt played a significant factor in her continued survival. Phylas was not particularly interested in understanding her. Understanding would be wasted on an enemy soon to be dead. The Whisperer could judge her then, it would be a waste of his own brain power.

Besides, Phylas had an advantage, an advantage that he would never share, not even with his new ally. A spell. A rare spell. Phylas would not call Janvier his master; he had only one master and he was a god. Over his many years of service the Whisperer had blessed him with great knowledge. While Phylas might not possess the raw power of a lich, he had his experience, and he knew words that no one else knew.

Phylas had outlived liches before and would do so again.

Occasionally, a lich would prove itself inconvenient. Occasionally, just like now, Phylas had been instrumental in their demise. A whispered word could be powerful, when one knew when and where to speak. And he had the words that would reveal the presence of a soul container, the ultimate vulnerability.

Coming to a stop beneath a blacked ash, Phylas drew out a soul crystal the size of his desiccated fist. The wights watched him with hollow eyes. It thrummed with the soul of a man he had trapped on the journey to Downing.

Phylas held it in one hand, and concentrated. “Respice finem,” he whispered.

For a moment there was nothing.

Then, to his surprise he felt a great jolt from many directions. The forest itself shimmered in his sight for a fragment of a second, glittering and fragile. A second pull tugged at him from the castle itself. “Respice finem,” he whispered again to be sure.

The forest glowed at his call.

“Canny bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

This was a surprise.

Now he had two jobs, and he would enjoy them both. The destruction of Maud’s soul would be a nice distraction. In the darkness the old draugr grinned. He tucked the crystal away, and lit a burning brand, handing it to the nearest wight and sending him out. Then he lit another, and another. What a pity it was winter. Still. He knew some spells to make flames more intense.

With a low chuckle he held the burning brand to the nearest hollow oak.