Chapter 116

An Old Battle Axe

Deliberately turning her back on the other fae, the summer queen beckons me forwards. Her butterflies swirl around us, enclosing us in a cone of fluttering cream and white. Privacy, of a sort. The sough of their many wings drowns out our words, making it impossible for the uninvited elves to listen.

“What is the spell?” I ask eagerly. It has been a long time since I learned a new one.

The fairy monarch glances furtively over one shoulder, then, satisfied she extends one slender finger into the air. Glimmering letters appear, radiating the heat of a midsummer noon. They spell out the words ‘ossa saltare’.

They hang suspended for a brief moment, before shimmering away into nothing. The summer queen closes her fist.

“What does it do?” I ask.

She grins wickedly, the expression not reaching the chipped blue stones of her eyes.

“It gives me temporary command over the living. Their bodies, at least. Not their minds. Unfortunately.”

“I see.”

This strikes me as a particularly nasty spell, which surprises me not one little bit. I will make sure to only the truly villainous. Or on paladins. However, I need to test it, oaths and vows be damned I am not a trusting lich. The summer queen is smiling at me, and I smile back. I figure she won’t mind if I practise on her, since I have seen her use the spell so enthusiastically on her own subjects.

“Ossa saltare,” I whisper, pointing my finger at her brocaded chest.

Silver chain flickers into existence, wrapping around her wrists with the insidious slowness of summer snakes. I tug on them thoughtfully and she staggers forward, snarling.

“Bravo,” says the fae girl, from beneath the thinning swarm of butterflies.

I turn and repeat the words, pointing at her.

The elven courts scatter in four directions. The countess dissolves into mist. My spell does not land. Interesting. It has a range limit then, just like my soul stealing.

“It can be countered,” says the summer queen.

I dissolve the spell, and the chain winks out of existence. The queen heaves a great sigh, her eyes tight as she glares at me. She has been humiliated enough, I suppose, and I do not want to damage the terms of our agreement.

“I wanted to test it,” I explain.

“You have done so. Now leave as you swore you would.”

“I just need those hearts. Oh and the roses?”

With a look that could boil stone, the summer queen holds her hands up, palm out. Two score white butterflies cluster there, wings quivering. She rams her hands together, squashing the little insects between them with a flash of heat. When she draws them apart again she is cradling a large bouquet of roses. I accept them with a curtsy.

They are overripe, the petals loose on their stems, and varying lurid shades of red and yellow. They will do. The Whisperer does not deserve true beauty.

After tying them securely to my pack I go about the gory business of harvesting the handsome men’s hearts. It is a particularly messy business as I do not have a weapon to speak off and the summer queen is disinclined to offer me one. Even so, I hum as I work. Carrying them home is problematic. They are too big and too many to go in my bag, and I do not want bloody organs soaking into my best thread. In the end I construct a makeshift basket out of the remains of my gauzy petticoat. It drips but that cannot be helped.

Under her increasingly frosty gaze I steal and pocket the eyes of the dead dandelion. One for me and one for the bestie!

“All done!” I say, with a big smile, and bid the summer queen adieu.

We part with the presumably mutual desire of never crossing paths ever again.

I head home through the morning mists, retracing my steps all the way back to the goblin market. I am delighted to be going. Let the fairies indulge in their vicious machinations, I want no part in it! This entire experience has a trial, no doubt as the orb cursed Whisperer intended.

Cursing the fae under my breath, it takes some time for me to recover my good humour. At least the blight I created is peaceful. The stillness of the forest is a little uncanny after the bustle and noise of my journey there, and the area of devastation extensive. I squash down the guilt. What’s done is done. The flesh is mine, I cannot give it back—the flesh or the power crawling through my veins like liquid lightning. In fact, my body has ever been this ‘full’ before, nor my hair so long. My breasts are positively enormous!

The quiet of my steps becomes a succession of merry skips. My hair is a wild tangle about my head, gleaming white in the bright sunshine. I swish it backwards and forth, sashaying on tiptoe, twirling over moss and stone. When I get home I will braid some ghostly flowers into it, and maybe find a nice tiara. It is a pity my ballgown did not survive the altercation in a better state, but then I suppose you can’t have everything.

As I get closer to the location of the goblin market I grow a little self conscious. The gossamer strands of spider silk are stretched taut over my body and I’m sure I am bulging forth in ways that are positively scandalous. There is nothing to be done. I do not have any other clothing with me… oh yes I do! I pull out one of the spare cardigans and put it on. Wool with shredded ball gown looks ridiculous but at least I am decent. The ghost wool feels lovely against my new skin.

I travel on, passing at last from the gentle peace of the dead woods to the buzz and frenzy of living. The drone of bees, the laughter of sprites, the clatter and hum of fae folk going about their business is a constant backdrop to my travel. This time I am undisturbed. No monsters pop out of the swamp to try and drown me, no centaurs run me down, no glittering wisps beckon me off the path. Perhaps word has spread that I am to be avoided. Not that I mind. The journey is pleasant enough without diversion.

A short while later I exit the forest into the sun soaked meadow.

The goblin market is as I left it—brightly coloured stalls, tents, pennons, bustling with bizarre and interesting looking customers. The frogman is still at his table, and the jellyfish are still floating around the fortune teller's tent. If only I could stop but I do not dare. I promised to leave immediately and I do not want to risk breaking my deal.

There is a low grumble, and something enormous and green bounds out from beneath the canopy. I reach for an axe that is not there, but then relax. It is just Ambrosius.

“Good lad,” I say, patting the dandelion on one enormous green leafed shoulder. “Time to go.”

Together, we walk majestically through the market. Everyone watches, open mouthed, and the shoppers scramble to get out of our way. I enjoy it quite a lot. Has my personality changed since I became a lich? Or is it just the experiences I have been through naturally changing my personality? Is it even possible to change once you are dead? Likely, yes.

Greeter of New Arrivals, the Keeper of Gold, Secrets, and Books, and the Maker of Pleasing Sandwiches stands near the ladder, a pile of books under her arm. She raises one brow as we prance past, but does not comment. I shout goodbye anyway, and the goblin waves a half-hearted hand in my direction.

Pausing at the foot of the dangling rope ladder, my chin tilts up, up, up all the way to the top where it disappears into the fluffy white clouds above. The thin pieces of wood wobble and bob in the breeze. It is even further than I remember.

I look over at the draugr dandelion.

“I don’t suppose you can climb that?” I ask. The great green cat monster just stares at me, swishing its puff ball tail. I glance at his enormous green pads, each one the size of a dinner plate. “Right. Of course you can’t.”

In the end I put his soul back in a crystal, and sling the dead body over my shoulder.

Although I am plenty strong enough to carry his dead weight, it is awkward in the extreme. He is so large his paws dangle past my knees.

After making sure the roses are carefully tied to my pack, I counterbalance the weight with the squishy bag of hearts, I start to climb. At this point I am grateful my ball gown is shredded. Up I go, hand over hand, wobbling perilously.

There are one or two moments when I come close to dropping the dandelion, but in the end I make it. The trick is not to look down. And not to think. One hand over the other, one foot up, haul, repeat, climb the stupid ladder. Climb the ladder, don’t look down. Don’t look down. I look down.

Gritting my teeth, I cling to the rung with all my might as vertigo sweeps through me.

The fairy realm is laid out below me in a dazzling splay of emerald and gold. In the distance I can just make out the unsightly blemish of darkness, where the forest has died. I have left my mark here, yes, but I will not be back again. The queen has her word, and I have my dandelion.

It is a pity, there is so much to explore. I would have liked to shop more, to have my fortune told by the interesting elf with the floating jellyfish familiars. I would have liked to track down the oh so clever fae seamstress. Alas, it is not to be. It is fine. Jenkins will be a lich, and I will never again have cause to come here.

I keep climbing and am soon lost in the swirling mists of the clouds.

I don’t look down again, instead concentrating on getting to the top. I don’t think about how easy it would be to set fire to the bottom of the ladder. No, I don’t think about that at all, but I do climb as fast as I can.

An agonisingly long time later I haul the dandelion’s corpse up through the hole in the goblin’s cave and toss him onto the stone floor. My arms feel quite weak with the stress of it..

“Well hello there,” says the elderly goblin doorkeeper, rousing from his chair with a start. “Back are you? I see you had a good… shopping trip.”

He eyes the giant dandelion body with some interest.

“Thank you,” I say, primly. “My weapons please?”

Now that I have my feet back in the real world I am eager to get on. The Whisperer gave me ten days to collect everything I need. While the doorkeeper bustles off to collect my things, I count quickly on my fingers. Five days have passed since my bargain with the Whisperer. There is still time but I also need to find a suitable phylactery for Jenkins. It can’t be any old thing, it has to be carefully considered. That should be plenty of time.

The old goblin brings out my weapons and armour, and hands them over.

I thank him and shove the axe awkwardly through my belt. I put my pauldrons over the top of my woolly cardigan, and adjust them to fit my new, lush frame. Immediately, I feel better.

Shouldering the dandelion and my various items, I stagger towards the tight spiral of the wooden stairs.

“That axe…” says the old goblin from behind me.

“What about it?” I say, adjusting the dandelion so his head does not bang on the low ceiling.

“It’s very…”

“Very what?”

“It’s a very basic axe, begging your pardon, good lady.”

“What business is it of yours?” I ask, stung. “That colander on your head is very ‘basic’, but you don’t hear me commenting on it. Those corduroy trousers are a very basic shade of green. Your manners are very basic.”

“This hat,” the old goblin says, with some dignity. “Is a family heirloom. But if you ever decide you would like a weapons upgrade, I know some people who can help you. They do very fine runework.” He hands me a small, neat card. “And we sometimes do contracts for top-siders.”

I take it curiously. It smells faintly of humbugs. On it, in finely printed, and exceptionally neat letters are the words ‘Guild of Goblin Artificers’.

“Thank you,” I say, thinking of Janvier’s rune enhanced greatsword. Of the interesting piping beneath his castle that powered his mechanical dungeon and personal labyrinth. “I’ll certainly think about it.”

And I will. But for now it is time to prepare for my next meeting with the Whisperer.