Hesketh Tolson
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Lich Please 92: Rags to Liches
🕑 Added 2022-06-22 14:19:34 +0000 UTCChapter 92
Rags to Liches
With great satisfaction I watch as Janvier’s body collapses in on itself. Gleaming motes cluster around the ruins of flesh before imploding inwards. The lich king is vanquished. All that remains is a whisper of frost, hovering in the air like a chilling promise, and soon that too is gone, leaving only tarnished armour rolling gently on the ice.
I poke it with one bony toe and it clanks mournfully. Music to my ears. My remaining skin stretches across my face into a gleeful smile, but before I give into my gloating I need to get back to Downing, and fast. Before Janvier respawns.
My smile drops as a kernel of worry braids itself into my stomach.
Please let his phylactery be secure. Please let my phylactery be secure. Please let the decision to leave our souls in Downing be the right one. Please let everything at home be as I left it. Please, Whisperer, Lady, Wave Walker and whoever else might have an interest in this fashionable lich. I don’t voice this last thought out loud. Oh no. Asking the gods for things where they can hear you is risky business, I’m fairly sure they all have their own agendas beyond that of my health and wellbeing.
My gut twists as I glare at Janvier’s empty helm. The horns have gouged thick lines into the ice where his head scraped with the force of the felling blow. The eye slits of his visier are dark and blank. Accusing. He was jesting. My soul is fine. I would have felt something I’m sure. At least I’m sure I would have if I was in Downing. He was bluffing, merely trying to get me on edge, to throw me off my concentration. Of course, now that he is dead and the fight is won, it has worked. My stomach feels quite unpleasant despite the lack of soft tissue.
The only way for him to destroy my phylactery would be the wholesale destruction of my entire forest. Surely no man, not even Phylas, would be evil enough to do such a thing? But in my gut I know he would, if he could. How far does my soul reach into the forest? Is it trees and roots only? Does it live in the granules? In the little creeping bugs and delicate blooming flowers? In the mycelium?
I will not be easy until I see the trees with my own eyes. Until I wiggle my bare feet in the loam of my forest home and until I hold Janvier’s soul in my own two hands.
Haste. I must make haste.
First I must take stock, and make sure Fairhaven is secure. The battle is over, my forces victorious. The abominations have all been destroyed. Janvier’s draugr and wights have been slain, as have his dragons. Alas, for my precious siege engines, they lie in pieces but they served their queen well. Yes, I am now queen. Queen of Einheath, by right of conquest.
My eyes widen.
I will need a whole new wardrobe. One fit for royalty. Silks, and brocades. Velvet for miles, whale bone corsets with exquisite stitching. Kirtles and dresses with flounced embroidered sleeves and lace! So much lace! I can revive the lace industry and provide employment for hundreds. Perhaps I should have a train? For special occasions. And a new crown! Oh the crown! And a tiara for everyday use. Oh and buttons! Brass, silver, wood, I will have the biggest, most beautiful button collection in the kingdom! Hmm. Perhaps it has been worth the inconvenience.
With some difficulty I bring my mind back from these elegant visions and get to my fee, taking stock of the field of war. The majority of my sea army lies dead. One or two of the void knights survived the onslaught of abominations, and a handful of the draugr who were on the far eastern flank. To my delight I see Sir Arkwright heaving himself out of a pile of unmoving corpses. I wave my hand in greeting, and he taps his helmet solemnly.
Overhead my ghost fleet still scours the skies, the translucent sails gleaming like starry banners, ghost fish weaving in between like silver darts. I don’t think the fish did much in the fight but they certainly lent something to the ambiance. Perhaps one day I will figure out how to control exactly what I summon instead of expending my energy to raise every single dead creature in the immediate vicinity, but that day was not today.
The beastie arrives in an ecstasy of affection, bowling me over with its enormous body and smoothing silken tendrils over my face and limbs, with concerned motions. One stinging tendril drapes itself over my hairless scalp with particular distress. I am not quite bone but my gorgeous hair was sacrificed to the ghosts.
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing it away gently. “It will grow back. I just need to eat more.”
The witches and adventures, the draugr riders and terrible lizards all clatter to the ground, eyes alight with the flame of victory. But many of them are injured, and many are missing. The taking of Fairhaven came at great cost. I am pleased to see that more than half the human combatants survived. A testament, truly, to the manoeuvrability of the brooms.
The surviving besoms themselves are singed and soot streaked, with many missing twigs. Much like their riders. Some of the adventurers have experience with wounds and in no time a small camp is set up on the ice. It is cold and exposed though. While not a problem for those of us who are dead it is not ideal for the living. The sooner they can move into the city proper the better.
With Rachel the fire mage, Sir Arkwright and King Dunwiddy in tow, I move to secure the city. Calling Fairhaven a city is a bit of a stretch at this point, but we move to secure the ice bound lump that hides the buildings beneath its smothering weight. As I walk the ruins of the frosted ramparts the ice creaks and groans beneath me. A huge chunk falls off the eastern wall and crashes into the frozen sea in a frothing wave of crushed particles. The walls are already starting to thaw. Trickles of water make them shiny with moisture in the slow light of the rising sun.
How long till Fairhaven is thawed and habitable again? I do not know but I cannot wait to oversee it. Not now. I need to check that there are no nasty surprises waiting for my survivors, and then away to Downing as fast as the Beastie will carry me.
Every moment on the ice dome gnaws at my patience, but I cannot leave only to lose the city to some unforeseen trap or nonsense. Perhaps Phylas is waiting within, with a second army of hiddens wights. Perhaps there is a nest of draugr dragons the size of buildings.
There are not, and he is not.
We do check every cave, and every cranny. A few wights survived but they are quickly dealt with. The last sorry remnants of Janvier’s army are slain, and the even sorrier remains of his sub-par and very ugly siege weapons set alight.
I call home the spirits of half the ghost ships, consuming them to swell the power of my body. Spirits are not nourishing like souls, however, and it is not enough to regrow my hair, or to properly flesh out my bones. I figure I might need the energy, however meagre, to deal with whatever I might find in Downing. The expenditure of the battle tested me to my limit and I will not have time to hunt for souls on the way home. Not if I am to arrive before Janvier puts in a new appearance.
The thought hastens my steps.
The rest of the ships I leave under Sir Arkwright’s command, to protect my new capital city as it emerges from its frosty prison. In the cheery glow of the melting walls I bid my farewell, leaving my troops with a list of instructions to start the reclamation.
The beastie and I fly south, towards Downing, as fast as we can.
