Hesketh Tolson
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Lich, Please 83: The Friar Dances
🕑 Added 2022-05-01 14:59:25 +0000 UTCAuthor Note: Apologies for the slow update. Hit a bit of a slump, and the words would not cooperate. Feeling a bit better now.
Chapter 83
The Friar Dances
Leaving home always pains me. Now that my soul lives in the rooted dirt and the trees, it hurts more than ever. As I take to the skies I wonder if I can expand the reach of my soul? Lowecroft is not so very far away after all. Hmm. Does it need to be trees? How much forest does it fill? There is also the gorge to consider - the ravine that separates wild woods from cultivated farmlands. Would it matter? How deep has my soul’s essence permeated the soil?
I peer down at the rushing waters as we fly over. Tumbling white and furious over the rocks, the river batters itself against the cliff walls, gushing and gurgling with snowmelt. The banks are swollen. How long till it empties itself into the distant sea? This gives me an idea.
My attempts to discover the recipe of portal candles continues to be unsuccessful. Likewise I have been unable to discover any news of elves, or for that matter, of goblins. It seems like hauling my army across the countryside to Fairhaven is inevitable. Janvier will see us coming from miles away. This vexes me. I do not want to give away all my secrets too easily. I do not want him to know the exact moment of my attack.
Look at those rushing waters I think, perhaps I can float my siege weapons down the river all the way to the sea? Fairhaven is a harbour after all. This idea has potential. I just need to find someone who knows about boats. Or ships. Whatever they are called.
But first - the Archon.
Hopefully I won’t have to punch her in the face. Again. My fist is ready, just in case.
Elizabeth lands some distance from Lowecroft, in a clatter of bones. We are in an isolated field. I hide the giant lizard skeleton in a ruined barn and then set off, the beastie drifting at my side.
The community of Lowecroft has been through a great deal in recent times. Always poor, always isolated, the village was first ravaged by an unattended wight (mostly my fault). Then it was rebuilt, only to have most of the place destroyed by Janvier’s army when they rode through on their way to Fairhaven (definitely not my fault).
The marks of this destruction are plain to see although it is being rebuilt. The surviving townspeople were happy to take in some of the human refugees from Fairhaven, and in so doing we entered a state of truce. The human inhabitants know who and what I am. I don’t go near them, and I provide them with materials and some measure of protection. If they have lingering resentments they keep quiet. A few of them worship me at the altar over the gorge, along with the forest peasants. This is just embarrassing but I do enjoy the gifts.
The fields I tread lie fallow. They are covered half in snow half in mud, waiting for spring. I can see the Lowecroft church now, rising up on a small hill, above the village proper. I approach with caution. It is nearly dusk, and twilight washes the ground with tarnished silver. Mist spools in wreaths, creeping along the ground. Fitful. Like a suspicious lich.
My original plan was just to walk right on in but now I’m not so sure. My instincts are screaming at me, my steel clad shoulder blades twitching as if someone is aiming an arrow at my back. Where are all the people? Everyone seems to have gone to bed early. Time to be stealthy.
I circle around the village, taking great care not to be seen. The beastie drifts after me in a flutter of lace and black tulle. At the bottom of the hill my eye is caught by a shining glint of metal, sparkling between leaves. A knight is hidden in a stout evergreen. A knight or a paladin? I cannot tell, I can only see that it is a man in steel plate. Why oh why are there shiny ruffians hidden in the shrubbery?
I was right, the Archon has a problem with me. What an unforgiving wretch. What should I do? I do not want to break the truce, not when I am about to march to war. But I do not want to saunter into what I am increasingly convinced is a trap. Perhaps some subtly is called for.
“Bestie,” I whisper. “Time for dinner!”
Together we stalk the knights with glee. They think they are well hidden but really it is very difficult to be discreet in full armour. That is why I myself only wear light pauldrons, cuirass and helm. They are secreted around the church, facing that way, and well spaced out. It takes a long time, but it is simple enough to sneak up behind each one, and let the Beastie sup on the contents of what I will generously call brains.
After an hour the beastie is bursting at the seams and the knights are all taking naps. They won’t suffer long term damage, just wait up a little dazed and confused. No one will even notice the difference. Most importantly they won’t be taking part in any conceived ambushes, thank you very much.
When I am sure I have got them all I march up the stone stairs and throw open the church doors.
The Archon is waiting for me. Resplendent in sumptuous robes of cream and gold, she stands on a raised bier. A rather magnificent sword is strapped at her side. A winged helmet glitters gold on her head. Friar Julian and Sister Lorelei stand to either side. Four paladins line the walls, and six acolytes stand behind them. Everyone shifts uneasily as I enter.
“Archon,” I say.
“Lady Lich,” she sniffs. Her eye is no longer purple, I note, repressing a grin. “You are late.”
“My apologies,” I say. “I had something urgent to attend too.”
“Who is that?” She points to the beastie. Its veil is in danger of coming loose, so much has it feasted. It is still expanding. I give it a discreet tug.
“My lady in waiting. Who are they?”
I point to the row of acolytes perched on the altar like a row of smug vultures.
“Observers,” the Archon says, smiling with her teeth only.
Sister Lorelei titters. A nervous sound that does nothing to break the tension.
“Hello, Sister,” I say, inclining my head. “Friar.”
Friar Julian nods, his face grim.
“Can we get on with it?” I say. “I am rather busy at the moment, you know, I have a war to prepare, cities to siege et cetera et cetera.”
“Of course,” she says. “It is a simple matter.”
Her hand is resting on that golden hilt. Runes glitter beneath her fingers, bathing them in gold. The acolytes pull out silver hand bells. Six acolytes, six bells. The paladins lift their crossbows, all of them aimed at my heart.
“You would break the truce?” I say, mildly.
“You broke it,” hisses the Archon. She draws her golden sword. Flames ripple along the blade, so bright it is almost incandescent. Cinders shimmer at her shoulders. “You broke it attacking the Knights of the New Dawn! Innocent men travelling the King’s Road on their way to Barrowmere to join our order!”
Bollocks.
I should have left those knights alone. Or rather, I should have made sure I left no evidence. Too late to regret now.
The six silver bells ring out in unison.
The sound shimmers through the air in a visible wave, momentarily striking me senseless. If I speak now my words will have no meaning. No soul theft, no icy tempest. That is fine but they forget that my first instinct is always to use my axe. Or my fists.
The Archon steps forward, her eyes alight. The paladin’s fingers squeeze their triggers. Time seems to slow, as I focus every ounce of my concentration on surviving the next few moments.
I grab the Archon bodily and spin her around, so her chest is between me and the archers.
A nice meat shield indeed. As I suspected, the archers are too slow to react. The arrows fly through the air, straight for the Archon’s heart. The Archon screams something, but I am holding her arms pinned to her side.
I wait for the impact but it never comes.
The world is washed with cerulean light. The screams muffle, and grow distant, as though my ears are full of cotton wool. My skin prickles. Time grinds to a halt, in actuality this time, not just perception. The paladin’s arrows are hovering in mid air. No, not hovering. Moving, but moving so slowly as to be almost imperceptible.
A blur of blue clouds my vision. Friar Julian is there in front of my face. He looks angry.
“Eat her memories,” he snarls, “by all means. But do you really think you can erase the memory of the Bright One’s high priestess from every cleric and every peasant in the land? Think, Lady Lich! Think!”
“What?” I say, startled.
In my grasp, the Archon kicks at me. In real time the motion would likely be lightning fast. Here her leg rises majestically, gracefully. Her robes ripple like waves across golden shores. I feel her chest constrict as her lips part. Firefly embers start to burn my hands.
On the altar, the acolytes’ eyes are wide and staring, their arms raising with infinite slowness to chime out their bells. My eyes on Friar Julian I clamp a hand over the Archon’s mouth.
“How do you-”
“I too have read the bones,” the Wavewalker cleric says, stepping forward. His voice is low and urgent. “You are not the only one who practises divination, Lady Lich! My Order invented divination! I know what is coming. For whatever reason-”
His jaw tenses, and he leaves the sentence unfinished. My knuckles tighten on the Archon’s face and she groans. I need to end this.
The archers are moving, but slowly, languidly, as if they are moving in deep, deep water. Their arrows rise afresh, the iron tips gleaming.
“What do you get out of this intervention?” I ask.
“The gratitude of my god,” he says. “And the knowledge that I am serving the greater good.”
“You know I will take your memories as well?”
The beastie is moving into position behind him, shy tendrils creeping up to his head.
He smiles. “I will happily serve the dead god reborn,” he says.
“What?” I say, “Wait!”
But it is too late. The beastie’s tentacles are latching onto his head. There is a sucking motion and the Friar drops to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head.
The chaos of reality reasserts itself.
“Go on!” I yell to the Beastie. “Eat their brains! I mean their memories! Not their brains! Go on, I give you permission!”
Lorelei screams. The Archon kicks. The acolyte’s bells ring once more but they have no effect on the beastie. Instead it gives a shudder of delight.
To the paladin's horror and alarm, my lady in waiting rushes at them. Tendrils explode from under her skirts to pull the first man into a loving embrace.
“Not the eyes!” I shout. “I’ll find you some other eyes, later I promise.”
The Archon bites my hand, and I knock her unconscious with the haft of my axe. Twirling, I avoid the swift fall of a paladin’s blade, and duck to avoid an exploding fireball.
I distract the fighters, using every trick at my disposal.
The beastie moves on, in a frenzied orgy of memory feeding. Clerics drop, one after the other. The acolyte’s ring their bells frantically but to no avail. Sister Lorelei’s buttercup yellow form is the last to fall.
I stand alone in the church with the floating beastie. It has popped out of its dress and is now the size of a small cart. Its chinintous shell gleams deadly black.
I look around at the dazed bodies. They should be fine. They will wake up and forget why they came here, and then they will go home and leave me in peace. I mean, obviously this won’t last long, but it will hopefully buy me time to sort Janvier out. Hopefully.
I stoop to pick up the Archon’s golden sword.
“Ow!” The hilt hurts my hand.
After I wrap a piece of material around it, it becomes tolerable. The weapon swooshes through the air when I wave it, leaving a trail of sparks. How pretty! Like fireflies in a summer evening meadow. A nice trophy, although I’m not sure if I will actually use it. It doesn’t have the same charm as my axe. On the other hand my axe does not glow in the dark.
I turn my head sharply at the sound of a whimpering noise from behind the altar.
The sweating head of the local priests ducks out of sight.
“You saw nothing,” I call.
“I didn’t see anything!” he yells back, his voice cracking. “Nothing at all!”
“You missed one,” I whisper to the beastie.
It flies over. There is no mistaking now. The beastie is not floating or bobbing. It is flying. Vertically. Tentacles extended, it grasps forward in wriggling anticipation.
There is a brief scream, and then silence.
“Not the eyes!” I warn. “Not the eyes! That’s right! Put him down! Gently! Good Beastie. Come on, I’ll find you some juicy eyeballs on the way home.”
