Lich Hunt: Liches Get Stitches Book 4, page 1
This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, certain characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Lich Hunt
(Liches Get Stitches 4)
Cover Art by Baconstrap
Cover Design by Rebecacovers
Editing by Naomi Espinosa
Copyright © 2023 HJ Tolson
All rights reserved.
hjtolson.com
Other Books by HJ Tolson:
Liches Get Stitches
Liching Hour
Lich, Please
Twilight Kingdom
LICH HUNT
(LICHES GET STITCHES 4)
HJ Tolson
This book is dedicated to Naomi.
Thank you for being such an awesome friend.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: A Surprise Visit
Chapter 2: An Introvert’s Guide To Being An Undead Queen
Chapter 3: A Court of Seagulls and Steeking
Chapter 4: Silver Linings II
Chapter 5: An Eye For An Eye
Chapter 6: Home Is Where the Heart Is (Buried)
Chapter 7: You Spin Me Right Round
Chapter 8: Ezekiel Cried Dem Dry Bones
Chapter 9: A Bargain
Chapter 10: Beware of Doors II
Chapter 11: A Material Ghoul
Chapter 12: Goblin Market
Chapter 13: The Consequences of Falsehood
Chapter 14: Revels
Chapter 15: The Perfect Dress For Murder
Chapter 16: Ten Handsome Men, Five Blood Crazed Mimics, Two Cursed Frogs and a Beehive in an Oak Tree
Chapter 17: Queen of Thorns
Chapter 18: Forest of Whispers
Chapter 19: An Old Battle Axe
Chapter 20: The Liching of Jenkins Greenleaf
Chapter 21: Liches Get Scritches
Chapter 22: Musings on the Nature of Life and Death by a Friendly Oak Tree
Chapter 23: Ships and Shoes and Jellyfish and Cabbages and Queens
Chapter 24: Knit One, Gurl Two
Chapter 25: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Liches
Chapter 26: Silver Linings III
Chapter 27: Lime, Custard, Bones
Chapter 28: Troll For Initiative
Chapter 29: A Lich In Shining Armour
Chapter 30: Fluttering Lacy Lich Bloomers
Chapter 31: A Dark Place
Chapter 32: Hare Moon
Chapter 33: Caelestis
Chapter 34: Dancing Through Each Other
Chapter 35: Ripples Crossing and Fusing
Epilogue: Zephyr, the Quellac Isles
Afterword and Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
A Surprise Visit
I stand atop the icy ruins of Fairhaven and gaze out at my kingdom. My kingdom. Mine now, in name as well as in spirit. It is not much to look at, through no fault of its own. Janvier the icy-pantsed maniac lich king left behind him a great mess. Of course, wars are always messy, but the city of Fairhaven has been well and truly trashed. It will take some time to restore the capital of Einheath to its former glory, not to mention repopulate. Most of the buildings are still being dug out from their frozen tombs, and while the ice continues to melt, the process is slow.
My ermine cloak snaps in the wind behind me. A stiff breeze comes off the sea. While the air is still cold, it carries with it the promise of spring. I long to be at home in my garden, watching for the first green sprouts of the season. But alas. I am a newly crowned lich queen. I have responsibilities.
So far I have discovered that being queen is quite overrated as an occupation. Holding court is not as much fun as it sounds. Everyone keeps looking at me. Everyone expects me to solve their problems. The only part of the process that excites me is the wardrobe, but so far I have had precious little time to indulge myself. Before I can go on a sewing spree, I must resurrect my capital city from its icy tomb.
Fortunately Janvier, who is currently decorating the throne room of my home castle as a most elegant undead silver and bone chandelier, left behind him a great fortune. I am putting his stolen treasures to good use, funding the birth of my new kingdom. This feels fitting. I will make sure to tell Janvier about it the next time I am home, I’m sure he will enjoy listening in great detail to how I spent his gold on brick, and stone, and seed, and the odd bit of lace.
So far progress has been slow but steady.
My minions have been focusing on making parts of the city habitable for the humans who wish to return to their homes, but it has been gruelling work. It always seems to me greatly unfair how much longer it takes to build, when destruction can be done in an instant. A seamstress or carpenter is of infinitely more use than a trained killer, but what does society value more? The killer, every time. Once I have the realm firmly under my control, I will teach people how to properly view life.
It is gratifying to see how many people are returning. I am standing at the very top of the ruin of Castle Rock, where I have a good view of the devastation below. The old king’s seat of power at the top of the city bore the brunt of the violence and is now a sorry pile of stones, with blown out walls and wind whistling through its extremities. The lower half of the castle and the interior rooms are quite functional, with the exception of the eastern flank, where a wight dragon clawed its way up to the parapet, taking half the stones with it. The burial chambers in the hill are untouched. The gardens and greenhouses are destroyed, although I am in the process of liberating the souls of many of the plants whose remains still lay encased in the ice.
From this vantage point I can see streams of them queuing by the gates, wagons and carts lining the still icy streets. So far the humans seem to have accepted me as monarch. The tale of how I saved the city and defeated Janvier has spread far and wide. The fact that I am dead seems not to matter much. The peasants fall to their feet when I pass by, muttering prayers to the Whisperer or their own petty gods, and the remaining aristocracy are gratifyingly servile. For now anyway.
I am under no illusions, but I will take what I can get if it gives me some peace and quiet. I do wonder if the clerics will feel the same way? Obsequence might be too much to ask for there, the temples and I have long had our differences. However, I am prepared to extend our truce, if they accept my rule. I have no interest in a prolonged holy war. Playing with Janvier was nice enough, I suppose, but now I have more important things to be getting on with. Like gardening and looking after Jenkins. My cat is well overdue for some attention, the poor furball has been patched a dozen times by now, and I can see the state of his hide gives him distress.
“Lady Maud,” says Roland, jolting me from my reverie.
My head foreman and favourite minion sticks his own, freshly mended head around a ruined pillar.
“Yes, Roland, what is it?”
“A messenger came from the Temple at Barrowmere. The clerics request a meeting.”
“What? The Archon? And Friar Julian?” I ask, naming the clerics I have had dealings with before. The clerics with whom I have come to an understanding of sorts.
Roland looks solemn. “All of them, your ladyship.”
It seems I am destined to discover the feelings of the kingdom’s clerics sooner rather than later. A request sounds promising, assuming it was not delivered by way of flaming swords or burning effigies.
“Ahh. Thank you, Roland. If they want to meet, I shall tell them they can come here to Fairhaven, and do it in my throne room, as is proper.”
“Your throne room, my Lady?”
He looks around at the ruin of the old castle. What was once a throne room is now more sky than castle. Still, it has a certain atmosphere to it.
“Your Majesty,” I correct gently. Pausing, I examine the slender bones of my feet for a few moments. “If I am to be queen, I had better start right away.” I will start as I mean to go on. Respect and beautiful gowns, yes. Shoes, no. “We can fix it up.”
Roland nods, a little uncertainly.
“Of course, Your Majesty. You think they wish to continue the truce?”
“I certainly hope so. I will write them a letter.”
The meeting is arranged. Word is sent forth in a flurry of jasmine scented, pinecone and sparrow skull wrapped scrolls, emblazoned with black velvet ribbons. Somewhat to my surprise, the delegation agrees to meet me in the capital. An auspicious move.
I rush to prepare a suitable audience chamber.
It is important to create the right impression. How else can I negotiate from a position of power? My wights dig Janvier’s obsidian throne out of the wreckage, and haul it up to the top of the castle. The roof is long gone, but that is not really a problem. Some draugr trees and flowers improve the ambiance mightily, and make the whole set up bearable. Despite the devastation, I think there is a certain beauty to holding the audience atop the windswept spire.
Soon we are ready.
I hold court from the black throne, my legs neatly crossed at the ankles, with the great curved skeleton of the wight dragon framing me from behind. The throne is a little large, dwarfing me between its arms, but with a discreet cushion or two, and my largest pauldrons, I still manage to cut an imposing figure.
The clerics arrive. They file in, rows upon rows of clanking paladins, shivering, blue-robed Wave Wa
Eyes dart here and there, from the onyx pattern of the floor to the enormous dragon skull behind the throne. I spot the tattooed Friar Julian and the buttercup yellow-robed Sister Lorelei in the crowd, and wave in greeting. The Sister has her usual inane grin plastered across her face, while the Friar’s eyes are solemn. The Archon is there too. I wink. She does not respond. The line of her mouth could curdle milk, while I cannot help but smile at the memory of our first meeting.
What a fun bunch, and there are so many of them.
Alarm bells ring in my head, but being of a suspicious mind myself, I have prepared thoroughly for any acts of duplicity. There are wights and draugr hidden in every airy alcove, and a row of my void knights line the broken dais behind me. I couldn’t decide whether having my corrupted knights on display was too provocative, but decided if this arrangement is to work, the clerics must accept me for who I am: a lich. An undead queen. A glorious, well-dressed hedgewitch who has risen well beyond her station and will squash anyone who gets in her way.
The living, breathing leaders of my city stand on either side of my throne, stern-faced. All of them dressed in their finest, if hastily made, attire, and all of them armed to the teeth. As a united front, living and undead, we face the gods’ representatives of this realm.
The Friar, an Acolyte, and a resplendent sun paladin step forward.
I survey them with a carefully neutral face. The silver bell around the Acolyte’s head tickles, and I wince at the sound. It goes straight through my skull. She appears to be wearing a crown of brambles. It is an interesting conceit of the Blind Queen’s Acolytes: the higher the rank, the more they abase themselves. This one is barefoot and appears to be wearing a sack held together with bits of string. An important woman then.
The clerics incline their heads respectfully enough. I incline mine likewise but do not get up.
“Well?” I say. “Shall we be at each other’s throats or can we continue the truce? I would prefer the latter. I have better things to do.”
Diplomacy has never been my strong suit.
To my relief, the Friar smiles.
“Peace,” he says. “We would prefer peace.”
“Good.”
“Not so fast,” says the Acolyte. “We do not absolve you of your sins, lich. Of your evil.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“This is a truce only. A pact to heal the land.”
“If you do not attack me and mine,” I say, evenly. “I will not attack yours. Simple. I have always wished to live peacefully.”
“Uneasy are the Bright One’s servants,” booms the paladin. The sheen of his golden hair ripples as he throws it over his shoulder. His eyes turn to my row of sombre faced living advisors—Rachel, standing tall in her fire-mage robes despite the stick she needs to lean on, to the congregation of witches and alchemists behind her, to the beggar king, Dunwiddy, on my left. “But we note that you are honest in your ability to tolerate the living. This speaks in your favour.”
As if I need his favour. Pah. I try not to fantasise about twisting his neck from his shoulders and am lost briefly in a glorious fantasy of violence. When I come back to the present, the paladin continues to waffle, waving his arms dramatically, his voice rolling off the stones in a booming cadence. He talks about gods, about family, about peace and accords. I am listening, I really am. But now my eyes are transfixed by the ruined wall behind the group of clerics.
They cannot see it. Only those of us on the dais can.
Grains of sand are trickling from between the cracks in the walls.
Softly, softly they fall. Softly. What omen is this? The grains bounce on the ruined stones and settle in the crevices, falling dreamily as if time has slowed, as if time itself is a fleeting fancy. Is it another daydream? I need to concentrate, this truce is important. I wrench my eyes away, trying to concentrate on the words spoken by the pompous cleric, but I cannot.
The grains continue to drop. The trickle becomes a rustling torrent, a dry waterfall heaping itself on my floor, the noise more and more insistent. Why can’t they see it?
An oppressive weight settles itself on the chamber, at long last drowning out the paladin’s words. His booming baritone becomes a murmurous whisper. He clutches his throat in alarm, choking, but softly, the wrenching noise muted.
The Acolyte turns her face towards the sand, but this time her bell does not ring.
“Treachery!” she cries, or rather she tries to cry, but the words come out hoarse and quiet.
“It is not my doing,” I say, rising to my feet. And it is not.
The clerics lurch for their weapons, but they are frozen in place.
A bitter scent of grave and rot caresses my cheek. At the back of the ruined throne room a tear opens in the fabric of reality, an eye, a narrow, unblinking eye, and through it hisses a noxious wind as cold as the dead. Beyond, I catch glimpses of a bleak, dark desert. Sand continues to pour out of the portal, like it is being displaced from the other side. Shuddering steps rock my castle floors. Quiet, a vibration, but he is coming. More sand, more sand, and then an enormous onyx boot, followed by the giant figure of a man.
The Whisperer bends to step into my throne room and straightens to his full height, dark hooded face scraping the scudding clouds.
I fall to my knees, hands landing palm down in the scratchy sands.
The humans are frozen in terror.
His presence is crushing. Soft like torrential rain is soft, battering me from every side. Soft like the weight of the stars. It is hard to think. My thoughts are moths in a midnight hurricane, their wings ripped to shreds before I can even finish thinking them.
I stare up at the darkness radiating from him in suffocating waves, dampening all sound, suppressing all colour, leeching the light away. Wings flare at his back. There are images in those wings. Trickling tendrils of images, images of madness. To look is to despair. I tear my eyes away.
I look instead at the rusted silver hammer the size of a tree trunk, held casually over one gargantuan shoulder. There are runes there, creeping and crawling like insects over the tarnished metal. They swarm like fat, black carrion flies.
“I am displeased.”
The Whisperer squeezes an enormous fist. The clerics closest to him burst, crimson founts of mortal fragments, the walls sprayed and splattered with chunks of flesh. The flies stream through the air, cascading in buzzing torrents, making it hard to see.
A single, desperate silver eye bursts into being, blazing across the bramble haired Acolyte’s forehead. Light pours from it, a tiny light straining to pierce the swirl of darkness.
“The goddess protects us!” she cries. “In absentia lucis! Tenebrae vincunt!”
Her words pierce the spell.
More eyes appear, unfolding from smooth skin, gleaming atop each Acolytes’ forehead. The paladins glow through the joints of their armour, golden light flaring, but still, they struggle to break the god’s grip. The Acolyte stretches her arms, I can see the muscles straining, her teeth grinding, she manages to spread her hands wide.
More eyes bloom on her palms, reminding me uncomfortably of the grimoire.
The Whisperer turns to her.
She opens her mouth, to shout a spell, to shout—something—and vomits sand, doubling over to wretch the grains onto the ground. The Whisperer swings his hammer once, and she is gone. He swings once more, and another cleric is crushed, their remains splattering out from under the weight of the enormous hammer. Again, another cleric dies.
Again.
Again.
The floor runs thick with blood and bile. No screams though. No one can scream, every sound comes out a whispered breath. Sister Lorelei dies silently, her mouth stretched wide as the hammer descends, crushing her spine. The bright of her robes all that remains of her guileless smile.
“No!” I scream, starting forward. It comes out hoarse and shrill.
