reach the top soon enough.
She looked at the old mortar, then at the loose stone perched on the battlement and realised she still had a weapon left to her.
Caewen charged at the battlement wall, thudded into it and achieved nothing more than a hurt shoulder. She tried this again, and pain jolted through her whole body. Seeing that brute force would not help her, Caewen looked about, saw a stout, dead branch and grabbed it. She jammed one end under the rock she’d been trying to dislodge and put her full weight into the lever. It did not shift at first, then there was a scrape of rock, a groaning creak of the branch, and the sudden sensation of the weight giving way. When Caewen looked up she found that the rock was gone. She peered over the battlement. On the ground, far below, was a shadowy shape, struggling and twitching, and on top of it a sizeable piece of stone.
The goule kept up its wailing, more plaintive now, more desperate, as Caewen climbed down the wall. She paused above it, looked into its eyes, but saw nothing there but hate and pain. She found her sword and brought it down on the goule’s neck, once, twice and then on the third stroke the flesh came away easily, like a dead flowerstalk. It was as if there were no bones at all. The body withered and the goule become nothing more than a mound of greasy ashes. The only things that remained were a heap of the shadowy rags and the crown of bone, which had fallen from the goule’s head, rolled and arrived at Caewen’s feet, coming to a stop with a rattle.
She considered the crown and thought how it was rather peculiar how it rolled right to her feet, especially given she was uphill of the goule.
Given that it had rolled some way.
Given that it now seemed to be singing.
Dapplegrim was still yelling as Caewen picked up the crown. Where her fingers touched the crown, the skin itched and while she held it, she felt as if her head were underwater. All sound except for the low and wordless voice of the crown was suffocated.
Fingers trembling, Caewen set the crown down on the nearest stone. The was the rock that the goule had been crushed beneath. Its ashes blew about her boots.
"Are you all right?"
"Sorry?"
"You’re pale. Shivering. You properly took care of that goule creature. Good work. Pity there’s no blood to drink, but I suppose we can’t have everything can we. What are you doing? You’re not… surely you’re not going to call him… not before you’ve had a look at the treasure and picked out a few nice bobbins and buttons? Oh, and, we need to make a plan about how to kill him. He still doesn't know anything about me and maybe we could encourage the Whist to murder him. You are their hero after all and if you call him-"
"Call Mannagarm. Yes. I am," and she was. Caewen had already raised the wood-pipe to her lips, she took a breath, and blew. She’d expected something magical or weird or thunderous—the sort of sound that charmed pipes ought to make. But the sound was merely the off-key bleat of an everyday woodwind.
Caewen sat down.
Dapplegrim looked at her askance. "Why? The sorcerer will be coming now, and sorcerers are swift, swifter than you might think. We don't have much time for plans now."
"He’d murder my family if he thought I’d stolen a half-chewed piece of copper from these..." and she gestured at the little piles of trinkets, "...treasures. Do you think you could kill him from behind? If I distracted him?" The place where Mannagarm had put the mark on her forehead burned furiously. His magic ward was still alive and it was reminding her not to do anything to harm him.
"Maybe. I doubt it," said Dapplegrim. "He’d know and then he’d make short work of us both. Mannagarm is not powerful as sorcerers go, but powerful enough."
"That’s alright. Don't do anything when the sorcerer comes. I have a plan but I'm not sure if it will work and if it doesn't you should get away. Be free."
They waited. The Wisht-Folk had withdrawn during the fight and did not return, though from time to time Caewen thought she saw some shapes under the trees watching the two of them. But she was not certain.
All this time the crown sung its soft song to her.
"Can you hear that?" asked Caewen after it had started to drive her to distraction. It was calling to her. Begging her. Pleading with her. Pick me up, the song sang. Take me for your own. Take power unto your flesh.
"Hear what?" said Dapplegrim.
"Nothing. Don't worry."
Time enough passed for Caewen to catch her breath. She even started to feel cold as her sweat cooled to a sheen of moisture. Then, a shadow passed overhead, wheeled and swooped over the ruin. It was an eagle of monumental size, easily the height of a man with gold-brown feathers and hooked claws. It alighted on a rock. There was a ruffling noise, a split formed down its front, some blood beaded and spread into a cobwebby red pattern. The line tore and Mannagarm emerged from within the eagle, he was covered with blood. Of the eagle, nothing remained except for a feather cloak that Mannagarm wore around his shoulders. Except for the tricklings of blood, the cloak and his necklace of bird skulls he was naked. Caewen could see that the ritual tattooing and scars continued across his whole body, even onto his male member which was small and just as withered as Mannagarm had intimated days ago in his house.
"Well," he said, "well, you have done well. Rather very well. Much better than I expected," he added with a curl of the lips and a hiss. "I had thought of some plans for you should you fail me—but in truth I had not considered what to really do should you succeed. I confess, I didn’t think it likely." He smiled greedily as he looked over the dirty heaps of gold, the greasy gems, the tarnished silver.
Dapplegrim remained silent and was looking for the meantime as horselike as he could, standing as far from Mannagarm as was reasonable. Caewen hoped he remained that way. She glanced at him and thought, don’t do anything foolish... just wait...
Mannagarm scooped up a handful of soil, gold and gemstones, then at last noticed the bone crown. He stopped. His eyes widened and he licked his lower lip, unconsciously, as if hungry.
"That is a thing of great power. A relic out of the dim ages of bygone gods. I can hear the rhymes of dead sorcerers in it. Bring it to me. At once."
Caewen picked up the crown as he asked, and took a step towards him. As she did so the rune on her forehead began to hurt. At first it was dull, but it grew in intensity, until it was blinding and Caewen had to clench her jaw and force herself to take another small step. The rune knew she was planning ill for the sorcerer, but Mannagarm didn't. He was too fixated on the crown. He reached for it and the rune burned Caewen like her forehead was on fire. He took the crown, lifted it to his head and put it on. There was a sudden fire in his eyes. At first he was delighted, overjoyed with the rushing power. And then his eyes widened as the spells and charms rose up and bound themselves around his flesh. It was only then that he understood, perhaps.
His screaming went on a long time.
Caewen and Dapplegrim both backed away. Caewen half-expected Mannagarm to change all at once—she watched for his skin to turn to pallid greys, his mouth to drip with fire or his fingers to gnarl and curve. But nothing so exciting happened. Mannagarm scratched, pulled and scraped at his scalp in an attempt to rid himself of the crown, but it was no use. The cloak of brown feathers came off during his struggles, leaving Mannagarm completely naked. In time he gave up even just trying to remove the crown, and he stood motionless except for the occasional passing shiver and the hiss of air coming and going from his lungs.
"How curious. We will tell the Queen of this little trick. She will be intrigued and diverted."
Caewen looked over to see Lord Edualmar. His face had a silvery glow to it again, his eyes were dancing with the bright grey twilight. The ointment in her eyes must have run and rubbed. She was beginning to see the illusions again and not the truth.
"You’re not unhappy?"
"No," said Edualmar, "No, not at all. You’d have made only a thin and petty sort of goule. We’d have needed to call for another mortal to slay you and take your place in far too short a time?
??but a goule born of a warlock—even a weak mortal warlock such as this one—such a creature is a thing of power. This goule will guard our walls for an age of the turning of the world. We are pleased."
"Then we may go?"
"Oh, yes, indeed you must go. No mortal is permitted to linger in our realm. We are pleased with you for now... but our pleasure is a thin thing, easily worn through."
She firmed her shoulders and said, "You promised me the goule’s treasure."
Lord Edualmar looked left and right, perhaps thinking one of the other Wisht who where a way off behind him might raise an objection but none was forthcoming.
"The baubles can be replaced. Take what you can carry, then go." He pointed at Mannagarm. "You, Thrall-of-the-Crown, to your den with you. Watch the road. Kill any trespassers who approach. Go now."
Mannagarm—the crowned goule—obeyed, first clambering up an escarpment, then perching himself on top of a ruined wall like some madman who thinks himself a watchdog.
Caewen didn’t argue with the Wisht lord. She worked quickly to tie Mannagarm’s feather cloak into a rough pouch and then filled it with gold and silver, and then she filled the sacking that hung from Dapplegrim’s saddle with as much as it could hold too. There was no time to pick through the filth and refuse so she took as much pebbles and chewed bones as gems and pearls—she could sort