The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2

by Sam Bowring

  Rostigan nodded. ‘I am proud of her.’

  Tarzi attempted an indifferent shrug, but it was obvious she was pleased.

  ‘Both of you were very valiant,’ put in Loppolo from the head of the table, as he ran his thumb squeakily around the rim of a wine glass. ‘Althala honours you. We should have a feast to celebrate …’

  ‘No,’ said Yalenna. ‘We cannot hold a feast to celebrate every last little thing.’ She immediately realised her words were poorly chosen, diminishing what Jandryn and Tarzi had been through.

  ‘Apologies, Priestess,’ said Jandryn curtly, ‘but someone had to attend to the wellbeing of the people while you two were off on your mysterious business. Even if it means so little to you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’ Yalenna sighed. Curse Loppolo for making her snap. ‘I simply meant there is much to do, and we cannot stop and roast a pig whenever something goes our way.’

  ‘I just thought,’ wheedled Loppolo, ‘that a feast might raise morale, if the worms have damaged it.’

  ‘The worms are gone,’ growled Yalenna, ‘and you are only thinking of your own fat belly, so don’t pretend otherwise.’

  ‘Yalenna,’ murmured Rostigan quietly, and she reined herself in.

  Jandryn caught the exchange, and his mood visibly darkened. He did not understand, of course, why Rostigan commanded her restraint, or spoke to her in such a familiar way. If only she could tell him how far back their relationship went – yet Rostigan had sworn her to secrecy, for the sake of his own lover, and it was angering hers.

  It was not exactly fair.

  She was certain that another of Jandryn’s unspoken complaints was that she had ‘chosen’, once again, to ‘transport’ Rostigan with her on a dangerous task instead of him. She wished she could explain that she could not actually take anyone else, and it was only because Rostigan was really a Warden that he was able to accompany her.

  ‘So,’ said Jandryn, ‘now that we’ve told you of our day, perhaps you’d care to share yours? Were you off on Despirrow’s trail again, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ said Rostigan.

  That seemed to be the end of what he was willing to contribute, which did nothing to improve Yalenna’s private annoyance with him. Sighing, she spread her hands on the table and began to explain where they had gone, and what they had done. She left out the parts where Rostigan had done any threading, of course, so it sounded very much like he’d had no reason to be there beyond watching her back – which was, of course, exactly what Jandryn had offered to do. She almost wished the captain would direct his dark look to her instead of at the tabletop, though she wasn’t sure what expression she could answer it with to magically mollify him.

  As for the actual result of their endeavours, at least Loppolo was excited.

  ‘So the silkjaws are finished?’ he said brightly. ‘For good?’

  ‘Not finished. There are still plenty of them in the mountains, but their numbers will not grow, or replenish.’

  ‘As for Mergan, that is terrible news. Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘I know my teacher when I see him, thank you.’

  ‘But he works against us?’ Loppolo pressed.

  Yalenna frowned. She had not yet worked out what was going on with Mergan, and it was difficult to think about. He was so full of malice towards her, when all she wanted was their old affinity.

  There came a rap on the doorway, and a young threader stood there, her cheeks rosy as if she had been running.

  ‘Ah, this is Kalia,’ said Loppolo. ‘One of our finest messengers, Priestess, if you have not already met.’

  His tone seemed to faintly imply some ignorance on Yalenna’s behalf, which she ignored. Instead she spoke directly to the girl.

  ‘You have received something?’

  Kalia nodded, but glanced at the king – to everyone else, that’s what he still was, and thus it was his permission she sought to speak.

  Loppolo gave a wave. ‘Don’t just stand there, girl, tell us what it is.’

  ‘A message from the Peaks, lord. From the Spire.’

  Now she had everyone’s undivided attention.

  ‘Tell us,’ said Rostigan, ‘the exact words.’

  Kalia nodded, and began to recite. ‘From S. Restored. Trapped on roof. Wound took threads. No choice given. Unwoven think M is Regret. F killed D.’

  The information in the scant words came at Yalenna from different directions. Furiously she tried to make sense of it all, sorting through the thoughts. Despirrow dead was good news, but the rest almost eclipsed it. Salarkis restored could only mean he was his human self again. How could that be? The Wound, he said. Was ridding the Wardens of their stolen threads really as simple as returning to the Spire? If indeed such a thing could be called simple – for one, Forger, or his threads at least, would have to go as well.

  ‘Why would Forger kill Despirrow?’ asked Tarzi.

  ‘For his threads,’ muttered Rostigan absently.

  ‘What?’

  He glanced at her, waking up. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Yalenna hardly registered the exchange. The words about Mergan were beginning to filter through, and she almost dared not examine them. Troubled and dangerous as he had become, she had not realised the full extent of it, or how absolutely he stood against them. Against her.

  ‘What does it all mean?’ said Loppolo.

  ‘It means,’ said Rostigan gravely, ‘that to set the world right, the Wardens must return to the Spire, through an army of Unwoven commanded by a madman pretending to be the Lord Regret.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Loppolo.

  Salarkis huddled under the stone table, trying to keep warm and forget his rumbling stomach. Up this high the nights were cold, and he wondered how many more of them he would have to endure.

  ‘Salarkis!’

  The voice up the stairs made him start.

  ‘Mergan?’ Thirst made his voice croak. ‘Is that you?’

  He worried for a moment that Mergan had found out about the message – but surely not, for if he had seen it, he would have stopped it.

  A sack landed at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What’s that?’ called Salarkis.

  ‘Look inside.’

  Carefully Salarkis stepped around the sack. He could not spot any unusual patterns, though that did not mean that it was safe. Pointing the mouth of it away, lest some strange mechanism hurl knives out at him, he let it fall open.

  Nothing happened.

  Curiousity got the better of him and he looked inside.

  Bread. Biscuits. A carrot. A little dried meat. A water skin.

  He drew the food out and laid it on the sack. Was it poisoned?

  ‘Why have you given me this?’

  Mergan did not immediately answer.

  ‘Mergan?’

  ‘Because,’ replied Mergan, ‘nobody deserves to starve to death. I know that better than anyone.’

  A moment later his departing footsteps sounded.

  ‘Wait!’ called Salarkis. ‘Talk to me, please. What do you plan? What happened in the mountains today?’

  ‘Throw the sack down when you’re done,’ came Mergan’s fading shout, ‘or you won’t get another. I won’t have you threading a hessian rope into the Peaks.’

  ‘Wait …’

  It was no use. Mergan had gone.

  Sighing, Salarkis considered the food. The sight of it made his mouth water, or try to anyway.

  Well, he thought, if I don’t eat, I’ll die anyway. So …

  He took a few tentative bites of different things, and a small sip of water, then gave it a little time. No pain seized him, however, and no swimming vision clouded his eyes. After a while he decided it was safe to eat. He drank the water carefully, lest he spill any, then set to work slowly and methodically on the rest, chewing for longer than was necessary and trying not to waste any crumbs. It was not like he had anything else to do but enjoy the meal as best he could.

  Still, it was gone all t
oo soon.

  ‘Thanks, old friend,’ he said, resignedly throwing the sack back down the stairs.

  He curled up to try to get some sleep on the hard rock.

  ANDER

  Forger awoke to his tent growing lighter, and knew that morning was upon him. He sat up covered with a sheen of sweat, and kicked off a rug that had been scratching at him.

  ‘I have suffered your torments too long, rug!’ he told it.

  How exciting – today was the day! Today he would storm Ander.

  There was a girl here, he remembered, at about the same time as he saw her lying beside him – the daughter of one of the nobles he had taken all fear from. Had she thought to curry favour with him, or was she was just attracted to power? Who knew? Who cared? But now she was awake and looking at him.

  ‘Good morning, my lord.’

  ‘Good morning, Calasendra,’ he said cheerfully.

  The previous night she had reminded him that there was pleasure to be taken from life which did not involve anyone else’s pain. It wasn’t as sharply felt, perhaps, but had been enjoyable nonetheless.

  ‘As a reward for your vigour and enthusiasm,’ he said, ‘I will never steep you in fiery agony for the rest of your short and pathetic existence.’

  Probably best not to punish women who willingly sort out his bed, he reasoned.

  ‘Thank you, lord,’ she said.

  Forger rose, pulled up his leather loincloth, strapped on his haphazard webbing of patches and walked outside. His army camped on a rise that had been home to a few farmers and such, but who had, of course, predictably fled. He was pleased by the sight of his soldiers – they were very efficient, their rows of grey tents laid out to each side of him in orderly lines. Already captains were striding about barking orders, rousing soldiers, overseeing the preparation of equipment and horses, and generally doing all the things that Forger imagined went into organising a group of this size, but that he couldn’t be bothered taking any interest in. It was all a bit of a wonderful mystery, and he marvelled that it happened in spite of him.

  At the base of the rise, about half a league across flat fields, stood Ander. It was a beautiful place, the yellow stone of its outer walls shining in the morning sun, its great castle a multi-pronged silhouette rising from the heart of the city. Other buildings made up a jagged skyline, for it was a place of heights, famous for its audacious architecture. Polished tiles gleamed from roofs in coloured streaks, a visual cacophony that somehow worked, uniform in its diversity.

  It was a fitting jewel in the crown of any conqueror.

  It had been Karrak’s, in fact.

  If Forger’s friend was anywhere, it should have been here … either restored to the throne, or taking it back with Forger’s help. In his absence Forger felt a little guilty, as if he eyed off another man’s wife. Part of him dared to wonder if he would find Karrak here, but in his heart he knew it unlikely. Karrak was off with Yalenna, for some reason, or so he had been told, and thinking about it made his brain hurt. Forger’s commander – the one he passed orders through now that Threver was dead – had told him the king who now ruled Ander was from some other bloodline entirely.

  ‘I shall reclaim the city on your behalf, brother,’ Forger muttered to himself. ‘Even if you won’t.’ He glanced around for the commander, spied him talking to some of the other higher-ups, and strode over with a toothy grin. ‘Hello everyone,’ he said. ‘Lovely day, eh? Commander Balen, are we ready to break down walls in the name of Tallahow?’

  Balen – a tall, handsome man with closely shaved brown hair – nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. The catapults caught us up in the night and are being made ready as we speak.’

  ‘Very good. They are quite slow and cumbersome though, aren’t they? I may prove too impatient.’

  He reached a hand towards Ander, streaming out his influence. At this distance it was a stretch, yet he had grown so strong that he probably couldn’t take on any further power, and figured he may as well use some of it up before earning more. As he worked his way into the distant wall, other influences tried to turn him out – the enemy threaders were ready, it seemed, and no doubt Ander considered itself prepared. He pushed through them like a snake through reeds, collecting up the wall’s threads from base to top and, when he had a firm hold, wrenched them towards him. Distant cries sounded as a great rent ripped down the wall, bricks and bodies tumbling to earth.

  Balen and the other officers were dumbfounded – Forger had taken their fear, but it seemed they could still be impressed!

  ‘My lord,’ breathed Balen, ‘we did not need to bring the catapults at all!’

  ‘It’s good that we have them,’ Forger assured him. ‘Large boulder-hurling devices may still come in useful. I can’t be expected to do all the work, can I?’

  ‘Of course not, lord.’

  ‘Good. Well, get everyone on the march. Ander’s threaders will no doubt be rushing to repair their pitiful defence, and I hate having to repeat myself.’

  ‘As you command!’

  Balen set about rallying the troops, and Forger gave a happy clap of his hands.

  ‘This is going to be fun!’

  Forger remained in high spirits as he strode down the hill in the midst of his soldiers, who assembled along an invisible line just out of the city’s arrowshot. Anderans were collecting to defend the breach with blades bristling.

  Well, he thought, if one hole sends them into a frenzy, let’s see about two!

  He reached again, this time towards one of the towers that bookended the wall, which no doubt housed many archers. As his influence touched it, he felt a swarm of smaller ones focusing on him, collectively prising open his grip to stop him taking hold of the structure’s pattern. He growled and concentrated, and the tower rumbled slightly, but ultimately he was deflected.

  Must have caught them by surprise last time.

  It vexed him, being bested, but everyone had their limits.

  ‘They will have archers in those towers, lord,’ said Balen, sitting at Forger’s eye level astride his horse. ‘I wonder if you could puncture them as you did the wall?’

  Forger glanced at him irritably. ‘We might need those catapults after all,’ he said.

  The catapults were trailing behind, however, and ammunition carts full of large rocks were even slower.

  ‘What are your orders sir?’ said Balen. ‘Shall we charge the breach? Our threaders will be able to deflect some of the arrows, and once we’re inside, their archers will be less effective.’

  Forger ran his tongue along his teeth. He had never been a brilliant strategist, for that had been Karrak’s area.

  In fact, once a battle actually started, Forger’s habit was to wander around doing whatever he damn well liked.

  ‘Is that what you recommend, commander?’

  At the breach, enemy threaders were floating fallen rocks back into place in an effort to rebuild the wall.

  ‘They will repair that rent before our catapults get in position,’ Balen said. ‘Then we’ll have to start all over. Yes, I think we should go now.’

  Forger eyed his commander warily. Sometimes, when he took the fear from people, they grew reckless.

  ‘Is that what you always would have said, commander?’ he asked. ‘Before I ridded you of weakness?’

  Balen frowned. ‘I believe so, lord. They will fell some of us before we get there, but we have the numbers on them. Once we’re inside, Ander will fall.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Forger. ‘I shall assist in holding back their projectiles. I shall speak to our people first, then they are yours to do with as you will.’

  Balen nodded.

  ‘Soldiers of Tallahow!’ Forger called, moving out before the troops. ‘Are you prepared for glory?’

  He wasn’t too comfortable addressing them all like this, for he understood people did not always think like him, but he also knew it was a lordly thing to do. He tried to imagine what his soldiers might want to get from all this. ‘For too long
Ander has tickled our borders, basking in the sun while we labour in the cold shadow of the mountains. Well, today, they shall pay for their arrogance!

  I do not expect you, however, to do this simply because it is right – I thereby give you leave to sack and pillage as you see fit! Bring home their riches to your families! Raid their larders, take their choicest spices! Anything you want is yours!’

  Greed glimmered along rows of eyes and the soldiers cheered.

  A single arrow flew out of one of the towers in the distance. It had no hope of reaching Forger, and was maybe a misfire, or an optimist hoping he could end things right there. Forger turned to watch as it sunk into the grass some fifty paces away from him, then threw back his head and roared laughter. His soldiers laughed too, a rolling cascade in answer to the impotent action.

  ‘Commander Balen!’ Forger called. ‘Lead the way!’

  Balen urged his horse out next to Forger and raised his sword high.

  ‘For Tallahow!’ he shouted. ‘Follow me!’

  He wheeled and charged, and the army surged after him. Nobles rode with their armed entourages, mixed in with streams of foot soldiers and galloping horses. Forger let them surround him before moving onwards – he was not immune himself to the multitudes of arrows that sprang from the duel towers at their approach. For every one that threaders turned aside, five more came a-whizzing. The Anderans released their own catapults, and several boulders rose into the air. Forger reached for one and broke it apart into smaller rocks, which still proved deadly when they landed. He was too slow to affect the others – a couple were dealt with by other Tallahowan threaders, but three or four slammed freely into groups of running soldiers, leaving pulpy paths in their wake.

  With shields raised, the army funnelled towards the breach. Soldiers screamed and fell, for there were plenty in their number still able to feel pain. Among those who Forger had robbed of the ability, he saw a lord take an arrow in the upper arm. The man, who looked like he’d done nothing his whole life but lie on a couch eating grapes, wrenched the arrow free.