by Sam Bowring
‘Don’t let another touch me!’ he roared at a threader who rode beside him, and broke the shaft across the man’s scalp. ‘I will last long enough to sink my sword into Anderan breast, by blood and flame!’
Anderan troops spanned the breach, but sheer velocity and determination carried the first Tallahowan riders smashing through their lines. Though they were mostly impaled on waiting swords, they did punch holes in the enemy defence big enough for others to spill through. Forger raked at the sides of the breach, sheering more stone away, widening it further for the stream of his minions. Moments later he was surging with them into the city proper, where an area of parkland lay between the wall and a line of buildings. Quickly the soldiers of Tallahow and Ander began to intersperse.
Archers in the towers continued to pelt arrows down at the Tallahowans still outside the city, while others moved over what remained of the wall to shoot at those past the breach, now having to be very exact about their targets. There were threaders on the wall too, some wielding torches from which they coaxed fiery streams, others simply reaching with their influences to trip and break, to seize hearts and burst organs. Forger felt one such influence on him, and followed it back up to a determined looking man gritting his teeth. He concentrated on those teeth, and a moment later tore them loose in a chunky spray of white and red. The threader fell to his knees, clutching his dripping mouth.
‘Return fire!’ shouted Balen, and Tallahowan archers and threaders took aim at those on the walls.
With Braston’s gift a part of him, Forger sensed an almighty wave of injustice rippling outwards from his army, into the larger, fainter patterns behind things, like a dark and ugly pulse. He and his troops were bloodthirsty invaders who had no right at all to be here, murdering folk for no crime greater than defending their city. What Forger had orchestrated was so wrong, such a pointless and aggressive violation, that it made him giddy with pleasure.
As more Tallahowans pushed inside the city through sheer force of numbers, the fighting edged back through the park, reaching the buildings and streets beyond. There, commoners were appearing, leaning out of windows to throw heavy objects, or running from houses to join the battle. For a moment, to Forger, sides didn’t matter – it was a grand communal effort to spill as much blood as possible, and they worked together as instruments in the same grisly symphony, sending a giant scream out into the universe. They were all really on the same side, even if they did not know it.
The thought was so funny, he had to pause for laughter.
After that, what he wanted was to move about attacking whoever he felt like in a fluid, stream-of-consciousness fashion, yet it seemed that a bit too much attention was being paid to him. Arrows flew at him constantly, and more and more influences came poking and prodding. He backed up under the eaves of a building, annoyed that his enjoyment was being so hampered. Those on the walls were the main problem, with their good view of everything, and he made up his mind to correct this. Bolting from cover, he flung aside random soldiers to open a path for himself through the fighting. He made for a heavy oak door at the base of one of the towers, reaching ahead to pull it from place, and ducked inside with arrows peppering his footprints.
Before him lay a curling stairwell lit by lanterns, and up he ran, meeting only a few poor soldiers along the way who presented him with little challenge. He came to an archway through which daylight streamed, and jogged out onto the wall. Reaching with his influence to seize the closest people, he began to hurl them off the edge. As they tumbled away screaming, others further on realised he was there. Attention turned to him once more, but now it was harder for his opponents to shoot or thread at him over each other’s heads, and they could only stand five or so wide across the wall. He strode forward making sweeping gestures that sent them cascading away to either side. Tall and alone, he now became a tempting target for those below! Arrows rose up at him, and even a sword was hurled.
‘For goodness sake!’ he spluttered. ‘You people won’t let me stroll about anywhere!’
An arrow smacked into his side. He was so large and muscular that it failed to sink in far enough to damage anything vital, but still, it was enough to put another dint in his mood. As the pain of it tremored through him he lost hold of his current targets, giving them time to let loose. He snapped his fingers at one arrow which flew towards his face, breaking a thread which kept it together, but as the shaft fell away, the arrowhead spun on and thwacked him flat on the brow. Another hit above his knee, and he stumbled with a grunt. More would shortly be headed his way, he knew, for he had seen them being aimed at him before his vision fuzzed. He had exposed himself stupidly, recklessly.
He had not wanted to use Despirrow’s power. He really hadn’t, had barely even thought about it. It suddenly seemed prudent, however.
No sooner had he had decided this, than the clamour of battle ceased.
Forger reached to his leg for the arrow protruding there. He took a deep breath, and yanked it out. The one in his side fell free of its own accord, and warmth drizzled from the wound.
He rose slowly, wincing at his hurts. Other arrows hung in the air nearby, pointing at him. The closest was barely a pace from where he stood.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that one would have missed me anyway, because I had already dropped.’
It wasn’t really much comfort.
He looked around, interested in the halted action. At the breach Tallahowans still poured in, shields held over their heads as archers fired down from the towers. Inside the walls, the parkland fighting was pretty broken up, the six or so Anderan catapults now abandoned islands in the fray. Some Tallahowans had already made it a block or so down the opulent streets of Ander – why had they rushed so far from the main conflict? Trying to loot already, their greed overriding their common sense? Their fear?
In the distance, Forger could see the castle, the sun appearing just over its shoulder. What was to stop him walking in there, finding the king, and appearing out of thin air to cut his head off before he even knew what was happening?
Nothing.
He went back into the tower, down the stairs and out onto the grass. He was limping a little due to his injury, but if anyone should be able to cope with pain, it was him. He picked his way through the fighting – quite perilous, for every blade stilled halfway through its journey was the sharpest it had ever been. Luckily, the grass itself was flattened for the most part, but he still had to tread carefully lest razor thin spikes slice up through his sandals.
He emerged onto safer, clearer streets. Picking up the pace, he found he could not help but reminisce a little as he went. These were ways he had walked with Karrak, taverns where they had drank too much, whorehouses they had snored in, markets they had strolled through taking bites from any piece of fruit they fancied and tossing the rest aside. Now the once-bustling streets were empty save for the occasional group of Anderans heading for the fight, or the odd fearful face staring from a window – the taverns were empty, the whorehouses boarded, and no one was selling any fruit.
Forger wasn’t sure he liked this power of Despirrow’s. A still and empty world did not suit him, and being alone with his own thoughts was not something he did well. Ever he yearned to move, see and do. He had a great zest for life, taking pleasure from moments as he could – but when the moment was stopped, what was left to take? When Despirrow had been the one doing the starting and stopping, Forger had found it very annoying, and being in control did little to assuage his impatience. If anything it was worse, for now the person he grew impatient with was himself!
He reached the castle. A yellow wall ran around it, a smaller version of that which encased the city, and through a towering half-closed door he moved into the courtyard. Here soldiers were everywhere, streaming from an internal barracks towards the castle gate, which it looked like others were preparing to close. The path under Forger’s feet, he noticed, was yellow too, and he wondered if the great quarries still lay to the north, and smiled at
the memory of slaves toiling, their backs straining as they hauled great blocks into the city. Oh, Ander owed Karrak, even if they would not admit it. Karrak had built Ander.
‘That might be exaggerating things a little,’ he said companionably, as if his friend was standing right there. ‘But you did fling up a thing or two which stands to this day, let that be said. My,’ he glanced around at the soldiers, ‘there must be as many of you here as at the wall! Is the king so stupid as to divide his forces in half?’
Or maybe – Forger frowned – maybe the king meant to make his real stand here? The castle was more defensible than the outer walls, quite the stronghold in fact. Arrow slots peppered the lower levels, and the bricks of the castle were unnaturally dense. Treated by threaders, he remembered, their patterns tightened and compacted, now difficult to affect.
The castle loomed above, brimming with balconies and spires, the tallest and fattest of its towers in the centre. Forger squinted upwards, wondering if the king was somewhere up there – and indeed, on a balcony high above, he saw a figure with a spark of gold about his brow.
Forger went into the castle, passing guards manning gears that would lower the gate. As he made his way into the upper levels, he found the halls as full of wealth and colour as he remembered. Paintings and tapestries hung in abundance, statues and carvings and mirrors everywhere, but Forger had never been one for looking at pictures, so he moved quickly past it all.
‘Up here now, wasn’t it?’ he said, bounding up some wide stairs covered with plush red carpet, wilfully ignoring his throbbing knee. Funny how he knew his way so intimately around every castle he stormed!
He entered the airy throne room, which took up an entire floor of the castle’s central tower. It was mainly empty, save for a small cluster of worried nobles conversing by the golden throne at the far end. Windows wrapped the room on all sides from floor to ceiling, ringed by a circular balcony on which the king stood with some officers and more nobles and such. He made his way out to the king’s side to lean against the balcony rail and admire the view with him.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Everything’s so yellow from up here. It’s like a city of sunshine!’
For his part, the king remained dark and brooding, his eyes intent upon the distant scene of fighting at the city wall. He was older than Forger had imagined him, some grey streaks through his black beard, but broad-shouldered and muscular under his robe.
‘So,’ said Forger, ‘what am I supposed to do now, Despirrow? Unstopper time and kill the king? Is that how you’d go about it?’ He leaned out over the drop, appreciating how high up they were. ‘Toss him over the side, maybe?’
It seemed so easy. So boring. It was like cheating.
He drew the sword he had not touched during the battle – he always forgot to use it – and held it across the king’s throat. ‘Why have you divided your forces, majesty? Are you some kind of royal idiot?’
The king did not look like an idiot. He looked resigned and determined. Proud. A worthwhile, worthy adversary.
Forger sighed. This wasn’t his style, sneaking into castles like an assassin. He liked people to know he was coming – to quake in fear as doors crashed in, as he got closer and closer …
He sheathed the sword and gave the king a big smile. ‘I have never been one,’ he said, ‘for looking at pictures.’
As he made his way back through the castle, he ranted to himself. ‘A coward you ever were, Despirrow! That’s why I had to take your power – to make sure you ceased irking me with its use! You daft bean, couldn’t you see the cracks in the sky as you stretched the night so long past due? And now you’ve infected me with this gift – well, no more, I say! I will take the arrows I earn!’
He exited the castle in quite a fluster, impatient to get back to his rightful place. As he retraced his path along the streets, no longer did he think about times gone by, but rather things as they were, now, today! He could not believe he had almost allowed Despirrow to rob him of the wild romp he was about to have. After all, he did things because he liked doing them, not because of some distant end, some lofty goal.
‘I do not care for your stupid power, Despirrow,’ he informed the air. ‘You will not trick me again!’
Soon, whatever that meant, he arrived back at the fight. Carefully he picked his way back through the forest of frozen weaponry, across the grass and into the tower, up and out onto the wall. It was easy to see where he had been kneeling when time had stopped – there was blood on the ground, next to the arrows which had caused it to spill from him. He went to them, knelt down, and picked them up. One he drove into his side, the other in above his knee, into the wounds they had come from. Withdrawing his bloody hands, he turned to face his opponents and their oncoming arrows with a fierce grin.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were we?’
DESPERATE TIMES
Yalenna was taking breakfast alone in her quarters, which was not how she had planned it. She had tried to talk to Jandryn after the previous day’s meeting, but he had mumbled that he had other business to attend to, and would seek her out later, which he never had.
Who knew how many nights she had left until some awful fate befell her, or there simply wasn’t time left for personal wants anymore? Her desires had been exacerbated by her brush with death in the Roshous, and yet he had not come, and she felt glum and hollow. She had toyed with the idea of sending for him, yet somehow had not been able to bring herself to do it.
Perhaps she should not be so pessimistic. There was hope for her to be happy. She allowed herself to peer into a potential future – the Unwoven dealt with, the world restored, and she a mortal woman once again. It was with mixed feelings that she viewed this eventuality. Certainly she had power to lose, not to mention everlasting youth … but she knew that, when it came down to it, she would do what was required. She would journey to the Spire and relinquish the threads that should not have been hers in the first place.
Once everything else was put to rights.
Painfully, that included Mergan. Yalenna understood with growing heaviness that she must give up the notion that she could talk him around, bring him back from the brink. Her responsibility was to end the threat he posed to the world, and his suffering. Although maybe there was the slight chance that, if she could bring him to the Spire without killing him, he too could be restored.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Enter.’
It was Jandryn. He seemed stiff and unfriendly, and left the door ajar as if to make plain that he was not staying. She set down her tea and gestured at the armchair opposite, hoping it would ease whatever tension held him, but he remained at awkward attention.
‘There is important news this morning,’ he said. ‘First, the Unwoven are beginning to assemble on the Ilduin. It looks like they will soon set forth.’
Yalenna grimaced. Had Mergan encouraged them, set them to task? Was he impatient to begin whatever strange end he sought, if indeed there was one?
‘Secondly, Tallahow has marched on Ander in great numbers. It seems likely the city will fall.’
Two momentous bits of news.
‘I shall leave you to ruminate,’ Jandryn said. ‘No doubt you wish to consider our best course of action.’
He turned to leave.
‘Jandryn,’ she said. ‘Wait.’
‘Something else, Priestess?’
I wish you’d stop being so petulant, she thought, but perhaps that was best not said.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘about Rostigan –’
‘No explanation required, my lady. You have chosen your champion, that is clear.’
She sighed. ‘Won’t you please sit down?’
He glanced at the seat dubiously, and his shoulders slumped a little. As if it was a great effort, he lowered himself into the chair.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No thank you, Priestess.’
‘I thought you were going to call me Yalenna in priva
te.’
He did not seem to know what to say, and in truth neither did she. She needed to explain about Rostigan, somehow – but how could she, without betraying his confidence?
‘You are Captain of the Guard,’ she tried lamely. ‘Your place is here. It would be selfish of me to risk your life elsewhere.’
‘I am sworn to protect the people of Althala. If that means going to the Peaks to end the silkjaw threat against them, that is what I’ll gladly do. Besides, you deem me too highly valued. I am hardly the commander of the army. I designate patrol routes in the castle, and make sure guards shine their armour adequately. By the Spell, Althala would not miss me.’
‘I am sure there’s more to you than that. The worms, for a start! It doesn’t sound like they were on any usual patrol route.’
If only she could think up some convincing lie for why she always chose Rostigan to accompany her.
‘I thought you might visit me last night,’ she said.
He went red. ‘Well, yes … I thought about it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I was not sure … that is …’ He grew visibly annoyed. ‘It’s become obvious you do not esteem me very highly. I am not some harlot to be summoned when you want me, cast aside when you do not!’
Yalenna was shocked. ‘Is that really what you think?’
‘Have I reason not to?’
Could she not just tell him the truth? Swear him to secrecy, count on him not to say anything about Rostigan’s true past?
‘Listen,’ she said.
She could not. Blood and fire.
It was then she noticed something odd about him, and let her vision slide to the realm of patterns. There, in the tapestry that made him up, were little grey dots, clinging to his threads like dust.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘What?’
