by Sam Bowring
‘Come up?’ Forger chuckled. ‘Are you serious, my love? You were a much better trickster once upon a time.’ He hefted Youngster into his arms, and the boy gave an unconscious grunt. ‘Someone will come up though, and we shall see what happens when they do!’ He swung Youngster back and forth a couple of times, gathering momentum. ‘One … two … three!’
He released the boy to go sailing up the stairs and land heavily at the top in the open air. A moment later Youngster’s eyes flickered open with a gasp.
‘Who is that?’ said Salarkis.
Some kind of force seized the boy, for he rose steadily from the ground. Forger crouched down to peer upwards, but from his awkward angle, Youngster quickly disappeared from view. What he could see, however, was the way the light of the Wound began to flash frenetically.
‘What’s going on Salarkis?’ he called. ‘Can you tell me?’
There was no answer, and Salarkis had stepped out of view. After a time the flashing ceased and the boy tumbled out of the air, back into a crumpled heap at the top of the stairs. Forger peered at him intently and – yes, yes it was true! No longer did Youngster wear the grey skin of an Unwoven, but was instead flushed pinker than a newborn! No longer did his hurts weep white ichor, but the red ooze of a real boy. His pattern shone clearly, colourful energies circulating atop the fainter, older layers that had, until now, been the all of him.
That which had been taken, was returned.
An unexpected series of images seized Forger. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath as his heart pounded. Other Wardens had spoken about such a thing, and he had always sneered at the notion, never expecting it to trouble him … but now, before his eyes, he saw his life as it would have been, if not for the change.
Regret’s curse had finally found him.
He saw himself standing atop the Spire looking down over the Dale, where Unwoven moved about, many at the Pass which invaders were trying to storm. The city was intact, close to its original splendour, for its people had only recently been turned into Regret’s creatures.
‘I will save you,’ he promised them. ‘I will return and save you.’
A hand rested on his shoulder and he glanced around to see Braston. Beyond him, Mergan and the others were staring up at the Wound.
‘I am sorry,’ said Braston. ‘They do not deserve what’s been done to them.’
‘No need to be sorry,’ Forger said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll work out how to put them right.’
Braston nodded kindly. ‘And I will help you, if I can.’
Forger remembered what he had not thought about for so long – that he had been born here, a son of the Tranquil Dale. His father had been an honest blacksmith, and he, taking to the bellows at a young age, had earned his nickname.
‘What a good little forger,’ his father would say, rustling his hair.
As a young man he had left the Dale for Tallahow, to seek his fortune and learn more about his threading talents. After he had gone, the once-peaceable ruler of the Dale had started to show his true colours. Rumours claimed, among other things, that Regret had made the people of the Dale go strange. They had become strong and savage, as if stripped of all capacity for suffering and human kindness, both. The Dale – his home – was closed to all, and any who ventured through the Pass were killed.
A disbelieving Forger had gone to the Ilduin, where he had witnessed raids and seen with his own eyes the shocking fate his people endured – twisted by their mad lord into something less than they had been, rife with carnal appetites and animal barbarity. Soon after that, Mergan had recruited him to kill Regret, and he had journeyed through the mountains with the other Wardens, seeking his revenge. He had hoped, once they succeeded, that his people would be healed.
‘Look!’ said Mergan.
From Regret’s corpse there rose bundles of strange threads.
‘Do not let them settle on you!’ cried Mergan. ‘Make your patterns robust!’
The bundles swirled, but the Wardens obeyed, and Regret’s threads bounced from them, finding no homes.
‘Up!’ said Mergan. ‘Send them up!’
The Wardens formed a circle, forcing the threads into a whirl, and they rose towards the Wound. With one final push they drifted through, into the greater scheme of things, where they belonged. As Forger watched them go, he made a silent oath – he would not rest, would never stop, until he found a way to restore his people. His father, his mother, his beloved little sister, would not be forced to live out the rest of their days as heartless monsters. He would free them from Regret’s foulness and give them back their humanity.
He would find a way.
Forger blinked, coming back to himself. What more might have become of him in that lost life, faded away like a half-remembered dream. Maybe he would have succeeded in restoring his people, maybe not, but he knew that he – that other he – would have never stopped trying. Instead he had forgotten about them utterly. And now, generations later, he had come back to this place and helped destroy them, enthusiastically complicit in the burying of his homeland.
At the top of the stairs, Youngster spluttered blood. He was broken and bleeding, not much more than a corpse in waiting. Devoid of an Unwoven’s toughness, his wounds were fast catching up with him.
‘Sorry, brother,’ Forger said.
Use of the word set his blood on fire. Karrak – his brother – wanted him to go up there, to the Wound that put people back how they belonged. Did that extend to Wardens? Was that what had happened to Salarkis?
‘Salarkis!’ Forger bawled. ‘By the Spell, I have had my moment – my moment of Regret!’
A pause, and then, ‘What did you see?’
Forger knew that Salarkis’s moment had changed him, softened him, stopped him being bad. Had the same happened to Forger? He checked himself as he crouched in the dark, sorted through his feelings … but no, he was the same. He knew he would have cared about the fate of the Unwoven in that other life, but in this one he was not troubled at all – they were but roaches, deserving of their fate. All he felt was fury at one betrayal after another.
‘You let this castrate you, Salarkis?’, he screamed up at the ashen-faced man. ‘One errant vision of a life that never was, made you so weak? You held the world in the palm of your hand, and chose instead to whimper and moan?’
How could you do this to me, Karrak? Now I have to kill you too.
Salarkis stared anxiously down the stairs. ‘Forger, please, listen to me …’
‘Do not follow me,’ snarled Forger. ‘I will set traps beyond your current skill to unravel.’
He flung up his hands, thickening the air to a barrier over the doorway, so he did not have to listen to any more of Salarkis’s woeful whining. As he turned away, a rage coursed through him so hotly it blistered the insides of his veins.
Salarkis sat with the boy, trying to knit his flesh back together and mend his broken bones, but he had taken too much punishment.
His eyes fluttered open, shining with terror.
‘What is … this … feeling?
’Pain,’ said Salarkis quietly, stroking his brow.
The boy groaned and began to shake. Then, with a final jerk, he fell still.
Salarkis sighed.
He went to the edge of the roof to put together a message. Maybe he could get it to Yalenna or Rostigan before Forger made it back to them.
He knows.
It was simple enough, yet, as before, it took great effort to weave together. He scraped the words out on the roof, then laboriously bound threads into the right shapes. With a heave, he sent the bundle out over the Dale, aiming at the Pass where camp lights twinkled.
From somewhere beneath, an influence reached upwards, snatched hold of the tenuous threads, and shredded them to pieces.
‘We must search for him,’ Yalenna said, but Rostigan hushed her and nodded at something over her shoulder. Out of the darkness Forger emerged, pebbles crunching under his feet.
‘No need to worry,’ Forger said cheerily. ‘I was just helping kill off a few more Unwoven. They’ve grown very scarce now – I daresay there’s almost none left.’ He gave a wide yawn. ‘My, but I’m tired. Should we get a bit of rest?’
Rostigan found his demeanour a little strange, but thought it best to nod. ‘Aye, for the best I’d say.’
‘Yes,’ said Forger, with a smile. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be a big day!’
GOING UPSTAIRS
Tarzi sat on a rock at the top of the incline, playing her lute as she looked across the Dale. In the soft light of early morning, dotted as it was with soldiers, there was an eerie feel to the place. Such a vast space, and yet so quiet and empty.
Down by the tents, Yalenna, Rostigan and the threader Hanry were making ready to set out. News had spread that the three of them were going to try to fix the Wound today. That was how Tarzi had first heard about it, for Rostigan had not returned to the larger camp on the Fields the previous night, as he had said he would.
She was curious what he might say to her now, if anything. She would not go to him this time, would simply sit and strum away, and see if he deigned her worthy to speak to. As he conversed with the others, he sent a look in her direction and a little nod that she did not return. Instead, she hummed the tune from an old song, felt the strings twang under her fingers.
Eventually he trudged up the slope towards her.
‘Hello, songbird.’
‘Statue.’
As if every movement drained his energy, he climbed slowly onto her rock to sit beside her. For a few moments she continued to play, murmuring the words quietly. Then he put his arm around her and her notes petered out.
‘You’re going to the Spire with Yalenna?’ she asked.
‘Yes. There may still be Unwoven in there. I can clear the way for her.’
Tarzi wondered if he would ever tell her the truth. She had finally worked it out, she thought. The first time she had not been sure, but the second time she had heard that disembodied, echoing voice as the mountains had been falling down, she had listened very carefully and grown certain – it was his voice. His voice. The realisation had scared and puzzled her but, given what she knew about Warden’s threads being passed on upon death, she had pieced it together. Rostigan had killed Stealer and, with no other Wardens around for her threads to settle into, they must have chosen him instead.
‘I understand why you didn’t tell me,’ she said.
Rostigan stared at her in poorly disguised alarm. ‘What?’
‘About Stealer’s threads. They went to you, didn’t they? When you killed her.’ She put her hand on his. ‘I’m not angry.’
‘No?’ He seemed confused.
‘I know you, remember? You’ve spent your whole life fighting evil, and then, somehow, you got it inside you. And you,’ she squeezed his hand, ‘are a good man. It must have been hard for you.’
Rostigan stared at the ground for a while, deep in thought. ‘It was,’ he said eventually. ‘It has been.’
‘But you did not use her power for evil ends. It did not twist you, as it did her. You are not a Warden.’
‘No.’
‘One of them should have been there to take the burden … but it was only you.’
‘Only me.’
‘Yalenna knows?’
‘I could not hide it from her.’
‘And she has made use of you?’
‘Yes.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘When did you work this out?’
‘Last night, as I lay wishing that you would come home. Well, to our tent, anyway.’
‘There was much to do. I had to keep an eye on … things.’
‘I know.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘But I do worry for you. You are going to the Spire, with Stealer’s threads. What if … I don’t know.’
‘Yalenna thinks she can heal me there. That the Wound can take away this corruption within.’
‘Please be careful. Come back to me as the man you are.’
‘Oh, Tarzi. I will, I promise.’ He sighed. ‘I should have known better than to keep things from you.’
‘You should have,’ she agreed. ‘We’ve been together long enough that I would have thought you could trust me with this.’
He frowned a little. ‘How long has it been?’
‘I’m not sure, exactly. It goes so fast, don’t you think? Almost thirty years, must be. Your face is no sundial by which to judge the passage of time – you are so unchanged, statue.’
He seemed surprised by her answer. ‘And you still seem like the girl I just met.’
She laughed. ‘Flattery. I have not been a girl for some time, though I never tire of you calling me one.’ Her expression grew sterner. ‘Now, don’t you hide anything so important from me again. Do you understand, Rostigan Skullrender? At the least I could have helped you with the rhymes! Honestly, some of those were simply embarrassing.’
He smiled faintly. ‘They served a purpose. They weren’t meant to be great works, sung throughout the ages, as your songs will be. Still, I take your point.’
Down at the camp, Yalenna watched them.
‘They’re waiting for you,’ said Tarzi.
‘Aye.’
‘See you soon, my love.’
He took a last thoughtful look at her, and she had no idea what went through his head.
‘Indeed,’ he said, and off he went.
As they were just about to depart, a yell came from the healers’ area.
‘He’s awake!’
It could only mean one thing, and Yalenna sighed at the awful timing. Aware that Rostigan and Forger came in tow, she went to Mergan, who was moving his head about as if he could somehow see through his blindfold. The blow to his brow had mostly healed, and now looked no worse than a nasty bruise. If not for the bindings and the threaders standing guard, he could be right back to his dangerous ways in moments.
‘We should kill him,’ said Forger. ‘It only makes sense.’
Yalenna reached forward, concentrating air at the tip of her finger. She touched it to Mergan’s brow, releasing a small, powerful burst, and his head snapped back, unconscious once again.
‘Rostigan,’ said Forger, ‘you cannot tell me you support her in this.’
‘We will deal with it later,’ Rostigan said. ‘He isn’t going anywhere. Let us first worry about the Spire.’
He stared hard at Forger, and Yalenna knew what message he tried to convey.
After we heal the Wound, we can kill whoever we want.
She was included in that list, she knew.
Forger sighed theatrically and turned away.
Yalenna caught Jandryn’s eye, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. His orders were clear and unquestioned, thanks to Rostigan’s gifted tongue – after giving the Wardens a head start, he was to bring Mergan to the Spire after them.
She would heal as many of them as she could, this day.
‘Let’s get going,’ she said.
They made their way through the dusty, buried city. Ahead the Spire towered, and as Yalenna stared up at the distant roof she almost saw herself darting along its edge, dodging strange multicoloured bolts sent out by Regret. She shivered, and the vision faded.
‘Like old times, eh?’ said Forger. ‘Off to the Spire, to set things right, haha!’
Yalenna gave what she hoped was a friendly nod. All they had to do was get him to the roof, and that would be the hardest part done. Once he had been taken by the Wound, she would gladly follow, and give it all back. Her immortality, her blessings, her strength – all gone, and good riddance! No more grand responsibility, no more weight across her back. No more worrying about simply being. She would be mortal again. Normal. It was a fate that seemed tantalisingly close, yet she could not relax, could feel no happiness about it until Forger had been dealt with. It was as if great uncertainty loomed in the way of great uncertainty.
&nb
sp; One thing at a time.
‘Ah,’ she said, trying to play along, ‘I’m glad to have you with us, Hanry. Despite our difficult history, at least we see eye-to-eye on this.’
‘No more corruption,’ he said, nodding. ‘Nothing to stop us using our gifts. It may not all be roses and friendship afterwards, of course, but at least we will be free to quarrel without destroying the world we covet.’
I do not covet the world, she thought.
‘Let us, at least, agree not to fight in the Dale,’ she said.
‘We will be drained after healing the Wound, I suspect.
Besides, we have all of time to sort out our differences.’
Forger chuckled. ‘Very diplomatic. I agree – it would be best to concentrate on solving this problem without having to look over our shoulders. The task is too important to sully with personal issues.’
His words seemed much too reasonable, and distrust did not evaporate.
Rostigan, for his part, did not say anything, merely trudged along sullenly.
Soon they reached the Spire entrance and Rostigan led them inside. The dark antechamber had been scrubbed of mould, but its odour still hung faintly in the air. Adding to the smell was the corpse of an Unwoven, slumped by a stairwell leading upwards.
‘Soldiers must have come through,’ said Rostigan, moving past the body.
‘Excuse me if I shed my disguise,’ said Forger, removing the shirt that hid his leather. ‘No need for it here, and I do hate the way cloth sticks to me! I don’t know how you ladies do it, in your dresses.’
Yalenna gave him a weak smile.
‘Tell me, brother,’ Forger continued, trotting after Rostigan up the stairs, ‘what do we do once we reach the roof? In regards to this healing we must accomplish, you have said very little about actual technique.’
‘It is something best demonstrated,’ said Rostigan. ‘Be assured, once I can show you, it will all make sense.’
‘Excellent. I look forward to it.’
As he spoke, Forger passed by a large crack in the wall, and light played over a mean expression that did not match the tone of his voice. Yalenna swallowed nervously.
