The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  Tarzi lowered her voice. ‘We should tell them she’s dead. It would put their minds at rest.’

  ‘No,’ said Rostigan, ‘it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They won’t believe it. If she’s dead, why hasn’t Silverstone come back?’

  Tarzi frowned. ‘How should I know?’

  I could tell you, he thought. Her corrupted threads live on in me. But how could he make her understand, without telling her everything? Even then, he was not sure himself why he’d inherited Stealer’s power. All he knew was that Silverstone was hidden away somewhere inside him, along with everything else Stealer had written of during her short return. If he died, would all be restored? Or would the threads move on again, into a new host?

  Tarzi made up her mind. ‘The important thing,’ she said, ‘is that she won’t be bothering anyone anymore. And while you may be content to sit there and stare into your ale, I for one will not stand by and listen to these folk needlessly scare themselves silly.’

  She twisted off her seat to plant her buttocks on the tabletop, facing away from him, towards the farmer Borry and his friends. In a loud clear voice, ‘It was Stealer who took Silverstone,’ she announced.

  The entire tavern fell to a hush. Rostigan felt anger pulse, that she would go against him like this … but then again, he never had ruled her, and so he did not stir. It was too late anyhow.

  ‘What makes you say that, miss?’ said Borry. ‘You heard the words?’

  ‘I did,’ said Tarzi. ‘I was there myself, two days ago. My companion and I found the city gone, and in its place was Stealer’s voice, hanging in the air.’

  Over behind the counter, the innkeeper – a fat man wearing a sweaty apron – put down a mug heavily. ‘I told you,’ he said, wiping his hands as he moved around the counter, ‘this is not a night for minstrel’s tales!’

  ‘This is no wild legend or bawdy song,’ Tarzi replied calmly. ‘This is present truth.’

  ‘Let her speak!’ someone called, and other voices rose to agree.

  Begrudgingly, the innkeeper receded.

  Tarzi slid off the table and moved before the fireplace. ‘Not only that,’ she continued, as all eyes followed her, ‘but we saw the culprit herself, fleeing into the trees!’

  There were surprised murmurs.

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘How did you know it was really her?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said Tarzi. ‘You see, as fortune would have it, my travelling companion is none other than Rostigan Skullrender, champion of the Ilduin Fields.’

  Eyebrows went up as folk reconsidered the stranger in the corner, and the heavy sword resting beside him. Rostigan held their collective gaze stonily, smoke seeping around his face, and no one stared openly for long.

  ‘We tracked the mysterious figure into a dark wood,’ Tarzi continued, ‘through which she made herself a path by ripping the very trees out of her way!’ She made violent motions, pulling up imaginary trees as if they were carrots, and her listeners tensed. Despite himself, Rostigan was amused.

  ‘But it seems even the worst of Wardens need their rest,’ said Tarzi. ‘As night fell, Rostigan walked the dark corridor, and discovered the spot where Stealer was camping. You can imagine how quiet he had to be, to sneak up on the likes of her! He snuck from shadow to shadow, circling her campsite for an age, knowing that even the tiniest sound – brushing a bush or bumping a beetle – would bring her wrath upon him. While he moved he stole glances, saw her telltale cloak and hat, and her dripping, gaping mouth.’ Tarzi pulled a twisted face that wasn’t much to do with what Stealer had looked like, yet it scared her audience nonetheless.

  ‘They say hers is the mouth of death!’ breathed Borry.

  Tarzi nodded. ‘Nonetheless Rostigan kept on, slipping quietly through the trees. And, once he was close enough, he slowly raised his great sword …’ Tarzi raised her hands above her, ‘… and brought it down to smash her skull!’ She heaved her make-believe blade with such force that people at the closest table flinched. Back behind the counter, the innkeeper rolled his eyes.

  Rostigan knew it was not yet quite the exciting tale that Tarzi wished for. She would, no doubt, embellish it further with each retelling.

  ‘But this alone did not end her,’ she went on. ‘Thus Rostigan cast her on the fire, just like the knights in the old story. She kicked and howled, and burned as anyone would, to ashes and dust. I saw it and I can tell you – she will trouble the world no more!’

  The expressions in the crowd were mixed – some relieved, others sceptical.

  ‘Is that true?’ A bearded man, emboldened by drink, gestured at Rostigan. ‘You vouch for her tale?’

  Rostigan tapped out his pipe, irritated to be drawn in, inevitable as it was. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You really are Rostigan Skullrender?’

  He inclined his head.

  ‘Then where,’ said someone else, ‘is Silverstone?’

  ‘Did it come back, after you killed her?’

  ‘It can’t have – the minstrel said this was two days ago, but we’ve had other reports since then.’

  ‘We did not see Silverstone return,’ confirmed Tarzi.

  This met with mumbles of dismay.

  ‘Then how could it have been Stealer?’ asked the bearded man. ‘All the stories say her death brought back her victims.’

  Tarzi spread her palms. ‘As I told you, this is not a legend. I can only say what actually happened.’

  The mood was confused after that. Had things been set to rights? Did the threat remain, or was it dealt with? If it had even existed in the first place?

  Rostigan sighed and swigged his ale. He’d warned her.

  ‘Sure you’re not just spinning yarns, minstrel?’

  ‘You think she’s having us on?’

  ‘Probably hoping for some coin.’

  Rostigan’s chair scraped loudly as he rose, causing all to fall silent.

  ‘I am Rostigan Skullrender,’ he said. ‘And I don’t pretend to understand how the powers of Wardens work. Are you a great expert, sir,’ he addressed the bearded man, ‘in the ways of ancient threaders?’

  The man, uncomfortable at being singled out, shook his head.

  ‘I thought not. I’ll tell you something I do understand, however – death. And I promise you this: Stealer is dead, by my hand.’ He let this sink in. ‘Yet you are right to be troubled, for she was only one of eight. If others have returned as well, we may all face great peril.’

  ‘Are you travelling to answer King Braston’s call?’ came a voice from the other side of the room.

  Rostigan was caught off guard. The speaker – a threader, he realised, with some trepidation – stood by the door, having only recently arrived by the look of his damp hair, for the night outside was speckling rain. With relief Rostigan noted a badge on the man’s breast shaped like a scroll. It was the traditional mark of a messenger, and threaders who specialised in the mundane function of sending and receiving airborne words were not usually potent in many other ways.

  ‘That’s him, from Yar,’ the young man called Klion whispered. ‘He’s the one who’s been telling people about Braston.’

  ‘What call?’ said Rostigan.

  The threader arched an eyebrow. ‘Has the message not arrived here?’ His gaze settled on Klion. ‘You – I told you to bring word to your mayor.’

  Klion gulped. ‘I … er …’

  ‘Don’t mind him, sir,’ said Borry. ‘He’s a little slow.’

  ‘Would that I had realised. Ah well, I suppose I was right to come here myself.’ The threader cleared his throat. ‘Word has gone out that any able and willing are welcome to swell Althala’s ranks. Braston warns that other Wardens could be at large, and we may even see a return to the bad old days of war with Karrak and his cronies.’

  There were fearful mutterings at that.

  ‘Also,’ said the threader, ‘Braston means to do away with the Unwoven on
ce and for all.’

  The mutterings grew. This far south, people had probably never seen an Unwoven, which did nothing to soften their reputation.

  ‘Why seek them out?’ said an old man. ‘Let them alone, I say – what does it matter to the rest of us if they keep to themselves in the Dale?’

  ‘Keep to themselves?’ said the threader. ‘Tell that to the Plainsfolk, who suffer increasing numbers of Unwoven raids. They steal the bodies of the slain, then take them back into the Dale for some fell purpose. Have you heard nothing of this?’

  ‘The Plainsfolk choose to live where they do,’ said the old man. ‘It’s not our fault what happens to them.’

  ‘The Plainsfolk,’ said the threader, ‘stop the Unwoven spilling forth to harry us all. You should show some respect for those who buy your safety with their lives. The threat is real, and must be dealt with, but the Plainsfolk cannot storm the Pass alone.’ He looked to Rostigan. ‘You fought the Unwoven once before, Skullrender?’

  Rostigan nodded.

  ‘So,’ said the threader, ‘will you answer the call again?’

  Rostigan opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Oh, he did not want this, yet he felt it happening nonetheless. He wished that he was back in the wilderness, turning over rocks in search of purple moss.

  ‘Of course Rostigan will go to Althala,’ announced Tarzi, her eyes shining in the firelight. ‘And,’ she swept the room with her gaze, ‘if there are others among you who would not see ruin visit Aorn, I urge you to join us. We will be leaving at daybreak on the north road.’

  There sounded a few affirmative answers, but Rostigan knew that a new day and sore heads would make liars of most of them. Still, he was surprised by Tarzi. This conscientious side of her he had seen only once or twice before. Perhaps he viewed her too unkindly – just because she liked attention and making gold, did not mean she was a selfish creature.

  ‘If the Wardens really have returned,’ she continued, ‘then danger threatens us all. You know the tales of what damage they did as they fought each other. Even now, Karrak may be somewhere raising an army of his own. Unless we wish to become fodder for his crows, we may have to fight.’

  Rostigan, again, was surprised. He had not thought Tarzi appreciated all the implications of what had been happening, but that had been short-sighted of him. It was her business to know history and legend, so she was necessarily well versed with what may be coming.

  ‘What about the good Wardens?’ said Klion. ‘Surely they will save us?’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Tarzi. ‘If that’s what you believe, then by all means stay here and do nothing. Let me tell you this, however – even good Wardens need help. Why else would Braston ask for an army, if he could handle everything by himself? Make no mistake, fine people – complacence is tantamount to downfall. Silverstone is gone! Will you let that loss stand alone as a terrible tragedy, or become the new way of the world?’

  Across the room, the threader gave a little smile. Rostigan could see the man was impressed – certainly he could not have said it better himself.

  ‘All right,’ said the innkeeper, once more coming around his counter, ‘I think you’ve terrorised my customers plenty for one night.’

  ‘It isn’t me,’ snapped Tarzi, ‘from which terror originates. I trust that you won’t be joining us on the road tomorrow, good innkeeper? Where instead? Sleeping peacefully, like a hog in a hoghouse, unaware that you will soon be sent to slaughter? Happy in your ignorance, your denial?’

  The innkeeper’s face went bright red. ‘That’s enough!’

  ‘I shall join you.’

  This from a muscular young man with bronzed skin and a healthy spark, a farmhand by the looks. At his words, the friends he sat with bobbed their heads.

  Rostigan knew the type. Bored with their decent lives, they would find the call to any adventure appealing. Armies were built on such headstrong young folk, who did not understand that glory was a word used long after the fact.

  ‘And I, miss,’ said Borry, ‘though I may be too old for such an undertaking – at the least I shall bring you supplies for your trip.’

  Other voices rose and soon the room was full of them. The innkeeper may not have succeeded in shouting down Tarzi, but as people began to discuss all that they had heard, she was, in a way, dismissed by the collective. Many of them now clustered about the threader, peppering him with questions. Meanwhile Tarzi moved back to sit with Rostigan, not meeting his eyes immediately.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ she asked.

  Rostigan removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘A little,’ he said. ‘But … well, what does it matter?’

  ‘And about going to Althala?’

  As he scratched at the tabletop, a splinter broke free to drive up under his fingernail. Wincing, he pulled it out.

  What other choice?

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and sighed.

  SKULLRENDER

  That night it took Rostigan a long time to find sleep. It wasn’t because of Tarzi continuously stealing the sheets, then depositing them back upon him in a tangle, for he was used to that. Rather, it was news of the Unwoven stirring, making him wonder if they might soon leave the Dale on mass, as they had done once before. And, as he drifted in and out of wakefulness, he saw golden fields of grass shining in the sun, and felt a warm breeze on his face that was almost comforting.

  They said there was nowhere flatter in Aorn, and Rostigan had travelled widely enough to believe it. Stretching from the foothills of the Roshous Peaks, the Ilduin Fields were a great expanse of hard ground and tough yellow grass. It was hot there also, damn hot, and he sweated constantly under his steel.

  ‘There’s the Pass,’ said Loppolo, King of Althala.

  Away in the distance, a V-shaped break in the mountains marked the entrance to the Tranquil Dale. In the centuries since Regret had turned his people into Unwoven, and despite their lord’s long absence, they had never forgotten his order to guard it. Unusually, however, in recent days, a great many of them had spilled from the Pass to camp on the Fields, beneath colourfully inconsistent banners. It was a sight not seen in living memory, and no one felt it boded well.

  ‘Why now?’ said Loppolo. ‘The Unwoven have always kept to themselves. Well, the odd raid, of course, but nothing on this scale.’

  ‘For no good reason,’ replied Rostigan.

  ‘Have they rutted themselves out of space?’ mused Loppolo. ‘Can the Dale no longer support their numbers?’

  Around the young king stood his officers, and a greater army of thousands. How strange it felt for Rostigan, to have deliberately sought Loppolo out and convinced him action must be taken. The king had proved stubborn at first, disbelieving that reports of Unwoven leaving the Dale were anything to be concerned by. ‘Let the Plainsfolk deal with them, as they always have,’ had been his answer. Rostigan, however, was greatly concerned, for any mustering of Regret’s creatures surely meant trouble for Aorn. Thus he had broken his own rules, allowing himself a small lapse. It was surprising how readily it had come back to him, once he set his mind to it – he’d imagined his abilities in some dusty chest sunk to the bottom of the deep place. Yet, standing in the Althalan throne room, surrounded by lords and ladies and soldiers, even unsuspecting threaders, he had quietly woven threads into the words he spoke, to ensure they settled into minds as truth. Nothing monstrously manipulative, he told himself, just a few light touches to make certain that Loppolo was clear on the weight of the situation … and trusted Rostigan absolutely.

  ‘There mustn’t be more than a few hundred of them,’ said Loppolo. His tone did not, however, imply this made things simple. Rostigan had counselled him on the journey here, ensuring he understood that Unwoven did not die easily. Their strength was greater than their bony frames suggested, and not much save a blow to the brain or heart would bring one down.

  ‘The Plainsfolk arrive,’ announced Tursa, one of Loppolo’s advisors. Sure enough, several hundred soldiers in leather armour on ho
rseback were joining the main force. A smaller party broke from them, led by a large man with a red forked beard.

  ‘Ho, Althalans,’ he called. ‘Hail, King Loppolo. I thank you greatly for coming to our aid.’

  ‘Your people should not stand alone, King Hunna,’ said Loppolo, ‘against such a vile threat.’

  Hunna nodded. ‘Often we have fought them in smaller numbers, but I’ve not seen anything like this before. Something has brought them out of the Pass – but what dark calling, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Look!’ said Tursa. Away on the Fields, a solitary figure was riding from the Unwoven camp towards them. It carried a white flag, which it waved back and forth over its head. Once the figure reached the halfway point between the armies, it halted, and planted the flag in the ground. Then it drew its sword and flung it away.

  ‘By the Spell,’ said King Hunna. ‘I have never heard of Unwoven wanting to talk before.’

  Rostigan frowned. Neither had he.

  ‘I shall go,’ he said.

  ‘The kings should go,’ said Hunna. His appraising eyes travelled over Rostigan, but failed to find any mark of rank or station. ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘I am Rostigan, my lord. And the kings should not go, in case this is a trap. You know how Unwoven are.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Loppolo quickly. ‘Rostigan should go.’

  ‘Then I should go with him,’ said Tursa, shooting Rostigan a suspicious look. The advisor had been uneasy with him ever since he’d appeared in Althala out of nowhere and immediately acquired the king’s ear.

  ‘I make no guarantees as to your safety,’ said Rostigan. Tursa, a rotund fellow with no combat experience, visibly thought twice about his own suggestion, yet evidently did not want to seem a coward by backing out.

  ‘Though I would attempt to protect you,’ Rostigan added quietly, ‘if it came to that.’

  Tursa opened his mouth, but said nothing, and a moment later nodded.

  ‘We shall have representation too, then,’ said Hunna. He gave a wave, and a younger man appeared beside him. ‘This is Captain –’