The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  ‘No,’ said Rostigan. ‘I beg your pardon, King Hunna, but the Unwoven and Plainsfolk are old enemies. Better to send removed parties, or else risk confusing things.’

  ‘And I beg your pardon,’ said Hunna, ‘but I won’t be given orders in my own lands by a man I do not know!’ He gave Rostigan a hard stare. ‘However … your words are not without wisdom. Things between us and them have been running a little wild of late. Besides, I doubt that thing,’ he stuck a thumb towards the waiting figure, ‘has anything real to say.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Rostigan.

  The yellow grass crackled under hoof as Rostigan and Tursa rode out to the Unwoven. Drawing closer, they saw it was a male, sitting astride a silver horse. His skin was pallid grey and incredibly smooth, yet taunt, the outlines of muscles and veins showing through. His shirt hung off him like a rag, though in contrast his trousers and boots were sturdy and well made. His limp hair was streaked with dull and faded red dye.

  As they pulled to a stop, Tursa a little further back, the Unwoven gave them something that was not quite a smile, more a stretched display of jagged teeth.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Rostigan. He thought about introducing himself, but Unwoven did not use names, so he opted not to confuse things. ‘We are representatives of Althala.’

  The red-streaked Unwoven sniffed the air. ‘What’s that?’ he said, the voice too deep for the emaciated head it came from. ‘Can you smell it?’

  ‘Smell what?’ said Tursa. Rostigan raised an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘do you really want to draw attention to yourself?’ and the advisor fell silent.

  ‘Can we smell what?’ said Rostigan.

  ‘Earth, burning,’ replied Redstreak. ‘And sometimes,’ he flicked out a ghastly white tongue, ‘like something is wafting through a crack.’

  Rostigan frowned. ‘Do you follow the scent?’

  ‘No. But it makes us remember.’ Redstreak blinked, focusing on them again. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you wished to speak with us?’

  ‘Not at all. I was just taking my flag for a walk.’ The Unwoven snickered. ‘What point is there in talking to you and you, untarnished by his touch?’

  ‘That’s a joke – it’s you who are the aberrations!’

  This time Rostigan didn’t bother shooting Tursa a warning look.

  ‘How sad it must be,’ remarked the Unwoven, ‘to dwell inside your skin-bag with only ignorance for company.’

  ‘Regret is dead,’ said Tursa. ‘He was just a man.’

  ‘Quiet,’ snapped Rostigan, but the Unwoven’s face already twisted in hate, dozens of lines wrinkling the once-smooth skin.

  ‘I will find you,’ said Redstreak, jabbing a finger at Tursa, ‘in the fray.’

  ‘So you do wish to fight?’ said Rostigan.

  ‘Yes!’ The Unwoven shrieked joyfully, as if this was an idea just occurring to him. ‘We shall fight! And after that, we’ll keep going, and fight others too. And after that, fight more others too!’ On another face, in another place, his would have been a true and happy smile.

  ‘So why,’ said Rostigan, ‘did you wish to speak with us?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t.’

  ‘You threw away your sword,’ said Tursa.

  ‘I didn’t like it anymore. When I come for you, fat man, I won’t need a sword. I’ll rip your head off with my hands.’

  ‘I won’t listen to these … these foul lies!’ exclaimed Tursa, and clumsily wheeled his horse around to gallop away.

  Rostigan sighed. ‘Why did you have to go and scare him like that? He just wanted to look brave in front of the army.’

  Redstreak stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  Rostigan leaned forward in the saddle. ‘Tell me something, my fine friend. I wonder if Regret’s Spire still stands in the Dale?’

  ‘The Spire? Yes, it stands. It will always stand.’

  ‘Of course. And is there anything in the sky above it?’

  Redstreak blinked. ‘A smell though the cracks. A sack of grace flung upstream, leaking into the flow.’

  ‘Anything you can see?’

  Redstreak’s eyes flashed fervently. ‘Red,’ he whispered.

  The word was like a weight upon Rostigan. The Wound was still open, just as the rumours always said, but he had still managed to hope that, after all this time, it would find some way to heal. He stared off at the colossal Peaks, as if his gaze could penetrate them, and see what they shielded from view.

  ‘More cracks soon, warrior,’ said Redstreak. ‘And us to help spread his touch.’

  With that he laughed, and rode away.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Hunna in disgust. ‘It merely wanted to waste our time.’

  ‘Why?’ said Loppolo.

  ‘Why do Unwoven do anything, when the only good thing they could do is slay themselves?’

  ‘They do not think like you or me, King Loppolo,’ said Rostigan.

  Across the way the Unwoven were forming up, some on horseback but most on foot.

  ‘They’re coming,’ said Tursa, his face pale.

  From the Peaks beyond the Unwoven, a series of white shapes suddenly rose into view, like distant puffs of smoke. They ascended quickly, hard to make out in the brightness of day.

  ‘My king, look!’ said an officer, pointing. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Silkjaws,’ muttered Rostigan, dismounting from his horse. With such foes on the way, it would be prudent not to sit on high.

  ‘S … silkjaws?’ stammered Tursa. ‘But there are so many!’

  All at once the Unwoven gave a collective howl and charged. Meanwhile, as the white shapes flew closer they became clearer – silent monsters wheeling in the air.

  ‘Stand firm, Plainsfolk!’ shouted Hunna, riding to his soldiers. ‘We are no strangers to silkjaws, nor they to our swords!’

  Yes, thought Rostigan, but hunting down a single ’jaw for stealing sheep is not the same as this. I would not have guessed they even existed in such numbers.

  ‘Your threaders, King,’ he told Loppolo, ‘are our best defence against those creatures!’

  Loppolo nodded determinedly. ‘And archers with flames!’ He began shouting orders as soldiers fanned out around him. Towards the back of the army, a couple of deserters broke loose.

  As the enemy drew closer above and below, Rostigan knew there was no more controlling the situation. He had done what he could by getting an army here in time – the only thing left was to stand beneath the breaking wave, and hope it did not knock him down.

  ‘At ’em!’ came Hunna’s bellow, and the Plainsfolk rode forth, spears held out before them.

  ‘Charge!’ called Loppolo, almost too late, for his soldiers barely achieved running speed before clashing with the Unwoven.

  Everything descended into chaos.

  From his back Rostigan unsheathed a broadsword most would need two hands to wield. Before him an Althalan twisted away with blood spraying from his neck, vividly painting the yellow grass. Another soldier swiped at the grinning Unwoven who’d dealt the blow, cutting a long gash down its arm. White blood oozed from the wound, too slow and sticky to spurt. Grinner laughed harshly and lashed out with his injured arm, landing a blow that broke the soldier’s nose back into his skull.

  ‘Go for the heads!’ shouted Rostigan, as he dashed at Grinner. He brought his sword down in a overhead sweep and, with a confident sneer, Grinner held his own up to block the blow. Their swords met, and there was a very brief moment during which a look of confusion began to form on Grinner’s face, and then both swords drove down deeply into his head at cross lengths. Like a partially attached quartered melon his head flopped to pieces about his neck, and Rostigan gave his body a heavy kick to send him away.

  Something kindled in the deep place – a little flame in the void, burning brightly. Rostigan was instantly wary of it, for it gave out a glow of warm satisfaction. So long since he had felt such a thing, he could not bring himself to douse it. Instead
he cradled it like a treasure, making sure to keep it small and contained. He would not allow it to grow, to consume him.

  A scream sounded nearby as a Plainsman was torn from his horse by a swooping silkjaw, borne into the air leaving a trail of misted blood. A second ’jaw crash-landed nearby, bowling over a couple of soldiers. It scrabbled to stand up bat-like on the elbows of its wings, swinging its long head about, searching for targets with hollow eyes.

  Of all Regret’s creations, Rostigan disliked silkjaws the most. Everything about them was wrong. He was not sure they were even truly alive, for they carried nothing of flesh about them. Instead, the bones that gave them shape were bound together by sheets of coarse white silk, which stretched and contracted like fibrous muscle. They had no voices, and the only sound they made was the occasional rustle or clack of bones. The ’jaw on the ground opened its mouth, elongating the strands that held it together, giving a clear view of fangs embedded along misshapen jawbones. It gnashed so hard it drove the points through its own snout, and didn’t appear to feel a thing.

  A soldier leapt at it, slicing the silk along its wing, and it snapped down over his head and shoulders, biting savagely. The act looked like a semblance of feeding, but there was no stomach in the creature’s empty body. Instead, blood soaked its white silk, and it shook its prey to absorb as much as possible.

  A red silkjaw was a happy silkjaw.

  A flaming arrow thudded into its side, but failed to set it ablaze, for the soaked strands were already too damp.

  ‘I told him threaders work best,’ muttered Rostigan, as he turned away. He could attack the silkjaw himself, even slay it – but it would be a laborious matter of cutting and slicing until the beast was a pile of bone and fluff. His time was better spent on the Unwoven, for he could kill them far more quickly.

  He strode headlong into the thick of it, where bodies already grew plentiful underfoot. Unwoven had begun to spread out, and many of them now faced multiple opponents. Rostigan chose the ones who moved about with greatest ease, who batted away swords as if they were switches – until they met him, of course. Always he went for the heads, for there was no helmet, no shield, no weapon that could stand in the way of his sword. His bouts were swift and methodical, and again and again he crunched through skulls with powerful downward blows. Soon he took hurts of his own, and in places his armour dinted painfully inwards. He knew that he was bleeding at his side, that shards of metal were sticking in his flesh.

  In the sky, silkjaws fell apart as threaders undid the magic that bound them together. One dove towards him even as its wings unspooled, bones falling free of the tatters. He sidestepped as it ploughed into the ground, and lifted its head almost piteously as its last fibres dropped away. Plenty of the creatures remained airborne, though – taking them apart, Rostigan knew, was not swiftly done, nor every threader’s talent. Some of the threaders were employing fire instead, sending up thin snakes of it from torches, and arrows flamed upwards too. Here and there white shapes suddenly blazed, as ’jaws flared to cinders.

  Some ways behind, Loppolo roared encouragement as he waved his sword, thickly protected by soldiers and threaders, and no enemy came within spitting distance of him. Then a sudden series of silkjaw dive-bombings thinned his guards, and Rostigan saw Tursa knocked from his horse. The king’s steed cantered sideways as his soldiers jostled to enclose him once more, the group moving away from Tursa. Dazedly the fat advisor lifted his head from the churned earth.

  Redstreak strode out of the tumult wearing a rabid grin. Tursa saw him and started, a terrible fear shining in his eyes. Redstreak moved towards him, flexing his hands and rubbing them together. Tursa looked around desperately.

  ‘Rostigan!’ he mewled. ‘Help me!’

  Rostigan was already running at Redstreak, whose head snapped about to see who was coming. Deftly, Redstreak slipped around what would have been a tremendous blow, which, in missing entirely, sent Rostigan staggering forward. Redstreak danced around behind him, and Rostigan felt iron fingers close upon his throat. He twisted, swinging Redstreak off his feet – the Unwoven weighed little for all his strength, and held on tight.

  ‘I don’t know what you are, warrior,’ came his voice in Rostigan’s ear as the grip contracted, ‘but I bet you die when your head comes off, just like everyone else.’

  Rostigan saw spots before his eyes, and awkwardly plunged his sword over his shoulder. Redstreak shifted his weight, pushing off Rostigan’s hip to clear himself of the blow.

  ‘Oh, hold me,’ chuckled Redstreak throatily, swinging about Rostigan as if his neck was a beanpole, pulling him off balance this way and that. ‘Embrace me, why won’t you love me?’

  Rostigan dropped his sword as his hands went to his throat, trying to prise the fingers loose. In the deep place, his little flame snuffed out.

  ‘Your flesh is strong,’ said Redstreak, digging in his jagged nails. ‘But I think I can do it. I think I can!’

  Rostigan tried to gasp for breath, but no air entered his lungs. The pressure increased, grinding the bones in his neck, and he fell to his knees. Where the flame had gone out, the deep place yawned wide, and he saw his life unfurl like a great scroll. He’d bested opponents worse than a single Unwoven before. Unexpected – was that not the very nature of death?

  Is this where it ends?

  Strangely, he felt something like relief.

  Redstreak gave a grunt, and suddenly the constriction around Rostigan’s neck went away. He sucked in air and rolled, coming up to see Tursa backing away with a sword that dripped whitely. Redstreak was staring at the advisor malevolently, one of his arms severed at the elbow.

  ‘Can you do it with one hand?’ Tursa snarled.

  Redstreak reached out with his good hand to grab the elbow of Tursa’s sword arm before the man could strike.

  ‘Can you?’ Redstreak said. He squeezed with a force that brought the sound of cracking bones. Tursa instantly lost all colour and dropped his sword.

  From behind, Rostigan caved in Redstreak’s head.

  He wrenched his sword free of the toppling corpse, and rubbed his bruised neck with a grimace.

  ‘Thank you,’ he croaked to Tursa, who was cradling his jelly-limp limb with a kind of strange fascination.

  ‘Did you see what I did? I chopped off his arm!’

  ‘That you did. Now listen to me, Tursa – you get yourself back to the king, you hear me? Tursa?’ He gave the man a little slap, and Tursa jolted, finally looking at him. ‘Back to the king with you, yes? Maybe one of his threaders can fix you up.’

  Rostigan turned back to the battle determined to make up for lost time. Although the Unwoven fought furiously, there were fewer of them now, for they had never tried to stay together. Each time one of them fell, more soldiers were free to help surround those who remained. Many of the silkjaws still airborne were at least partially undone, flapping wildly to compensate for trailing wings or dangling bones. Others were redly saturated, and these were the worst, ripping and tearing through groups of soldiers, resistant to fire, yet threaders attacked them wherever they landed, hands raised to send out myriad gestures. The best thing to do, Rostigan decided, was to hasten things as much as he could, in the hope of saving that many more soldiers. If there were enough left unscathed, maybe they could press on to the Pass.

  He pushed aside others to get to the fighting, still avoiding confrontations with silkjaws when possible. Each time he reached an Unwoven, down it went with his sword in its head. As the sun moved across the sky, enemy numbers dwindled, yet still they fought on. There was no trace of fear on their faces as they stood ever-increasingly alone, no heed paid to the swathes of fallen comrades about them, no glancing around for a way to retreat – only laughter and hatred.

  Rostigan made for the last one he could see, but it was dead before he got there. As it fell, the remaining silkjaws rose into the sky toward the Roshous Peaks. Rostigan stalked across the Fields in the glow of sunset, ignoring the cheers that broke out aro
und him. Small patches of yellow grass that had escaped the stain of blood lit up like pools of gold in the dying light. Threaders moved amongst the bodies, looking for wounded amongst the dead.

  Rostigan found Loppolo talking earnestly with his officers. Nearby, Tursa sat cross-legged and whimpering while a threader made motions over his damaged arm. Hunna rode up, the white smears of Unwoven blood along his horse stuck with bits of silk.

  ‘By the Spell,’ he said, as he dismounted, ‘I am thankful, Loppolo, that you were here with us.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Loppolo. ‘Though the cost has been great.’

  ‘Better these here and now,’ said Rostigan, ‘than multitudes later, oh king. The sacrifice is worthwhile.’ He glanced between the two leaders. ‘I wonder, my lords, if we dare push our luck?’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Hunna.

  ‘With so many Unwoven warriors fallen, the Dale will be poorly defended. Imagine how they will sing of you both, should you rid Aorn of Regret’s people for good!’

  Loppolo looked like he didn’t understand, while Hunna stared in undisguised astonishment – then threw back his head and bawled laughter.

  ‘Have you gone mad, fellow?’ he said, slapping Rostigan’s shoulder. ‘You want to take this battle-bruised bunch to the Pass? I admire your mettle, as do all who saw you fight this day – my soldiers are already telling each other stories of Skullrender – but if you think they will up and follow you into that place after what they’ve just endured, you have lost your mind.’

  Rostigan wondered if one more time would hurt. A few carefully chosen words to convince Hunna of the idea’s worth, accompanied by a little threading to ensure they took root, and perhaps they really could cleanse the Tranquil Dale … yet he had already broken his rules once, and did not want it to become easy for him. Besides, he had to admit, looking around at the bloody, battered soldiers still standing, that maybe Hunna had a point.

  Circling crows were beginning to caw, their voices seeming to signal an ending.

  ‘Enough then,’ he said.