The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  ‘Yes,’ said Rostigan, as the great white walls spread wide across his field of vision. ‘I can see that.’

  Traffic condensed through the southern gate. Guards seemed to have forsaken their usual habit of demanding to know everybody’s business, instead calling out instructions for those who came to join the army. From what Rostigan heard, they were all to report to the castle square, and it was likely they would then be assigned to a camp constructed outside the walls to the north. How many had come, that the city could not hold them? Did they flock from other directions as thickly as what he saw here? He was surprised, despite what he had seen on the road, that Braston’s call had proven so effective. Was it the threat of the Unwoven that stirred people to action? Or were the Wardens really so well remembered that their heroes remained so appealing, their villains so fear-inspiring?

  Tarzi slipped her hand in his, which for some reason startled him. He supposed he had minstrels like her to thank for keeping their legend alive.

  If ‘thank’ was the right word.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said.

  Bumping shoulders in the throng, they made their way into the city. As expected, most people were headed toward the castle square. Tarzi suddenly seemed as if she wasn’t in a hurry, her eyes darting about at the many taverns and stores that lined the road. She had wanted to visit Althala for a while, before war had become the motivation, and Rostigan could see her interest piquing.

  ‘I find myself wondering,’ he said, ‘what you intend to do now, songbird?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she replied, eyeing off a display of crispy-fried lizards on skewers.

  ‘You are not actually going to join the army yourself, are you?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve taught me how to handle a sword.’

  Rostigan smiled, recalling their play-fighting, two figures sweating as they danced about each other in the wild. Still, while Tarzi was healthy and fit, there was also a buxomness to her that he could not imagine an opponent being intimidated by.

  ‘You can strike that look of concern from your face,’ she said, pinching his cheek. ‘Armies aren’t comprised of soldiers alone – they need entertainment too, for good morale. I can be of service in my own way.’

  ‘I see. So, once we get to the castle, you shall inform them of the official minstrel position you’ve chosen to fill?’

  ‘No, I won’t talk to them at all. I shall simply hang about.’

  Rostigan chuckled and gave her buttocks a slap. ‘You have it all worked out.’

  ‘Indeed. Now, hold on a moment – I want to buy a lizard.’

  At a leisurely pace they made their way to the square. Here, hordes gathered in the shadow of the castle, many voices clamouring across the white stones. To the left of the castle was the barracks, a series of connected buildings with fenced-off training areas. In front of the barracks was a wooden platform, on which stood an officer flanked by soldiers. On either side of the platform were tables, behind which carts stood heaped with weapons and armour. Long lines ran from the tables, as people waited to be questioned by the officers manning them. Rostigan watched as farmers and peasants were given equipment, young men and women who had never before handled a weapon now showing them off to each other, as they were steered by soldiers back out of the square.

  The captain on the stage was speaking, trying to be heard above the tumult.

  ‘… see the captains for your troop assignment. Anyone who has military training or relevant experience, line up to the right. If you are a new recruit, please join the left line. You will be given what you need for your training, then report to the northern camp unless otherwise specified. King Braston is pleased by your willingness to fight those who would destroy our way of life! We must end the threat of the fallen Wardens, for even now Forger and Karrak build their armies, even now they plot our downfall! If you have served previously in any army, please line up to the right. If not, you will be given training. Braston thanks you, Althala thanks you …’

  ‘Braston,’ muttered Rostigan, shaking his head.

  ‘Come on,’ said Tarzi. ‘Let’s line up.’

  ‘I thought you were just going to hang about.’

  ‘I need to make sure you don’t undersell yourself. I want a good room in the barracks, as is only befitting a hero. Let these others sprawl about in the muck.’

  Sighing, Rostigan allowed himself to be ushered into the lines.

  After hearing several more variations of the officer’s speech, he was about ready to smash the man in the mouth.

  ‘Surely, the lines should lead away from the stage, as a reward for our patience … rather than towards this booming fool.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Tarzi. ‘Very well, my statue – let us bypass the rabble.’

  ‘What?’ he said, as she pulled him from the queue. ‘But we’ll lose our place!’

  Three hundred years might have taught him patience, but he did not fancy needlessly starting again from the back.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘we will gain it.’

  Approaching the tables, she spotted an officer standing apart, supervising some of the regular soldiers, and planted herself in front of him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The officer favoured her with an up-and-down stare, while Rostigan felt a little uncomfortable with her boldness.

  ‘The officers at the desks can answer your questions, miss.’

  ‘What kind of hero’s welcome is that?’ Tarzi asked.

  The officer frowned. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘This,’ said Tarzi, standing aside to ‘reveal’ Rostigan lurking resignedly behind her, ‘is Rostigan Skullrender, champion of the Ilduin Fields. Do you think it right that the man who turned back the Unwoven, who quite possibly saved this city, who now offers his services once more, should really be made to wait –’

  The officer blinked under her deluge, then held up a hand for quiet. He stared hard at Rostigan.

  ‘You claim to be Skullrender?’ he asked.

  ‘Not claim,’ said Rostigan.

  ‘He does look like the paintings,’ said one of the soldiers.

  ‘If you speak the truth,’ said the officer, ‘then you are indeed most welcome. But, I am afraid to say, I cannot take your words at face value.’

  ‘Summon Loppolo, then,’ said Rostigan. ‘He will remember me.’

  ‘The king …’ The officer winced. ‘The former king is not mine, or yours, to summon at will. We have heard rumours, however, of Rostigan being seen on the road from Silverstone … and, even wilder, that he killed Stealer and fought Salarkis!’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Tarzi.

  ‘You really did?’ asked a young soldier. ‘You killed her? What happened?’

  ‘Hush,’ said the officer. ‘Either way, King Braston will wish to meet the one who makes such claims. If they are true, Althala is indebted to you.’

  ‘I would myself like to speak with Braston,’ said Rostigan.

  ‘Unfortunately the king is not presently in the castle.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s been called away on a grave errand.’

  ‘What errand?’

  ‘The king’s business is his own … but, the way I heard it, he won’t be gone overlong.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Tarzi, ‘you should assign us quarters in the barracks against Braston’s return, at which point Skullrender looks forward to being welcomed by him with open arms.’

  The officer gave a slight smile. ‘You are an audacious one, miss.’

  ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘Please do not mistake my wariness for disrespect. I hope you are Rostigan, I truly do. These are strange times, however, and we must all be on our guard. That said, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. To deny you, and be wrong, would be a greater crime than to believe you and be proved a fool. And I have been called worse than that.’

  Tarzi gave the man a grin. ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘You have a nice turn of phrase about you.’

  ‘A
nd, may I ask, who might you be, miss?’

  ‘I am Rostigan’s minstrel, Tarzi.’

  A couple of the soldiers sniggered and Tarzi raised an eyebrow at them. The officer, however, gave a serious nod.

  ‘That fits. My sources tell me he travels with such a one. A beautiful woman, they say.’

  ‘You have accurate sources,’ said Tarzi.

  ‘Cease your noise,’ snapped the officer at his soldiers, and they fell silent. ‘You have your orders – see to the new recruits! We must imbue them with sufficient skill to keep them alive for at least a few moments on the field. Go!’ He waved away his underlings. ‘And now, if you would like to accompany me, Rostigan and Tarzi, I will show you where you can stay … against the king’s return.’

  ‘Against the king’s return,’ echoed Tarzi, and gave a little curtsy.

  The officer led them through the crowd towards the barracks. There, sitting on long benches before a fenced-off archery range, a number of regular soldiers sat regarding the throng with everything from amusement to disdain. Rostigan was glad Tarzi had shoved him in this direction, for he also found the wide-eyed enthusiasm of the greener recruits misplaced.

  ‘Getting a lot in,’ he observed.

  ‘Aye,’ said the officer. ‘We –’

  The man froze in mid-step. All noise – the chatter, clanking, footsteps, everything – ceased. Rostigan bumped into someone ahead of him, who stood as still and solid as a statue. The jagged crumples in the fellow’s shirt scraped his skin, as hard as iron. Glancing about, Rostigan saw a frozen Tarzi looking at the archery range, where arrows in flight hung suspended in the air. Everything was motionless.

  ‘Ah,’ Rostigan growled. ‘Took you long enough, Despirrow.’

  He had been wondering when this moment would come, had in fact expected it sooner. Perhaps Despirrow had been trying to delay confirming his presence absolutely, yet finally it seemed that some need had won out. Across the whole of Aorn it would be like this, for everyone except Rostigan and the other Wardens, immune as they were to Despirrow’s talent for halting the passage of time.

  Where is he? Rostigan wondered. It wasn’t a question he could answer – Despirrow could be around the next corner or a hundred leagues from here, and there was no way to tell. Only one thing was certain – whatever Despirrow’s purpose was, it boded ill.

  He started being very careful about where he stepped. With this many people in the square, a lot of dust had been kicked up. Tiny, unyielding particles hung in the air, capable of cutting through him from stomach to spine should he try to pass through them. Well did he remember the pain of moving about in frozen timescapes, but as long as he chose his path well, the wounds would be so small that he could handle them. Consciously he maintained his balance in a way he would not have normally thought about. A trip into a frozen dust cloud would be like falling on a thousand fixed needle tips.

  ‘How long do you need, Despirrow?’

  Even when they had been allies, Rostigan had not liked the man. All his charm, his easy smile, the well-groomed, prideful appearance left over from his days as court threader to Braston, all of it covered an animalistic lust, a mindless baseness that Karrak had never admired. Despirrow had ridden his and Forger’s coat-tails, desiring nothing more than for life to be full of food and song and women. Didn’t sound so bad, Rostigan supposed, unless one considered how Despirrow went about acquiring such things. Did he lie with some poor wench now, exempted from tableau by a strategic touch as the spell was cast?

  He thought about what he would do if Despirrow ever came near Tarzi. The man scared her most, he knew, out of all the Wardens. She had told his tale recently, in fact, at one of their tavern stops on the journey here.

  ‘After Regret,’ Tarzi said, stalking before the fire, ‘Despirrow and Braston returned to Althala together, but it soon became clear that the mindful and conscientious Despirrow of old had been replaced by as selfish a man as you could ever hope not to meet. Not only that, but the change had given him a most incredible gift for tying knots in the very threads of time – he could halt the world for everyone else, while he moved about freely.’

  Tarzi held up a wooden ball. ‘Anyone who catches this, I’ll share a bed with tonight.’

  Surprised men sat up straight, eyeing off the ball. Tarzi turned, and threw it in the fire. There were groans of disappointment, and a husband or two had his arm squeezed for letting one slip.

  ‘If you had been Despirrow,’ said Tarzi, ‘you could have been there in time, by stepping out of it. He used his gift to hunt pretty flowers, and took them wherever he found them, even if her betrothed, or mother or father, was standing right beside her on the street, their unseeing eyes frozen as she mewled piteously, asking why they didn’t help, as Despirrow set about her.’

  The briefly jovial mood departed, and the women who had squeezed their husbands did it again, this time out of fear.

  Tarzi shook her head as if coming out of a daze, and Rostigan wondered if she had affected herself with her own words.

  ‘Braston sniffed out Despirrow’s new nature soon enough, for the king had been through changes of his own. He was able to see where there was wrong in the world, and it became his obsession to remove it. And although he could not read Despirrow’s threads directly, he could see them in the women Despirrow raped. Thus he learned the terrible truth, that he had lost his friend to a disfigurement of the soul. He went after Despirrow, but Despirrow sensed the danger and fled. It was not until years later that Braston managed to finish the job. But how?’

  She cast around at blank faces, and it was the innkeeper who answered.

  ‘Poison,’ he said, while pouring into a cup.

  The old man the cup belonged to shot him a scowl. ‘Whaddaya say ya given me?’

  ‘Poison,’ nodded Tarzi. ‘Braston went to a whorehouse Despirrow liked to visit, and left a standing order to slip a packet of powder into Despirrow’s wine when he next appeared. Paid handsomely by Braston, with the promise of more if they succeeded, the whores did as they were bid. Despirrow drank the wine, and, by the time he sensed what was happening to him, it was too late. Stopping time didn’t help him, since he was still his own poisoned self. He tried to reach Braston – what else could he do but try to discover what was killing him, and get the antidote? – but he could not summon the concentration to threadwalk, through the fug of pain.’

  Rostigan thought of Stealer’s eyes, opening even after he had split her head in two. Wardens were hard to kill – so what rare strength of poison had Braston used on Despirrow?

  Nothing known to the wider world, that was certain.

  Time unfroze, and immediately someone barged into him.

  ‘Sorry!’ said a youth, backing away. ‘Didn’t see you there, sir.’

  ‘Rostigan?’ came Tarzi’s voice. ‘Where did you get to?’

  He had moved a little from where he’d been before the freeze, so hoped no one had been looking directly at him – if they had, it would appear as if he had blinked out of existence. Thankfully the officer was still weaving through the crowd ahead, having noticed nothing.

  ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Come on,’ Tarzi said. ‘We don’t want to fall behind, lest we lose our new quarters!’

  ‘No,’ said Rostigan. ‘I’m sure they will be splendid.’

  ‘What’s gotten you all grouchsome?’

  Rostigan frowned. ‘Nothing,’ he said, in an entirely unconvincing tone.

  THE LAST VASE

  Great chunks of orange stone rose and fell on either side of the winding path, making for a jagged horizon. It was as if, Yalenna thought, there were hills at the top of the mountains. A strange place and unsettling, too close to the sun to support any greenery. The vegetation that did exist was thorny, dark, and gave the illusion of being dead.

  Ahead of her, Braston squinted into the sky.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Thought I saw a silkjaw.’

  She glanced around warily. Th
ere were plenty of monsters in the Roshous Peaks, but she had constructed about them a shimmering haze to mask their passage from eyes above. Already a flock of silkjaws had flown overhead without attacking, so she was confident that it was working. Things on the ground concerned her more.

  ‘Come on,’ said Braston, though it wasn’t she who had stopped.

  He was in his element – happy there was something tangible to achieve, that she had come to him with a mission instead of questions he’d rather not think on. Well, she thought, if he helped with the pieces of the puzzle, even while ignoring the completed picture, it might be enough.

  ‘Why didn’t we know about this tomb?’ he muttered for the second or third time since they had arrived. That had been back down the path, towards the Tranquil Dale. They could only threadwalk to places they had already visited, and had chosen a plateau overlooking the Dale and Regret’s Spire. Above the Spire, the Wound was clearly visible, its red, ugly edges framing a view of the great threads beyond. Braston had turned away from it quickly, and she had followed, and not mentioned it since. Far from being healed, it looked like it could be growing worse.

  ‘How could we?’ she replied. ‘Regret planned to live forever, so why would he even build a tomb?’

  ‘I suppose he was simply being thorough,’ said Braston with a scowl.

  ‘What I don’t know,’ said Yalenna, ‘is why Mergan didn’t tell us about it, or ask us to accompany him. Maybe he thought he was protecting us from some risk, or something equally arrogant. And what did he think he would find in there?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not really a tomb at all, but a store of Regret’s foul devices and artefacts.’

  ‘Let’s just find it,’ said Yalenna; this guesswork was starting to annoy her.

  Ahead the ground dropped away into a gaping ravine on one side of the path. As he reached it, Braston gave a stifled exclamation and fell to a crouch, peering over the edge.

  ‘Careful!’ he hissed. ‘Get down.’

  She did so, creeping up beside him to peer over the edge, to see what had ruffled him.