The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  He stopped as he saw Braston.

  ‘Ah,’ he said loudly, ‘so good of you to join us, my lord. I trust your expedition went well? While the city burned …’

  Braston turned a dark shade of red. ‘You have the situation in hand?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Loppolo. ‘After all, you, who have ruled us well for several days, were nowhere to be found.’

  ‘And I am thankful,’ said Braston, ‘to have had such an able stand-in on hand. But now I’m back, and I’m not going anywhere.’

  There followed an uneasy standoff. Yalenna imagined that, in Braston’s absence, it had been natural for the people to look to Loppolo, and rightly so. Now that they were caught between the two leaders, uncertainty ran rife.

  Loppolo scowled and turned on his heel, marching into the castle, followed by his courtiers.

  Trouble brewing, thought Yalenna. If only Braston had not acted so rashly to begin with! He should be working with the king, instead of in his place.

  ‘Now,’ said Braston, ‘I want a full report.’

  The remaining officers glanced at each other, but Loppolo’s deferral was evident in his retreat. They went on to give various accounts of the night, which Yalenna found greatly disturbing. Again she thought about the chant the Unwoven had performed over the silkjaw nest … certainly such control would explain why, in the past, Unwoven and silkjaws had attacked together.

  What was it, she wondered, that the Unwoven even wanted? Something specific, or was it all simply part of Regret’s damnable legacy, as the creatures he’d created mindlessly struck out at the world, instinctively carrying on his work? Trying to carve out ruin because that’s what they’d been made for, their function intact despite their maker long turned to dust?

  Do they sense the growing corruption, perhaps? Has it stirred them to action, a taste of the reality they were built to populate?

  The officers finished their reports. It was evident that the work necessary to restore Althala was already being carried out, leaving Braston with little more to order than ‘carry on’. As the officers departed, however, one man lingered.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘there is something else you should know about.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A man claiming to be the great warrior Rostigan Skullrender arrived yesterday. He earned his name at the Ilduin Fields … forgive me, but my lord has been informed of the battle that took place there?’

  ‘I have, and of Skullrender’s hand in the victory.’

  ‘Quite. Well, having seen this man in action last night, there’s no doubt he is an able fighter, Rostigan or not. I am sure, of course, my lord will be able to verify the truth of the matter. He also makes a further claim of undoubtable interest.’

  Braston gave a wave of ‘continue’.

  ‘My lord … he says he killed Stealer.’

  That got both Braston and Yalenna’s undivided attention.

  ‘Really?’ said Braston. ‘I had heard rumblings, but, well, if that is so, it is welcome news indeed.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Last I knew,’ answered the officer, ‘in the barracks. There has been much activity today however, so I’m not sure if he still remains there …’

  Braston turned slowly to view the buildings at the square’s edge.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I shall have to meet this good fellow. Right away.’

  Rostigan sat in the dining hall, poking at a bowl of stew. He had helped himself to an untended pot that had been sitting on the fire all night, and did not think the long cooking time had harmed the food’s flavour.

  The barracks were quiet. Everyone who wasn’t outside cleaning up or yelling at crows was asleep after a hard night. Tarzi was among them, slumbering deeply in their room. He had tried to sink alongside her, but could too much sense his crows’ dissatisfaction to rest easily. Many of them had been injured or killed doing his bidding, and the survivors expected what they had been promised, yet the people of Althala had recovered too quickly and had already cleared away many of the bodies. In the old days Karrak had always made sure his birds were happy, treated as sacred and left undisturbed as they savoured the fruits of battle. Perhaps crows were simply not tools appropriate to him anymore, demanding a payment Rostigan could not provide.

  Why? he wondered angrily. There was no right and wrong as far as the dead were concerned. The crows had helped the people of Althala more than would ever be known. What harm if they tore at a little corpse flesh in recompense? People wanted their dead treated with respect, of course, and didn’t like to be reminded of their own inner workings, but it was a small price to pay for the service the crows had given.

  Of the two sets of double doors on the square side of the room, the ones furthest from him opened. He hoped whoever it was did not plan on staying, for right now he desired solitude, such as it was, with hundreds of little minds cawing discontentedly at the edges of his own. He stared into his stew, not wishing to invite company.

  ‘Hello there,’ came a deep, familiar voice. ‘I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Rostigan.’

  Slowly Rostigan raised his eyes, to favour Braston with an even stare. Beside the king, Yalenna stood with an equally shocked expression. Strangely, Rostigan found himself pleased to see her. They had been friends before the change, and maybe a little of that returned to him now. He remembered the amiable jousts and long talks they’d had, on their way to the Peaks, back when he had been charming and she had been happier. He found himself giving her a little smile and a nod.

  ‘I knew it!’ thundered Braston. ‘They are your crows, aren’t they, Karrak? This was somehow your doing!’

  He reached for the table beside him, long enough for ten soldiers a side, and flipped it to crash against the next one along. Striding into the aisle Rostigan sat in, he drew his sword.

  ‘Wait, Braston,’ Rostigan said, rising to show empty palms. ‘I no longer go by that name, nor by his habits.’

  Braston wore a mask of rage which Rostigan’s words failed to penetrate. The man bellowed and charged, and Rostigan vaulted over the table, putting it between them – until Braston’s sword came down upon it, splintering it to a collapsed V and smashing Rostigan’s bowl into the bargain. Some of the stew spattered Braston’s face and he gave an angry flinch.

  ‘Braston!’ said Rostigan, backing away. ‘I do not wish to fight!’

  ‘Listen to him!’ said Yalenna, approaching from the far end of the room.

  ‘No!’ shouted Braston. ‘He has a snake’s tongue, twisting words as adroitly as he twists through the mire on his belly!’

  He kicked through the table pieces and Rostigan darted sideways, narrowly avoiding another great swing. Short-sighted fool, he thought as he ran, reluctantly pulling free his own sword. He spun about and found Braston close on his heels. The Warden’s blade crashed against his, with all of Braston’s legendary might behind it, and Rostigan’s entire body juddered. They had never fought man-to-man before, and Rostigan had thought them an equal match when it came to brute strength – but that blow made him think again.

  Another came, driving Rostigan’s sword downwards, and Braston followed through with a mighty punch of his free hand. Rostigan stumbled, his eye and cheek throbbing. Groggily he raised his sword again, but his wrist snapped painfully as it was turned aside. The next moment he was being lifted, as Braston shoulder-charged him into the wall. Winded, he slid to his knees.

  There came the sound of running feet in corridors, the commotion having roused some of the barrack’s denizens. Yalenna waved at the doors on either side of the room, weaving them together to become continuous with the wall.

  ‘Let them in!’ shouted Braston, hovering his sword over Rostigan’s heart. ‘I would have them see their king kill the Lord of Crows!’

  Yalenna reached out as she advanced, and Braston’s sword fell to pieces in his hand. He blinked at it, scowled, and flung the hilt away in disgust.

  ‘
Stop that this instant!’ said Yalenna, but Braston seized Rostigan under the chin and dragged him up the wall by his throat. In his foggy mind, Rostigan could not believe that he had been beaten so soundly.

  ‘Listen,’ he wheezed, ‘please … I have been living as a good man … I have tried to make amends …’

  ‘Amends!’ guffawed Braston. ‘Amends you can make for certain things – for breaking a heart or stealing a pig, and much worse than that besides. But your crimes are too great for amends, Karrak.’

  Rostigan kicked him hard in the balls and Braston winced. Sweat broke out along his forehead, but he grinned and squeezed harder. Rostigan saw spots, his vision closing in.

  ‘Enough!’ roared Yalenna.

  Rostigan fell, the pressure on his windpipe gone, blood gushing painfully back into his throat. Meanwhile Braston slammed against the adjoining wall, and slid downwards into a similar position. His expression became one of hurt and shock, seeming for a moment like a chastised child.

  Yalenna stalked forward, a hand held out towards each of them.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘will you cease behaving like such a raging lunatic, Braston, or must I rap your thick skull again? Aren’t you even a little curious to find out if he really killed Stealer?’

  Braston opened his mouth, and for a moment said nothing. Then, ‘I had forgotten about that.’

  Rostigan rubbed his throat. ‘Some show of gratitude,’ he said. ‘I came here to join your army.’

  Yalenna gave him a hard stare. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘we can always kill him later, should we choose.’

  WITHOUT FEAR

  From a high balcony Forger looked out over the tiers of Tallahow. His city was sensible and grey, streamlined and efficient, well planned and well executed. For all its sleek, stepped design, however, he had always found it to be a bit of a dull stone amidst his glittering empire. Or what would be his empire, again.

  ‘My lord,’ said Threver, ‘some of our citizens flee the city. It isn’t an unusual occurrence, when rulers change, yet there are more this time than normal. I feel my lord may have scared the populace with the mode of his ascension. Do you wish the guards to lock down the walls?’

  Forger glanced at Threver sidelong. The old advisor had been trailing him ever since he’d taken control, quick to see that his orders were followed. He did not mind, for now – the crossbow wound in his side was taking a little while to heal, so it was nice having someone making sure he was fed grapes, and brought randomly chosen victims to suffer his attention. Their pain helped him heal all the faster.

  ‘And you, Threver?’ he said. ‘Do you wish to remain?’

  ‘Pardon, my lord?’

  ‘It’s just,’ Forger gripped the rail of the balcony, ‘you were very fast to side with me. Surely you must feel for the suffering of the people?’

  Threver cleared his throat. ‘I do not judge, merely advise. Indeed, I take my role very seriously. I am not, however, advisor to this Lord of Tallahow, or that Lady of Tallahow. Simply to the ruler of Tallahow, whomever that might be.’

  ‘I see. And your advice, then – is it consistent?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Would you furnish Elacin with the same wisdom as you would furnish me?’

  Threver gave him a flat stare, which actually impressed him with its boldness.

  ‘No, my lord. Although I always strive to present the facts untarnished – even if I fear they will not be to the listener’s liking – my advice is, of course, always tailored to a ruler’s specific aims and desires.’

  ‘How flexible of you.’

  Forger turned back to the city, running his eyes along the grey wall that encircled it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  Threver cleared his throat. ‘The people have heard stories of my lord, and are naturally afraid.’

  ‘Is no one proud of the heritage I endow Tallahow with? In my day the people were glad to follow me, glad of Tallahow’s glory!’

  ‘There are some who are hopeful of glory’s return. My informants tell me the mood is mixed.’

  ‘Ah. You have informants.’

  ‘Of course. There are those who speak fondly of the old days, when Tallahow was the east and riches flowed into our coffers. There are nobles who would see their holdings expand, who have in the past counselled war with our neighbours. And there are those in the army to whom battle appeals, when there has been no battle for many years. It is one thing to reminisce, however, and dream of glory, quite another to be faced with a unknown king who fills the keep with screams.’

  Forger gave Threver a discerning look. ‘You think I have been too anonymous, is that it?’

  ‘Perhaps, my lord.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Forger. ‘Hmm, hmm and hum.’ He scowled. ‘If only Karrak were here, he could speak to the people on my behalf. Ah well, I shall have to do this in my own way.’ He reached a decision. ‘Summon anyone of note to the great hall. Officers, civic leaders, nobles, that kind of thing. Anyone with influence, anyone who stands to profit from war. You can do this?’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘Good. This evening then. Tell them there will be a feast to welcome and meet me.’

  ‘And then, lord?’

  ‘Leave that to me.’

  That evening many collected in the keep’s great hall, a cavernous room lit by many clusters of candles. They entered to find a magnificent spread – food heaped along tables, stacks of plates waiting for any who wished to pile them high, and servants running about eager to refill any slightly empty glass. There was an excess to it that most had not experienced for some time, for Elacin had been a frugal ruler. Thus, despite an underlying air of nervousness, soon everyone was eating and drinking, and talk and laughter began to echo off the walls. Where, though, was the man who had sent for them?

  When Forger entered, all fell to a hush. He strode up the centre of the room, Threver hopping along in his wake, towards a table raised on a dais by the side of the raging fire. He stepped up to it and rounded, to stand looking out over the sea of expectant faces. Half-chewed legs and pastries were set down, glasses lowered.

  ‘The Lord of Tallahow will speak,’ announced Threver, from before the dais.

  ‘Hello,’ said Forger brightly. ‘How very nice to see you all! Looks like some good grub – my compliments to the kitchens. Threver, if you wouldn’t mind …’

  Threver glanced at him with confusion, until Forger gestured impatiently towards one of the tables.

  ‘Well, it is a feast, is it not? Fetch me some food!’

  There were some chortles as Threver set about his menial task in a stiff and embarrassed fashion.

  ‘I trust we are all having a pleasant evening?’ said Forger, and there were a few hesitant murmurs of assent. As Threver set a plate on the table beside him, ‘Ah! Excellent.’

  He picked up a sausage to munch, waving it at his audience while he chewed.

  ‘This reminds me of how the great hall used to look. A worthy outlet for an overflowing larder, everyone eating and carrying on. This is how it should be!’

  The answering murmurs were more enthusiastic this time.

  ‘This is the Tallahow of my youth,’ continued Forger, a sentimental twinkle appearing in his eye. ‘Some time ago now, as you probably know. I was born elsewhere, nothing more than a blacksmith’s son, set to become a blacksmith too, until my … parents … saw me controlling the flames at will. “Our boy”, they said, “must be built for grander things than we had hitherto imagined!” Thus they sent me here, to train with the finest threaders Aorn had to offer.’

  He swallowed and wiped a greasy hand on his chest. He had not thought about his parents for some time, and for a moment almost saw their faces … blurred, as if they lay on the other side of misted glass. What had been their names?

  He frowned, pushing the thought of them away.

  ‘That’s one thing,’ he continued, ‘that I’ve
always loved about our fair city. Some places are ruled by tradition, and a fat king hands his crown to a fat son, or a useless pig of a daughter. But here in Tallahow, rule has always been decided by strength. Nobles can be made, not born. Thus an outsider, a lowly blacksmith’s boy indeed, can rise to the very top, if he has the right kind of mettle.’

  He grinned at what he thought was a very clever joke, which unfortunately no one else seemed to get.

  ‘I have returned,’ he went on, ‘from the dead, to restore us to our former grandeur!’

  Some cheers sounded.

  ‘There are a few problems, however.’ He picked up a quail and popped it whole into his mouth. The people fell silent again, waiting for him to crack its bones.

  ‘Crunchy,’ he said approvingly. ‘One problem is that I remember a hard people – a strong people, a proud people – yet who do I return to find, holed up in the shadow of the Roshous Peaks? People who talk, yes, people who claim to remember the good old days, yet here they stay, within borders I remember breaking. We still have an army, do we not?’

  He singled out a man in well-polished mail, evidently some kind of high-ranking officer.

  ‘You, sir! How many in Tallahow’s forces?’

  People edged away from the man.

  He cleared his throat. ‘My lord, it is something like ten thousand.’

  ‘Ten thousand!’ said Forger. ‘By the Spell, that is a few. No wonder none has ever dared attack us!’

  Pride from the crowd at his words.

  ‘But then,’ he grew more sombre, ‘why do we dare not attack?’

  He let his words hang for a moment.

  ‘If I had to guess,’ he stalked across the dais, ‘I would say it’s because of pain – the one thing in the world worth fearing! Fear of pain is what stops us from fulfilling our potential. Not just pain of the body –’ He gestured at the officer, who went down wailing. The crowd backed further from him as he writhed, fear rising from them palpably, ‘– but pain of loss, pain of guilt. Fear of failure, fear of change! Frustration, anguish – are these not tied up with pain? How to overcome, then, these hindrances, these barriers we dare not try to cross, which render us inert? With the threat of greater pain, as punishment?’