The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (22 page)

‘… Threaders, I want word sent to Sortree, Ander, Brightrock and all settlements within distance of the Peaks, to warn them
of this menace. Make sure to include the Plains Kingdom, for they are much closer to the mountains than we. They may have
been attacked already, for all we know.’

The threaders nodded and headed into the castle. They would travel up to the highest points, from which messages could travel
the furthest distance.

‘We must make preparations in case they return,’ continued Loppolo. ‘Double the guards on the city walls, and make sure they
have fire on hand at all times. Also –’

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.’

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?’

He flung out his hands. Threads rippled from him, a web-like network of invisible lines expanding outwards. In a wave people
collapsed before him, their bodies wracked by indescribable torment. Forger laughed – he had reached equilibrium, the effort
of his outpouring matched by the rewards it garnered. Growing neither stronger nor weaker, he could now
maintain
as long as he wished.

A table tipped over as people fell against it, splattering fine food on the floor. He saw folk trying to stagger from the
hall, and with a wave slammed shut the distant doors.

‘My … lord …’ choked Threver, from the floor. ‘For … what … purpose …’

Forger ignored him, stepping down to move amongst the prostrate throng.

‘But what if,’ he called, ‘someone could take your pain
away
? What if you never had to feel this, or anything like it, again?’

He snapped his hands to his chest, recalling all threads. As they retracted to him they brought little bundles, torn from
the patterns of every person present. He drew them into himself, squirrelling them away, as the screaming died down.

‘I would prefer,’ he said, treading carefully amongst the upwards stares, ‘that those who fight with me do so because they
are loyal, because they know the rewards for standing at my side. Save the pain for our enemies, friends, for I have taken
yours away!’

He summoned a carving knife, and flung it into a noblewoman’s arm. She stared at it curiously, unflinching as it dangled from
her soft flesh.

‘You all had ailments,’ Forger said, ‘as various as your pleasures. You, sir – a bung leg, forever throbbing, never distant
from your thoughts. You, miss – an unhappy marriage, but no courage to leave it, for
fear
of what? Destitution, loss of standing,
pain
? You, little man.’ He stopped by a child. ‘You were angry, for what reason?’

‘Parents,’ the boy murmured.

‘His parents, dead!’ crowed Forger. ‘Keeping him up at night, their faces ever in his thoughts! But now, little man,
you will sleep soundly. And if your mean old uncle,’ he turned to the noble lying beside the boy, ‘hits you again, will you
feel it, will you
care
?’

‘I won’t hit him anymore,’ said the man.

‘What’s that?’ said Forger. ‘Why?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps because he no longer reminds you of your beautiful sister, who died giving him life? Who you, in truth, used to share
a bed with? And do you care that everyone now knows this?’ He cast his eyes around. ‘Does the guilt of this terrible secret
linger, the constant fear that foul incest will be posthumously revealed?’

The man checked himself, then met the eyes of his peers. ‘No.’

‘No!’ shouted Forger. ‘Who cares about her? She’s dead! Life is for the living – and a life lived in pain, in fear, is no
life at all. Wouldn’t you agree?’

People were beginning to rise.

‘That’s right!’ said Forger. ‘Get up! Get back to the feast! Eat more than you need, for no rumbling gut will burn your bowels
in the middle of the night! Drink all you like, for no sore head will cloud the morning, no unfortunate words spoken in the
fug will return to haunt you!’

People were laughing now, poking at each other experimentally with forks. Forger gave an encouraging whoop of joy and shovelled
a handful of meat into his mouth.

‘Come, my loves! Let us usher in a new era for our beloved Tallahow. For without pain, there is no fear. And without fear,’
his voice grew stronger, ‘
no one can stop us!
’