The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (6 page)

She shook her head. How could she tell what had really happened? She would probably never know. The Spell worked in mysterious
ways.

She took a deep breath and turned eastwards. Summoning a picture of Althala in her head, she concentrated until her pattern
began to thrum. Her vision suddenly broke into line, sliding apart in different directions – and then she was undone, no longer
aware, a collection of threads whizzing along faster than any regular person could travel.

Sometime later she tumbled out of the air, reforming in farmland pastures with a gasp, just outside the walls of Althala.

Forger stared up into the sky, his view framed by towering blades of grass. He blinked.

‘What?’ he said, and sat up.

He had awoken on dirt, though the particles were much bigger than they should have been. Not to mention the pebbles, which
were the size of melons.

‘Except,’ he picked up a pebble and considered it, ‘they aren’t the size of melons.’ He rose and looked about the forest of
grass surrounding him. ‘Because a melon would be the size of a castle!’

He dropped the pebble and kicked it away to thud flatly against a stalk. It was like kicking a heavy rock, and it hurt.

‘Ah!’ said Forger, rubbing his foot. His grimace twisted into a grin. ‘I’m alive!’

He patted himself and found he was wearing his usual garb; brown straps holding together a collection of odd
little patches of leather scattered about his body. Then he patted his bald head.

‘So I’m me,’ he mused. ‘But I’m small.’

A huge ant appeared, and Forger gave a yelp of alarm. He went to the ground, grasping about for a sharp pebble. The ant paid
him no mind, and cantered off amongst the stalks. Forger watched it go with wide eyes, ready to attack with his pebble … then
rocked back and howled with laughter.

‘Scared of an ant! Me!’ He wiped tears from his eyes. ‘Right. Now, by blood and fire, what predicament am I in?’

The last thing he remembered was Yalenna and Braston, killing him. That was the only way they had been able to do it, the
cowards – together. He remembered a kidney exploding in his side, while they fought on with faces set serious in concentration,
not even taking any pleasure in their success. What a waste.

That had been in a little cottage.

‘Hmm.’

He found a second sharp pebble and approached a blade of grass. Jumping up it as far as he could, he stabbed the pebbles into
its soft flesh like daggers.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Up, up, up!’

Using the pebbles arm over arm, he began to stab his way higher, climbing the stalk with tiny muscles bulging. As he reached
the top, the stalk began to bend beneath him, and he took a moment to steady himself. Around
him stretched a sea of grass, and off in the distance stood monumental trees and an enormous cottage.

‘Are you the same?’ he asked it. ‘Or is this,’ he gestured around himself, ‘the exact spot where I died? And
my
cottage, glorious crypt that it was, has since rotted away? Because,’ he froze his gesturing hand and stared at it hard,
‘it is obvious much time has passed.’

After Regret, Forger had learned miraculous things about his changed self. Pain made him stronger, whether it was pain he
caused, or pain he took away. It had been pleasantly surprising to realise that this did not disturb him. Gone were the foibles
of his human days, when the world’s troubles weighed upon him heavily. Blissfully gone was the tendency to make every problem
his own, to
care
and
fret
, as if compassion were some kind of currency and he aimed to grow rich. What a relief it had been, to be done with all that!
He had gone on very happily to feed on humanity’s misfortune wherever he found it, or created it. Something else he had learned,
however – if he did not feed, he grew smaller, weaker.

So how long had it been?

‘Cottages,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter, what cottage is what, or where?’

The stalk gave in and he tumbled downwards, bouncing off other blades to land back on the dirt.

‘Piss and fire,’ he growled, sitting up to rub his bruises.

Behind him a patch of earth rose slightly, and eyes glistened in the shadows beneath. The trapdoor spider burst
from its tunnel and seized him around the waist, dragging him backwards into its lair. The trapdoor fell back neatly in place,
indiscernible from its surrounds.

Off in the distance, a child from the cottage began to play, his merry laughter echoing through the grass. A breeze rustled
the stalks, and spots of light flitted about.

The trapdoor flew open with a force that sent it spinning, and a howl of rage issued from the tunnel. A hand reached out to
clench the ground, and Forger hauled himself out of the darkness. He grunted, scratched and bleeding, and pulled on something
with his other hand that did not want to leave the hole.

‘Oho!’ growled Forger. ‘Not so keen now, eh?’

From the dark he dragged the spider forth by its front leg. In terror it tried to break free, but Forger heaved until it was
bodily out of the tunnel. Ignoring its clicking jaws and flailing legs, he sent gestures at the surrounding grass, ripping
sinews from the stalks and floating them to the spider. It felt good to be threading again, even on such a small scale. He
set the sinews tying knots about the spider’s limbs, which he then directed to root it to the ground. Soon the spider was
pinned flat, its soft belly rubbing against the earth as it tried to rise.

‘Want to return to the darkness, don’t you?’

Forger gave a wave upwards and the grass bent away, dappled light replaced by blazing sun. He moved in front of the creature,
squatting to stare into its multiple terrified eyes.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘pain is what I need. Luckily, you have it to give.’

He ran a hand over one of the splayed legs, ruffling coarse bristles. Hair covered the spider, up its legs to its head, and
all over its plump abdomen.

‘Lots of hair,’ said Forger.

He began to pluck.

For most of the morning he laboured on the spider, joyously drinking in its torment. He was deliberate and measured in his
work, making sure he gripped bundles of hair for long enough before pulling them, that the spider knew what was about to happen
each and every time. Eventually it was almost bald, its quivering flesh peppered by blotches of sticky blood. And Forger,
having fed for the first time in three hundred years, grew until his head was just above the grass.

‘That’s better.’ He sighed contentedly. ‘Getting too big for an intricate project like you,’ he told the spider, and turned
away, leaving it staked out in the sun.

Pushing grass aside, he made his way towards the cottage. Two little boys were playing under a tree, their mother looking
on from the porch, smiling at their silly game. It was like some hybrid of tag and wrestling, and also involved sticks somehow.

‘How nice,’ said Forger. He ducked his head beneath the grass, careful to stay hidden as he approached. The tree the boys
played beneath was an easy climb, and up he went, keeping to the side facing away from the house. Once
he reached the higher branches, he climbed around until he gained a good view of the boys. They raced about, but always eventually
returned to the shade – all he had to do was pick the right moment. In the meantime he set about untying the threads that
kept a heavy branch in place, until all it would take was a final tweak.

He did not have to wait long. The boys fell beneath him, a heap of gasps, grunts and chuckles. He gestured at the branch,
snicking the last thread. With a crack it plummeted, and his timing was good. The boys were on top of each other, and the
branch fell on top of both, crushing them to little-boy jam.

The cry from the mother came as expected, full of horror and disbelief – not quite what he needed, yet. She raced over and,
with strength that belied her frame, wrested the branch off her sons. As she fell beside their broken bodies, Forger sensed
hairline splinters running through her heart.

No
, she mouthed silently, no sound escaping her throat. She pawed at her children, as if by rearranging their limbs back into
normal positions, she could restore them to life. Her pain began to reach Forger, sharp and clear – a soul pain, the purest
sort, and oh, it was good! She rocked as her tears flowed, and Forger grew stronger with each racking sob. She would not get
over this quickly, he knew, and maybe there was a father about too, who would soon discover this pain himself. With any luck,
Forger could lurk about this house until he was well satiated.

He realised he was growing heavier, perhaps too heavy for his current vantage. The branch beneath him cracked
and fell, and he gave a little squeak as he went tumbling after, to land on his feet beside the mother. She flinched, blinking
at him rapidly. He must have grown, for although she knelt and he stood, they were eye to red-and-weepy eye.

‘There goes that idea,’ he said.

Somehow she associated him with what had happened, and reached for his throat with a shriek of rage. Forger flicked his fingers
at her feet and rooted her in place. Quickly he decided that, although less thorough than what he’d intended, there were faster
ways to eke more pain from her.

‘Who did I think I was fooling?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have the patience to sneak about unseen while you mourn! Ha.’

He gave a wave, and, directing her body for her, sent her stumbling towards the cottage.

‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Stop!’

He considered the dead children for a moment, then floated their corpses after her.

‘I think we shall prop up your boys at the table,’ he told the hysterical woman, ‘so they can watch what I do to you.’

Bouncing up the porch steps, he opened the cottage door and stood aside, hand held out in a gesture of welcome.

‘Come on in!’

The lurching woman screamed at him without words.

‘Really,’ he said, ‘can’t you understand? I’m just trying to be happy. Why don’t you want me to be happy?’

And he took them all into the house.

Rostigan drew deeply on his pipe, filling up his lungs with smoke. He enjoyed the bite of it, strangely, the hot prickle of
damage done.

Nobody bothered him here, sitting in a dark corner of the busy tavern. His stern face and heavy sword usually made sure of
that, but tonight people were skittish, distracted by all they had heard over the past few days. This town lay in the plains
some leagues from Silverstone, and enough travellers from that direction had given accounts of the missing city to leave the
townsfolk frightened.

‘I’m telling you,’ said a farmer at the nearest table, ‘it’s just not natural.’

‘Oh,
thank you
for that, Borry,’ replied a pock-marked man. ‘A whole city up and vanishes, and you declare it’s not natural? What insight!
It’s a wonder you’re just a common farmer and not some famous, wealthy scholar.’

‘Settle down Tanis,’ said a woman, ‘there’s no need for that. We’re all worried.’

‘I’m not worried. Has any of you actually
seen
Silverstone?’

‘That’s the whole problem,’ said Borry. ‘It can’t be seen!’

‘I mean, coal and ash, has anyone here actually verified the truth of these claims? It could just be some traveller spreading
lies as a trick.’

‘But it weren’t just one. It was –’

‘At least three,’ said the woman. ‘Different ones too, not travelling together.’

‘You mean,’ said Tanis, growing ever more exasperated, ‘that they didn’t
arrive
together. Maybe they met on the road beforehand, and said to each other, “Let’s conjure a tale before visiting town one by
one, so the poor fools don’t suspect that we’re lying sons of goats. What fun it will be to scare whatever semblance of wits
they may or may not have right out of their hollow heads!”’

‘You believe what you want,’ said the woman. ‘I saw the look in one of ’em’s eyes, and I’m telling you, he believed what he
saw. Said there was a voice in the air, just … hovering.’

‘Haw!’

As the conversation grew louder, it attracted attention from other tables.

‘I heard that too,’ put in someone. ‘Ghost words, no one there to speak them.’

‘And what about rumours from the north?’ asked a younger man. ‘I was in Yar today, and there’s talk going about that Braston
rules again in Althala!’

‘Aye,’ said Borry. ‘I heard that, Klion.’

‘Indeed,’ said Tanis, thumbing towards Klion. ‘You heard it from
him
.’

‘And Yalenna, too – they say she came back to life in the Temple of Storms!’

Rostigan, regrettably, did not think the rumours were false. He knew for certain that one Warden had returned from death –
and if she had, why not others?

Borry, it seemed, echoed his sentiment. ‘Wardens,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘The Spell’s upped and brought ’em back,
that’s what I reckon. And if it’s done Braston and Yalenna, well, why not also … but, ah, I don’t want to say.’

‘We all know who liked to leave words hanging about in the air,’ said the woman.

‘I don’t believe this,’ muttered Tanis. ‘You’re talking about children’s stories!’

‘Horse shit,’ said Borry. ‘Spell’s done it before. What about feverblossom? It disappeared for a hundred years, and now it’s
everywhere in the west, thicker on the ground than grass.’

‘And wildercats,’ added the woman. ‘And harp flies.’

Tarzi returned to the table with two mugs of ale and sat down despondently. ‘Innkeeper doesn’t think it’s a night for minstrels,’
she said. ‘People are too worked up.’

Rostigan puffed on his pipe.

‘You’re all idiots,’ Tanis declared as he rose, sounding more afraid than convinced. ‘Why go putting such ideas in people’s
heads? Eh? To what purpose?’ He stalked away toward the door.

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 once 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.