The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (7 page)

‘What about the good Wardens?’ said Klion. ‘Surely they will save us?’

‘Oh yes?’ said Tarzi. ‘If that’s what you believe, then by all means stay here and do nothing. Let me tell you this, however
– even good Wardens need help. Why else would Braston ask for an army, if he could handle everything by himself? Make no mistake,
fine people – complacence is tantamount to downfall. Silverstone is gone! Will you let that loss stand alone as a terrible
tragedy, or become the new way of the world?’

Across the room, the threader gave a little smile. Rostigan could see the man was impressed – certainly he could not have
said it better himself.

‘All right,’ said the innkeeper, once more coming around
his counter, ‘I think you’ve terrorised my customers plenty for one night.’

‘It isn’t me,’ snapped Tarzi, ‘from which terror originates. I trust that
you
won’t be joining us on the road tomorrow, good innkeeper? Where instead? Sleeping peacefully, like a hog in a hoghouse, unaware
that you will soon be sent to slaughter? Happy in your ignorance, your denial?’

The innkeeper’s face went bright red. ‘That’s enough!’

‘
I
shall join you.’

This from a muscular young man with bronzed skin and a healthy spark, a farmhand by the looks. At his words, the friends he
sat with bobbed their heads.

Rostigan knew the type. Bored with their decent lives, they would find the call to any adventure appealing. Armies were built
on such headstrong young folk, who did not understand that glory was a word used long after the fact.

‘And I, miss,’ said Borry, ‘though I may be too old for such an undertaking – at the least I shall bring you supplies for
your trip.’

Other voices rose and soon the room was full of them. The innkeeper may not have succeeded in shouting down Tarzi, but as
people began to discuss all that they had heard, she was, in a way, dismissed by the collective. Many of them now clustered
about the threader, peppering him with questions. Meanwhile Tarzi moved back to sit with Rostigan, not meeting his eyes immediately.

‘Are you angry with me?’ she asked.

Rostigan removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘A little,’ he said. ‘But … well, what does it matter?’

‘And about going to Althala?’

As he scratched at the tabletop, a splinter broke free to drive up under his fingernail. Wincing, he pulled it out.

What other choice?

‘Of course,’ he said, and sighed.

That night it took Rostigan a long time to find sleep. It wasn’t because of Tarzi continuously stealing the sheets, then depositing
them back upon him in a tangle, for he was used to that. Rather, it was news of the Unwoven stirring, making him wonder if
they might soon leave the Dale on mass, as they had done once before. And, as he drifted in and out of wakefulness, he saw
golden fields of grass shining in the sun, and felt a warm breeze on his face that was almost comforting.

They said there was nowhere flatter in Aorn, and Rostigan had travelled widely enough to believe it. Stretching from the foothills
of the Roshous Peaks, the Ilduin Fields were a great expanse of hard ground and tough yellow grass. It was hot there also,
damn hot, and he sweated constantly under his steel.

‘There’s the Pass,’ said Loppolo, King of Althala.

Away in the distance, a V-shaped break in the mountains marked the entrance to the Tranquil Dale. In the centuries since Regret
had turned his people into Unwoven, and despite their lord’s long absence, they had never forgotten his order to guard it.
Unusually, however, in recent days, a great many of them had spilled from the Pass to camp on the Fields, beneath colourfully
inconsistent banners. It was a sight not seen in living memory, and no one felt it boded well.

‘Why now?’ said Loppolo. ‘The Unwoven have always kept to themselves. Well, the odd raid, of course, but nothing on this scale.’

‘For no good reason,’ replied Rostigan.

‘Have they rutted themselves out of space?’ mused Loppolo. ‘Can the Dale no longer support their numbers?’

Around the young king stood his officers, and a greater army of thousands. How strange it felt for Rostigan, to have deliberately
sought Loppolo out and convinced him action must be taken. The king had proved stubborn at first, disbelieving that reports
of Unwoven leaving the Dale were anything to be concerned by. ‘Let the Plainsfolk deal with them, as they always have,’ had
been his answer. Rostigan, however, was greatly concerned, for any mustering of Regret’s creatures surely meant trouble for
Aorn. Thus he had broken his own rules, allowing himself a small lapse. It was surprising how readily it had come back to
him, once he set his mind to it – he’d imagined his abilities in
some dusty chest sunk to the bottom of the deep place. Yet, standing in the Althalan throne room, surrounded by lords and
ladies and soldiers, even unsuspecting threaders, he had quietly woven threads into the words he spoke, to ensure they settled
into minds as truth. Nothing monstrously manipulative, he told himself, just a few light touches to make certain that Loppolo
was clear on the weight of the situation … and trusted Rostigan absolutely.

‘There mustn’t be more than a few hundred of them,’ said Loppolo. His tone did not, however, imply this made things simple.
Rostigan had counselled him on the journey here, ensuring he understood that Unwoven did not die easily. Their strength was
greater than their bony frames suggested, and not much save a blow to the brain or heart would bring one down.

‘The Plainsfolk arrive,’ announced Tursa, one of Loppolo’s advisors. Sure enough, several hundred soldiers in leather armour
on horseback were joining the main force. A smaller party broke from them, led by a large man with a red forked beard.

‘Ho, Althalans,’ he called. ‘Hail, King Loppolo. I thank you greatly for coming to our aid.’

‘Your people should not stand alone, King Hunna,’ said Loppolo, ‘against such a vile threat.’

Hunna nodded. ‘Often we have fought them in smaller numbers, but I’ve not seen anything like this before. Something has brought
them out of the Pass – but what dark calling, I can’t imagine.’

‘Look!’ said Tursa. Away on the Fields, a solitary figure was riding from the Unwoven camp towards them. It carried a white
flag, which it waved back and forth over its head. Once the figure reached the halfway point between the armies, it halted,
and planted the flag in the ground. Then it drew its sword and flung it away.

‘By the Spell,’ said King Hunna. ‘I have never heard of Unwoven wanting to talk before.’

Rostigan frowned. Neither had he.

‘I shall go,’ he said.

‘The kings should go,’ said Hunna. His appraising eyes travelled over Rostigan, but failed to find any mark of rank or station.
‘Who is this man?’

‘I am Rostigan, my lord. And the kings should not go, in case this is a trap. You know how Unwoven are.’

‘He’s right,’ said Loppolo quickly. ‘Rostigan should go.’

‘Then I should go with him,’ said Tursa, shooting Rostigan a suspicious look. The advisor had been uneasy with him ever since
he’d appeared in Althala out of nowhere and immediately acquired the king’s ear.

‘I make no guarantees as to your safety,’ said Rostigan. Tursa, a rotund fellow with no combat experience, visibly thought
twice about his own suggestion, yet evidently did not want to seem a coward by backing out.

‘Though I would attempt to protect you,’ Rostigan added quietly, ‘if it came to that.’

Tursa opened his mouth, but said nothing, and a moment later nodded.

‘We shall have representation too, then,’ said Hunna. He gave a wave, and a younger man appeared beside him. ‘This is Captain
–’

‘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!’