by Sam Bowring
Several Unwoven nearby moved about listlessly, as if they had nothing to do and nowhere to be. Drift on, he willed them. As if in answer, another came by leading a pig on a rope, and the rest stopped to watch with interest. Were they hungry? They certainly looked it, all ropey muscle and sunken stomachs, their bright eyes big in receded faces. The pig and its owner wandered on, maybe heading up to the high green slopes where other livestock roamed. As heads turned to follow them, Salarkis slipped from the doorway and moved sideways away from it, then broke into a slow, aimless meander. He was sure he must have been seen in a valley with this many eyes, but there came no shouts at his sudden appearance, no accusatory pointing of fingers. As he began to angle down the slope, however, one individual fixed on him – a large male, his broad shoulders hunched low, with crystal blue eyes.
‘Where did you come from?’ Blue-eye called in a thick voice.
Salarkis did not stop. He was not sure how Unwoven behaved among their own, but knew at the least that they showed no fear. Nor, until he could listen to some of them interact with each other, did he want to risk speaking. It was said that Unwoven thought about the world in a different way, and he feared removing his disguise with the wrong choice of words. Thus, as he glanced at Blue-eye, he simply thumbed off in some vague direction away from the door. Do not follow, he prayed, as he continued down the slope, trying his best to appear unconcerned while his pounding heart threatened to betray him.
Quickly he became more afraid of his immediate surrounds. Unwoven sat about toasting bits of bread and meat over fires, slumbering loudly in their huts, or lying about in the open, curled up together like horrible cats. Two of those he passed were doing a strange dance, their arms reaching upwards as they swayed about.
‘Can you smell it?’ he heard one of them whisper.
‘Yes, yes … the leaves keep spinning … his touch is spreading …’
A group of them clustered around a stone slab over which two brutes arm wrestled, until one slammed down the other’s hand and there was hooting and laughter.
No one, thankfully, seemed very interested in Salarkis.
The slope levelled out as he moved into the ruins of the city which, in his younger days, had been a colourful, cheerful place. Now the remnants of mosaic walls, still brightly tiled under the dust, stood crumbling amidst buildings in various states of collapse. A few islands of cobblestones peppered the streets, and vegetation grew wherever it liked. It did not look like the Unwoven had actively destroyed their home, merely that they had never done anything to maintain it.
Poor people, he thought. It was easy to forget that these were really Regret’s innocent victims, normal folk who had been changed against their will, a violation that had lasted generations. If there was a way to revert them to their old state, it had died long ago with their broken lord. The best to be hoped for them now was an end, not delivered in malice, but mercy.
Some of the buildings still seemed to be in use – Salarkis saw a chimney smoking, smelled fresh bread baking, and heard the clank of a blacksmith’s hammer. How did the Unwoven organise themselves, he wondered? There was a semblance of civilisation here, yet one thing he knew about them was that they had no names. How could any society function like that? What if the baker wanted a sword from the blacksmith – what did they say to each other? How did a mother call to her children?
There sounded a squeal and two youngsters tore out of a half-collapsed house. They were an especially unnerving sight – hard little children without a skerrick of fat on them. The boy chased the girl, who suddenly spun around and struck him across the jaw with such force that Salarkis winced. An adult female came after them and grabbed the girl by her wrist.
‘No!’ she growled. ‘Never!’
The boy rose, apparently unhurt, grinning until the female grabbed him too.
‘The one rule,’ she said.
The children hissed at her.
‘The one rule,’ the woman repeated firmly.
‘Unwoven,’ said the girl, ‘do not fight Unwoven.’
Grunting sounded from a nearby alleyway. Salarkis was surprised to see a male pressing a female against a wall, forcefully pawing at her breasts. A moment later he pushed her downwards and she lay on her back, legs open, ready. They began to rut like pigs in the dirt, groaning without regard for the children nearby, or anyone else for that matter.
The mother finished remonstrating her children and released them. They ran away, up the alley past the writhing couple.
Salarkis wondered if the woman really was their mother.
Maybe they weren’t even siblings.
The ground suddenly rumbled and, off up the mountainside, a jagged crack opened along an overhang of rock. It collapsed onto a grassy slope, sending up a dust cloud and loosing boulders through a herd of panicking cattle, crushing several. Salarkis gripped a wall in fright, though no one else around him seemed at all concerned. The fornicating Unwoven cried out in jubilation, their movements seemingly amplified by the earth’s vibrations. After a few more moments the rumbling died away, and the boulders came to rest with redly glistening sides.
Salarkis moved on.
The ‘one rule’ interested Salarkis. Did it apply to every Unwoven, or was it just something said to unruly children? Somehow it made sense, that a people like this, who lived hard and strong without pain or remorse, and who by all accounts held little sacred, would need a restriction to stop them killing each other. Perhaps it was part of Regret’s original design, an enforced solidarity amongst his pack.
The fact that Salarkis’s disguise seemed to be working well had the peculiar effect of slowing him down. His curiousity was getting the better of him – this was, after all, a rare chance to gain insight into the reclusive Unwoven world.
He came across a line of drying clothes hanging between buildings, with no one in particular watching over them. Trying to appear bold and uncaring, he took down a pair of trousers and a brown tunic. Nobody seemed to care, and he was glad to be able to clothe himself with a modicum of normality, though he was strangely sentimental about discarding the tattered skirt that used to be his belt.
Further on he paused in the shadow of a freestanding wall to eavesdrop on a group chattering heatedly with each other.
‘But when? When?’
‘It does not matter. One day, or ten, or a hundred. Soon.’
‘When the cracks are wide enough to spill through!’
‘And until then,’ said a tall male whose cheeks were stained with splodges of green dye, ‘everyone goes about their happy day-to-day, eh? But I have a sword,’ he patted the sword at his side, ‘and armour on.’ He rapped on his leather vest. ‘What do you have?’
‘Swords and armour, pah!’ said a female. ‘They only get in the way. I like the squish.’ She gouged her thumbs into an imaginary skull.
‘I am ready, is what I mean!’
‘Raid again, then, if it will calm your soul.’
‘Bone and fire,’ exclaimed Greencheeks, smiling so wide that his eyes screwed up, ‘you are right! Who wants to raid with me?’
‘Yes, let us raid!’
‘I will come!’
‘And me!’
Greencheeks and a few of the others moved away excitedly.
‘All this raiding,’ said an older male among those who remained, ‘may bring eyes upon the Pass. Herald our coming.’
‘Then we are heralded. Let them raid.’
‘Soon we spill into the lands untouched by his grace.’
‘Poor, ignorant fools.’
‘We will free the untarnished from their prisons of flesh.’
Salarkis was startled by a hand on his arm. It was a female, maybe middle-aged, though it was somewhat hard to tell. Her hair was wild, her pendulous breasts half-hanging out of what could loosely be described as a vest.
‘You’re a comely one,’ she said, a hungry glint in her eye. ‘Would you like to roll about?’
‘Er …’ Salarkis was so taken a
back by the offer, he forgot himself for a moment. ‘No thank you.’
No thank you? He chastised himself in terror. Surely that was not something Unwoven said to each other! Had he just given himself away?
The woman merely shrugged. ‘Please yourself. But remember, once we go from the Dale, some of us will die.’
He wasn’t quite sure what she meant – maybe some Unwoven version of seizing the moment?
‘Stop bothering me,’ he said. ‘I have to go raiding.’
Over her shoulder, he noticed Blue-eye hulking by a broken column, watching. So, he realised with a chill, he had been followed after all.
He almost turned away, but it occurred to him that he was being too meek. Maybe his flighty behaviour was what made him stand out to his pursuer. And, if it was true that Unwoven did not fight one another, perhaps he should try another approach.
‘Well,’ he declared, striding suddenly and directly towards Blue-eye, ‘this is a fun game, isn’t it?’
Blue-eye stiffened. ‘I play no game,’ he said, in his swampishly thick voice.
‘Certainly you must! How does it work? You follow me until I notice you, and then it’s my turn? So now you head off in a new direction, and I’ll follow you until you notice me? Just remember that as long as you don’t see me, I’m winning!’
Blue-eye narrowed his gaze. ‘Do you think me a simpleton?’
‘You don’t wish to keep playing? Come, what do you say? If this is not a wonderful game then why do you follow? Have you mistaken me for a woman to come sniffing after?’
Blue-eye scowled and turned away.
Salarkis stared after him until there was some distance between them.
As he moved on he overheard more talk about cracks and going forth and spreading Regret’s touch. It sounded as if the Unwoven were readying to leave the Dale, though when and for what reason remained unclear. Deciding he had pressed his luck far enough, Salarkis quickened his step with renewed purpose. He had to get word to Yalenna.
There came the sound of a distant commotion. Ahead, he made out figures moving towards him through the ruins, and spilling out across the valley on either side. Around him, other Unwoven were growing curious, craning their necks to try to see what lay at the centre of the oncoming mass. It grew closer, swallowing up the city, and Salarkis had to fight the urge to run. He did not know what was happening, but certainly he was filled with foreboding.
A voice rang out from the crowd, and Salarkis frowned, for it seemed inexplicably familiar.
‘ … have returned … lead you again … to chaos, for the Spell is breaking … think it can be stopped … know the truth …’
As greater numbers of Unwoven converged on the speaker, whoever he was, Salarkis slowed to a stop. He found himself jostling with others, reluctantly being pushed closer to the middle.
‘… is where I came from,’ came the voice, now clearer. ‘This is where I was made! I belong with you.’
‘You are an outsider!’ someone screamed.
‘Nay! Nay!’
There was a mighty boom and Unwoven fell back.
Salarkis clambered up onto a mound of crumbled bricks and finally caught sight of the speaker. The man faced away, his brown robe dusty, his grey hair flying about his head. He did not have the blanched skin of an Unwoven – he was human! What poor fool was it who had wandered into such an awful predicament? How had he managed to get this far?
Around him stood a ring of Unwoven warriors looking very much like guards, snarling at anyone who got too close. The human had his arms raised, having evidently just performed some kind of threading. As he turned, Salarkis could not believe the face he recognised, contorted as it was by madness.
Mergan.
A lone Unwoven between crowd and guards picked himself up out of the dirt.
‘You think,’ he shouted, ‘that your tricks impress us? Threaders’ bodies break as easily as their mouths moan.’
‘Impudence!’ roared Mergan. ‘You think just because you have lived leaderless so long you have every right to continue? Look at you, milling about without purpose, like a bunch of dogs licking at each other’s scabs! Is that my will being served? No. The cracks widen, yet you stand idle!’
‘We will know when the time is right.’
‘You know nothing! You are not worthy to call yourselves my slaves.’
One of Mergan’s guards, a stoic looking Unwoven with a scar across his brow, stepped forward.
‘Do you not recognise our lord?’ he asked. ‘Are you who journeyed to the Peaks to pay him tribute so dull of memory that you do not know the face from behind the tomb’s veil?’
A stir went up and travelled about. Salarkis was dumb-founded – what strange path had brought the best of the Wardens, once so wise and kind, to this point?
‘For too long I have been imprisoned,’ said Mergan, ‘but finally I have returned! Ungrateful doubters, hear me now. Without my touch upon you, you would be as fearful and weak as the untarnished living outside our realm, not empty and strong, as you are!’
Voices rose.
‘It is him.’
‘Look, look at his face.’
‘Has he returned to us?’
Mergan’s accuser, his enmity seemingly completely forgotten, smiled widely.
‘Lord, I did not understand! Forgive my stupidity.’
Laughter broke out, and jubilant cries, and kissing.
‘First things first, my children,’ said Mergan. ‘An interloper stands amongst us.’
His eyes came to rest on Salarkis, who froze where he stood in icy fear. An influence he was not prepared for gripped him suddenly, and he screamed as the knot at the centre of his chest was violently wrenched undone. His old pattern sprang back into shape, his grey skin taken over by a flood of pinkness, his ropey muscles losing definition as the flesh around them grew soft. A moment later he stood undisguised in the midst of a thousand Unwoven.
‘Kill him,’ said Mergan.
UNMASKED
Surrounded by glowering Unwoven fast converging on him, Salarkis knew there was no hope in standing and fighting. He had to flee, but how? Where? The main bulk of the crowd blocked the way towards the Pass, so the only direction worth considering was up the Dale, back towards the Spire.
He flung up his hands, and all around jets of dust sprayed upwards into nostrils and eyes. As the figures around him reeled and coughed, he bolted through their midst, swirling a protective bubble of air about himself to keep his own way clear. A grey hand broke into it from the gritty air outside, and he dodged, only to charge headlong into another Unwoven’s back. It stumbled, and Salarkis bounced off in a slightly new direction, all the while sending out more gestures to open fissures and shoot up more dust. The cloud that hid his progress grew larger, billowing through the city ruins.
‘After him!’ came Mergan’s cry.
Salarkis knew that Mergan would not suffer his cover for long. It was simple magic, therefore easily countered, and already he felt a wind stirring up. He sent expanding shockwaves of air ahead of him, knocking Unwoven from their feet, doing them little actual damage, but buying the time to pass. As he leapt over a toppled figure, he felt fingers brush his foot. He thought for a sickening moment he was about to be pulled downwards, but landed on the other side, emerging from the dust at full pelt with fewer Unwoven ahead than behind.
A loose brick came spinning at him from the side and cracked his elbow. He gave a cry as it jarred his funny bone – it could have been worse, of course, but the sensation still set his teeth on edge.
Was that really necessary? he thought as he ran.
He sensed a foreign influence worming its way up his calves into his knees, and desperately knew he could not exorcise it. Mergan had a Warden’s power, and Salarkis had only distance on his side – any moment now his kneecaps could crunch to pieces inside him and bring his flight to an agonising halt. Rather than fight Mergan directly, he tried to make himself difficult to grip, vibrating his threads
so fast that his vision blurred and his teeth chattered together painfully in his mouth. Just when he thought they were about to shatter, he broke from Mergan’s ethereal grasp.
A quick glance behind showed Unwoven appearing from the dispersing dust, the jets of dirt now petering out. The sight gave him strength, fuelling his feet. Ahead, other Unwoven were emerging from buildings or wandering in from the slopes to see what was happening. Mergan might have swept away some of the dust, but there was plenty more around, and Salarkis did not hesitate to use it. He opened more fissures, trying to place them under enemies who stood in his way. To his side, an old house exploded as a great jet issued up underneath it, hurling stones into the air. He grabbed hold of a few of them and sent them spinning around himself as a kind of whizzing shield.
If only he could make it to the Spire. He did not know why the Unwoven shunned it but, whatever the reason, hopefully it was enough to stop them following him inside.
He pulled a couple of free-standing walls inwards as he passed between them, and heard grunts in response as they toppled behind him. Clearing the ruins he began to head up the Spire’s slope with aching muscles. An Unwoven ran out of a hut and leapt at him, only to be cracked on the skull by one of the stones flying about him.
Ahead the Spire loomed, but another glance behind shook his confidence of reaching it. From out of the dust Mergan rode, astride a galloping white horse. Salarkis reached to try to break the beast’s legs, but Mergan easily unspun his influence. The old man was closer than before and, as their eyes met, his anger turned to shocked recognition.
‘Salarkis?’ he mouthed.
So, he had not initially realised who the ‘interloper’ was – unsurprising, since Salarkis was restored to human form. Salarkis wondered briefly if Mergan would be kindlier now that he recognised who he chased, but he dared not take the chance. Instead he used Mergan’s distraction by reaching towards the ground in front of his horse, and sending up another blast of dust. It hit the creature full in the face, set it rearing and snorting, and Mergan had to hold on grimly.