by Sam Bowring
‘Well, maybe some itching from the twigs.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or annoyance that you keep coming at me with a spoon.’
‘Forger, pay attention.’
‘I am. I’m just not sure I understand.’
‘The point is, when a wound is healed, or rather, when it doesn’t exist, things that would otherwise make it worse, no longer have any effect.’
‘Are you saying …’ Forger rubbed his forehead. ‘Are you saying using our gifts is like spoons tapping on the world’s hurts?’
Karrak gave a wonky smile. ‘Something like that.’
‘And the corruption is like the pus, the tainted blood coming out?’
‘Yes.’
Forger was thankful to finally find another bottle. He smashed the neck off and poured freely down his throat.
‘So,’ he said, ‘if we seal the Wound, we can still use our gifts?’
‘They won’t bother the Spell when it no longer bleeds.’
‘And you learnt this because you spent so long staring at it – you have come to understand well how it works?’
Karrak stared at him hard and nodded. ‘Indeed.’
Something was wrong. These explanations did not quite ring true … drunk as Forger was, suspicion did not fade away as he had hoped. Little contradictions and unanswered questions darted around his sluggish brain, just beyond reach of comprehension. Finally, he managed to grasp hold of one.
We absorb each other’s gifts now, he thought, when we kill each other. Why? Why would the Spell do that – why would it have made that change to the way things work – unless it wants its threads carried? And if it wants them carried, there must be some plan for them beyond letting us use them to tap like spoons against healed-up hurts.
With sadness, Forger realised he did not trust Karrak at all.
‘Not too hasty,’ he muttered. Not too hasty to believe anything yet, one way or the other. There had always been much he did not comprehend, and perhaps the definitive answers would come in the days ahead. Who knew why the Spell did what it did? He would not give his faith blindly, but would offer Karrak a chance to earn it. And even if he didn’t, well, it might be fun anyway – to kill Mergan and the Unwoven, and see what happened next.
‘What did you say?’ asked Karrak.
‘Nothing.’ Forger stood, swaying a little. ‘Now, come – if you really do have Stealer’s power, you can help me here in Ander. After that, I’ll accompany you.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Good. Then there’s a certain castle gate I want you to make a poem about.’
He clapped an arm around Karrak’s shoulder and, together, they lurched from the tavern.
JOY
The dining hall of Ander Castle was a cavernous space, lined with recesses housing all manner of ferns and small trees in colourful pots. Despite the rampant looting going on elsewhere, finery still remained here – a golden edge around the tabletop had not yet been prised up, and jewelled lamps still hung from the roof on silver chains. Perhaps it was Forger’s presence, along with Karrak and the former king of Ander, that ensured no soldiers dared to ransack.
‘I hope everyone is hungry,’ said Forger. ‘I have spared the kitchen staff, your majesty, on the condition that they do an excellent job preparing our meal.’
King Hanry, who sat at the head of the table, under no bond beyond the hopelessness of his situation, gave a stiff nod.
‘Thank you for your mercy. I’m sure they won’t disappoint you.’
His eyes flickered, as if he were half asleep. Rostigan knew the man must be in shock. His castle, his city, his kingdom, had been ripped away more savagely than any heart could cope with. Adding insult was the laughter echoing down the halls, the crash and bang of chests overturned, cupboards flung upon, things being hauled away.
‘I wonder,’ the king ventured, trying to keep his tone even and respectful, ‘if I might see my wife?’
‘You have asked that already!’ snapped Forger.
The king was startled, for a moment, out of his daze. It was plain to see he did not comprehend why Forger kept him alive. He did not know what Rostigan knew – that Forger liked him. Had deemed him, in his own demented way, a worthy opponent.
Another crash sounded through the walls from somewhere nearby.
‘Do you mind, Karrak?’ said Forger.
Rostigan wondered what he meant.
‘Mind about what?’ he growled.
‘Well, this was your castle. I had, previous to our happy reacquaintance, told the soldiers they could pillage as they saw fit. I did not realise at the time I’d be returning here with you. So, if you want your castle back with all the trimmings, I can tell them to stop.’
Rostigan let a shadow travel over his face. How would Karrak have reacted to this situation?
A couple of soldiers appeared in a corridor through a doorway at the far end of the room, lugging clinking sacks.
‘Yes!’ Rostigan thumped the table. ‘I do mind!’
He shot a hand at the soldiers and everything in their chests exploded outwards, some of it scattering through the archway. The king gibbered.
Forger sighed. ‘No need for that, my dear. They were simply following orders.’
Forger went to the doorway and out, crushing gore and bent candlesticks under his sandals, to speak quietly with someone outside. Alone with the king for a moment, Rostigan was glad the man stared off at nothing. He did not want to have to look him in the eye.
Forger re-entered. ‘Commander Balen will see to it that they stop,’ he said. ‘Within the castle, at least. I can hardly take back my promise as far as the wider city is concerned.’
Rostigan grunted.
Forger unstoppered a bottle of wine and poured everyone a glass, playing the part of the attentive host. ‘Now,’ he said affably, ‘King Hanry … I met another Hanry recently, did you know? A farmer on his way to Tallahow to seek a cure for a lump in his guts. I told him my name was Hanry too.’
‘It was,’ said Rostigan.
‘Ah, that’s right! Back a way, but yes. Forger would be a silly name for a child at the outset, if you didn’t know he’d turn out to be one.’ Forger chuckled and shook his head. ‘Three Hanrys, yet such different lives. Funny to think about, isn’t it?’
Rostigan wished he could save the miserable king somehow, but there was nothing he could do. He did not think he could match Forger in a direct fight, and even if he snuck in the first blow and managed to kill him, the threads he stood to inherit did not at all fit in with his plan.
Was he evil for his unwillingness to make such sacrifice?
No. I have searched too long.
Besides, trying a surprise attack was no guarantee of anything. Forger might give the impression of being relaxed, but something told Rostigan he had not yet won over his old crony entirely. No doubt first blows were high on the list of things being watched out for. For the good of Aorn, the safest choice was to continue convincing Forger they were on the same side. It was the best hope of getting him to help with Mergan and the Unwoven, then on to the Spire. In the meantime, even small mercies, like directing crows to stab brains instead of eyes, would be suspicious.
‘Brother,’ Rostigan said, ‘since you are determined to show the king mercy, is there not some other sport to be had?’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It is with fondness I remember the puppet nobles of Galra.’ They shared a chuckle. ‘However, I am open to suggestion.’
‘Maybe after we eat,’ said Forger. ‘Speaking of which.’
Kitchen servants with stained aprons appeared through the doorway, escorted by Tallahowan soldiers. Their faces were reddened and teary, and they carried a huge tray on their shoulders, covered by a silver hood. With some difficulty, they set it down heavily on the table.
Must be a full boar, thought Rostigan, or a horse.
‘Plates!’ cried Forger. ‘Cutlery!’
&n
bsp; Quickly each place was set. As someone leant over Rostigan to put a knife and fork by his plate, he felt a warm splish on his neck. He glared up at the plump old woman from whom the tear had fallen, and she blinked in fear, no doubt fearing reprisal.
‘I did not ask for salt,’ he hissed, and she receded with a whimper.
‘Now,’ said Forger grandly, rising to take hold of the silver hood, ‘your majesty, you will not find me ungenerous in victory. While you may have lost the day, I say you should live on sir, for a long time to come! Live on, knowing all that you have lost!’
Mightily he flung the hood away. Steam rose, scented with a pungent mix of herbs and spices, obscuring for a moment what lay beneath. As it began to clear, the king gave a strangled gasp.
Crouched on her belly, naked save for a skirt of vegetables, lay the queen. She had been quite a fat woman, and now it ran in liquid form from out the charred cracks in her skin. Her roasted eyes stared from under crispy lids, her open mouth stuffed with a bushel of limp spinach. The smell of her cooked flesh assailed Rostigan, and determinedly he buried the impulse to gag.
Forger rasped two knives together. ‘Shall I carve, your majesty, or would you like to do the honours?’
King Hanry, white as ice, gripped the table to stop himself sliding to the floor. He pushed away backwards, twisting from his chair on jellied legs.
‘You … ah … ah …’
He clutched his chest, unable to speak. The stream of his tears set off the servants, who had been made to do this thing – to season and spice and stuff their queen.
‘Oh, please, everyone!’ said Forger. ‘What a fuss! You have your lives, do you not? Now, it would be a shame if the queen gave hers wastefully, so I expect us all to tuck in.’
He slid a blade in behind her shoulder and began to cut. A moment later the king gave a guttural howl and crashed into him, kicking and punching as his regal robes flew about. Forger, unmoved and unmoving, raised an amused eyebrow at Rostigan. Then he planted a hand on the king’s brow, and, with a short sharp thrust, set him down hard on his buttocks.
‘Just finish it,’ wept Hanry. ‘Kill me.’
‘I think not,’ said Forger. ‘I have done you enough favours.’ He raised a laden fork to his mouth and took a tentative taste. ‘Mmm … a little well done for my taste.’
The king lurched to his feet, towards a balcony door. It was clear he meant to fling himself from the castle and plummet to his death. It was also clear to Rostigan that this was a good moment to prove himself.
‘Stop!’ he bellowed, the full force of his will behind the threaded word. He almost failed to break through the king’s misery, such a shield it was to his influence. He repeated the command, and the king stumbled to a halt.
‘Why not let him fall?’ said Forger. ‘Though his pain is exquisite, I admit, I have promised to be merciful.’
‘Piss and fire,’ said Rostigan. Some further torment, enough to show Forger that Karrak was really who he dealt with, might make all the difference. ‘You have gone to such trouble building this wonderful scene, brother. Only to have it end with a splatter?’
Forger raised an eyebrow as he chewed thoughtfully. ‘What did you have in mind? Yuck!’ He rounded on a terrified servant. ‘Too much pepper on her thigh!’
The king sagged on his feet, weeping. Rostigan stood and moved around him, considering him thoughtfully. ‘You want to die?’ he asked.
The king shot him a baleful look through red-rimmed eyes.
‘Well,’ said Rostigan, ‘convince me that you’re serious.’ He reached towards the table and levitated a knife to himself. With a twirl of his fingers he snapped it in half, the blade still sharp but not very long.
‘Here,’ he said, holding it out while he threaded his words. ‘If you really want to escape your wretched existence, you may use only this, and only on … hmm, shall we say your liver?’
The king stared at the jagged blade in horror. ‘It’s … not long enough.’
‘It will be,’ said Rostigan, ‘if you dig around a little first.’
He pushed the knife into the king’s shaking hand and turned back to the table, ensuring he wore a particularly feral grin. Forger was watching him carefully, and Rostigan held his eye until, maybe, something imperceptible shifted within it. Was it that moment, then, in which Forger came to truly believe? At least he had not noticed the extra little thread or two which Rostigan had woven into the knife before giving it over, that would enter the king when he broke his own skin and go in search of his heart.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Forger. ‘Surely the Lord of Crows will enjoy to eat the dead?’
Rostigan did not mean to have any of Forger’s ridiculous feast, but he pulled back his chair anyway.
‘We prefer our carrion raw,’ he said.
Later they stepped onto the balcony to take in the night air and watch soldiers moving about the streets. Many had collected in the city’s taverns, and there was much whooping and hollering, and running amok. Off on a side street a duel was being fought, drunken men who had evidently not had enough of blood. Others circled, egging them on.
‘What of the citizens of Ander?’ said Rostigan.
Forger shrugged. ‘Many who weren’t soldiers have fled. Of those who remained, many are dead. Some were holed up in the castle. Hanry tried to take care of his own, it seems. How noble he was! And maybe there are others about, hiding and whatnot. I don’t really know.’
‘And the Anderan soldiers?’
‘Those still alive fill up the dungeons. They are free to join my ranks, or die. Or they are yours, of course, should you want them.’
Crows were circling and landing, as they had been doing all day. Their caws echoed through the streets, the majority of them concentrated at the breach in the northern wall, where no one had bothered to clear away the dead. Rostigan felt their pleasure like a thousand warm prickles on his soul – the rustle of their wings more transportive and calming than the sound of ocean waves to the sleeping. The crows in turn were aware of him, bound to him by some strange connection, some thread that should have belonged to the world. Not resentful, exactly, just aware.
‘They are remembering I’m their master,’ he said. ‘I have not fed them properly in years, but they will be pleased with me after this.’
‘Taking credit for my work, brother?’
Rostigan chuckled. ‘Something like that.’
‘You know,’ said Forger, ‘Braston’s gift is an amazing thing.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘To see the injustice one creates … If you could have perceived the king, back there, as I did – what was radiating from him – oh, my …’
‘Special, was it?’
‘You have no idea. It heightens everything I do to people. It’s glorious.’
‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Hmm.’ Forger sipped his wine contentedly. ‘It’s much better than Despirrow’s.’
‘Ah?’
‘I don’t much care for time’s cessation. Gives me the shivers.’
‘You used it earlier today.’
‘For the last time, I promise you. I don’t like it. Nor does the world.’ He shot Rostigan a sidelong glance. ‘How about you? What do you think of the power you inherited?’
Rostigan was able to give what felt like his first honest answer all day. ‘I don’t like it either.’
‘No. It doesn’t feel right, does it? It’s not instinctive, and I don’t find it really occurs to me to use it.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I should have left it with him. Should have left him alive, I s’pose. I didn’t really gain anything from his death. Just got a little carried away.’
‘You stopped him from annoying everyone else.’
‘True, true. But it does feel like a waste of a friend. Well, not a friend.’ He smiled at Rostigan. ‘Not a true friend.’
Rostigan screwed up his face. ‘What are you going to want next, a damn hug?’
> Forger laughed heartily and threw his hands up to the world, the wine flying from his glass.
‘I believe him!’ he sang out. ‘I do. Oh, joy!’
Below, a soldier was pulling a screaming woman along the cobblestones by her hair.
‘Joy,’ agreed Rostigan.
REGRET’S ARMY
‘Hurry up, you louts!’
Mergan was on the slope just outside the Pass, where a path only three or so paces wide wound haphazardly through the jagged V between the mountains. He watched from horseback as Unwoven hauled past carts, sacks or simply carried random objects in their hands. The Dale wasn’t exactly consistent in the resources it had to offer – there were things that had survived the ages, things that random Unwoven had been driven to make or grow, and things stolen in raids. It had taken some time to supervise the collection of anything useful and have it brought out to the gathering army on the Ilduin.
‘How many swords is that?’ he asked an Unwoven who rolled along a barrel in which swords clattered against each other.
‘How many?’ she repeated, her brow creasing.
‘One hundred and fifty two, for example.’
‘I’ve never had to count that high before, lord.’
Mergan grunted. ‘Carry on.’
Down on the Fields, spread out across the yellow grasses, Unwoven poked with interest through the growing stockpiles of supplies. Some of them liked the swords and armour, others apparently didn’t. A few had picked up bows, though there did not seem to be a great many arrows. Already some were feasting on the food he’d had to shout at them repeatedly to bring, for they seemed to lack any innate ability to plan ahead. If not for his commands, most of them would have left the Dale half-naked, without bread or water to see them on their way.
‘Lord Regret!’ said Scarbrow, arriving by his side. ‘You should come and have some rations while they are hot off the flame!’ He rubbed his belly in satisfaction. ‘I have had plenty of rations myself.’
Mergan sighed. Obviously the notion of ‘rations’ was not being understood. Well, the Unwoven did what they wanted, and that was that. Wasn’t that what had attracted him to them in the first place?