The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2

by Sam Bowring

  A sword would help though, he thought. The first blade he spied was in an Althalan hand, and he made a snatching motion to summon it to him. Its owner watched it fly away in surprise, and a moment later the distraction cost him his life.

  ‘Imagine I should feel guilty about that,’ said Forger.

  He advanced on the Unwoven who had dealt the blow, but the sword had no heft and was a mere dagger in his meaty grip. He decided he preferred levitation and released the blade to shoot off before him. Maybe he could not easily affect Unwoven themselves, but he could still use other things upon them to his liking.

  The floating sword slashed at the Unwoven, who batted at it like an annoying wasp. Concentrating, Forger steadied the blade, then lurched it up under the creature’s chin, busting through its skull to the other side. It was a strangely empty experience – without pain, killing was like swallowing food without tasting it.

  Ah well, he thought, can’t have fun all the time, I suppose.

  He looked for more things to pick up and hurl, and soon the air about him was dancing with dangerous objects. As he fought on, Forger began to discern glimmers of threads in a faint network between the Unwoven, almost beyond his own perception. There was something strange about their patterns – something on that curious level where Braston’s gift held sway. There came not the clarity of understanding that Braston sometimes delivered but, as time went on, Forger thought he could make something out of the relationship between the Unwoven and the world.

  We should not exist. We should never have been.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, slamming three swords at once into a neck from different directions, ‘I’m doing what I can about that.’

  At times Rostigan looked slow and ponderous, but he always sped up at the last moment to be wherever he needed. When he swung, it mattered not if hands were flung up, or helms worn, or shields raised – his sword drove through metal and bone with equal ease, often down deep between eyes. Well had he earned the name Skullrender, and his allies took heart to see him among them. They fought valiantly, staying in groups as best they could, covering each other’s backs and converging on single Unwoven together. The Unwoven’s fierceness was working against them somewhat, as they attacked blindly and passionately as individuals, moving into enemy territory until they were surrounded. There was no order to them, no command structure, no plan beyond sheer brutishness. The Althalan officers, conversely, had trained their troops well, and any order given was quickly obeyed. At one stage Rostigan thought he saw a group containing Cedris, sinking his sword deep into a fallen Unwoven’s breast, and was surprised to feel a glimmer of pride.

  Not only were the Unwoven uncoordinated, they also fought in a host of different ways. Some carried weaponry, others went without and leapt about grabbing hold of necks or brawling with their bony fists. Rostigan saw one bite a Plainsman’s face, chewing his nose right off as the man screamed and punched at the creature’s stomach with his sword. Another bound along the ground like a dog, swiping soldier’s legs out from under them.

  All the while Rostigan kept an eye on Forger, staying close by and letting the other Warden’s trajectory inform his own. Forger was almost as wild as the enemy, likely to charge too far into their midst and get himself into trouble. If he died, Rostigan would probably be the one to inherit his threads – Yalenna seemed too far away – and Rostigan did not want them.

  Let the Spell have them, he thought, once we coax him to the Spire.

  ‘You wish to fight by my side, brother!’ said Forger with a grin. Blades and shards whizzed around him, periodically shooting off to swarm nearby Unwoven, slicing them many which ways.

  ‘You’re no use to me dead!’ Rostigan replied, hanging back from the lethal debris.

  Behind them the Althalans stood thicker, many still waiting for the opportunity to get into the fray. King Loppolo was amongst their number, surrounded by a dense barrier of guards, and with relief Rostigan saw Tarzi in that mix. For a moment their eyes met through the sea of swords and he found it hard to read her expression.

  Had she forgiven him?

  Her mouth opened in alarm and he spun to see an Unwoven bearing down on him with an almighty axe raised over its head. He ducked forward, coming up inside the blow, and plunged his blade through the creature’s guts to scatter bits of spine on the other side. As he pushed the body away and looked back to where Tarzi had been, he saw guards fending off two hovering silkjaws while Loppolo lay flat against his horse. Tarzi was nowhere in sight – had she been knocked from the saddle?

  ‘Eyes forward, brother!’ called Forger.

  She’s all right, Rostigan told himself. Even if she wasn’t, he could not let her concern him now. He could, at least, do something about the silkjaws.

  The lands about were scarce of crows, so it was taking a while for them to answer his call. Now he could finally feel them arriving, a flock of presences high in the sky, with more on the way. They were leery, however, of getting closer.

  Hark, my friends, he called. Did I not feed you well at Ander? Come, aid me again, and I promise you shall gorge!

  Black dots began to descend.

  ‘Take heart!’ he bellowed, rippling the words out to the minds of those around him. ‘Fight well and we can triumph!’

  Determined cries went up in answer, as frightened or despairing hearts were bolstered with lent belief.

  ‘We will finish the Unwoven!’ called Rostigan. ‘Strike them from Aorn forever!’

  The sky began to darken as crows swooped upon the waning silkjaws. Darkening a little too much, Rostigan thought – it could not be due to the crows alone.

  The killing continued.

  Though he was far away in the fighting, Yalenna could see what Mergan was doing – harnessing the sun’s beams to sear downwards, sucking light from the rest of the sky.

  I don’t think so, old man, she thought. The elements are my domain.

  She reached to the heavens and wrenched apart his pillar of light, scattering it in ripples back to the sky. Perhaps, she fancied, she even heard his angry cry above the rest.

  ‘Hold it down!’ shouted Jandryn, as two Althalans wrestled an Unwoven to the ground. He planted an armoured knee on its chest, and set about pushing his sword through its face.

  Yalenna felt a growing need to seek out Mergan, for there was true anger at him, finally. Despite everything, she had never really believed he would go this far, yet he had consistently dashed all hope that he would come back to himself, even a little. With his sunbeam denied him, he was no doubt doing something else just as massively harmful, and there were few besides her who could stand against him. He needed to be stopped.

  It was not, however, simply a matter of strolling to him through the throng.

  Perhaps if she could round up Rostigan and Forger, they could cut her a path? She seized a riderless horse and swung herself upwards, searching about for them. Forger stood in the midst of a whirlwind of objects, while Rostigan hacked and slashed and bellowed all at once, loud words of encouragement which stirred the troops around him.

  It would be difficult to get to them too.

  An Unwoven came at her, and she blasted air at it, knocking it from its feet. Two more took its place, one of them smiling as it ran fingers through its shock of blonde hair.

  ‘You will like his touch,’ it said. ‘It will make you cold and eternal.’

  It’s difficult to get anywhere, she thought, raising her hands.

  Tarzi rubbed dirt from her bruised elbows as she got to her feet. She had flung herself from her horse when silkjaws had attacked the king’s party, but now they were gone – one reduced to limp strands and trampled bones, the other wheeling away mincing a guard in its claws. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to return to the saddle or not, but, as other mounts stamped around her, she decided it was the lesser peril. She would just have to be more careful about watching the skies.

  Back on her horse, she saw that Rostigan moved about with that strange n
ew arrival – a tall man who was obviously a powerful threader, though looking at him again, he did not seem quite so tall as before. Maybe he was simply further away?

  She still wasn’t sure what to make of Rostigan’s recent disappearance. He could not have gone far without Yalenna’s help – though it was possible she had taken him somewhere and come back without him. Tarzi did not believe the claim about worm hunting, for he had been so cagey about it. Besides, while the worms needed to be dealt with, they were nothing compared to other troubles.

  Cawing sounded and her gaze returned to the sky. Crows were bombarding the silkjaws, just as they had during the attack on Althala. Why did they help once again? Only one man had ever been able to command them, but surely he wasn’t here and lending his aid no less? In the face of such widespread violence she did not need much cause to shiver … yet the possibility of Karrak being present made her shiver mightily. The shadow he cast through history made her look about for an imposing figure astride a black warhorse, wielding a jagged-toothed sword, but she saw no one matching that description.

  Crows were not the only strange occurrence on her mind. She was sure, when the Unwoven had fallen into the pit, that she had heard words echo out of the air. She had not quite caught them, yet the voice had been familiar. Or did the fact that the ghostly rhyme accompanied a miraculous disappearance, coupled with the knowledge that Rostigan had been there when Stealer had died, point her to some strange conclusions? He had told her, after all, that the threads of Wardens sought new homes when their hosts were killed.

  ‘Stay close, minstrel.’ This from Loppolo. ‘I don’t want to misplace you.’

  There was pride in his voice, as if keeping her safe was an important duty. As if somehow it made up for him hanging back from the fighting.

  ‘Do not fear!’ Rostigan’s cry reached her ears. ‘We do the Spell’s bidding! We are supposed to win!’

  She was strangely comforted, and some of her doubts faded. We are supposed to win. The thought stuck with her, pushed others away, lifted her spirits. She watched with a swelling breast as he continued to show the world how he had earned his renown. She would have a talk with him later, indeed she would, and get to the bottom of where he had gone, and what else precisely was going on … but in the meantime, perhaps it was simply permissible to love him with all her heart.

  Forger caught hold of a flying sword, and something about it bothered him. It fit quite well into his grip – not entirely, yet it was unmistakably more comfortable than that first one he had tried. Was it bigger? He turned it for inspection, then took measure of himself against the people around him. There was no doubt about it – he had gotten smaller.

  Nothing to worry about, he told himself. There was still great power coursing through him, and by no means was he at the end of his reserves, but the fact remained that while he used his gifts without causing any pain, he was spending without replenishing.

  He heard a low moan from a soldier lying on the ground. The young man was badly wounded, with no telling if a healer could save him. Quietly, impulsively, Forger reached out his influence and thrummed the exposed nerve endings of the soldier’s wounds. The young man screamed, but there were plenty of screams, and Forger did not think one more would be noticed. With a little flush of pleasure he absorbed the garnered pain.

  Karrak stalked up, flicking sticky white blood from his blade. ‘I think they’re thinning out,’ he said.

  ‘Or I have grown too short to attract their attention anymore,’ said Forger.

  ‘If that is the case, let us go in search of them!’

  As they picked their way through the fighting, Forger kept an eye out for anyone else he might surreptitiously feed off.

  Yalenna glanced around for whatever was next. To her surprise, it seemed like stocks of Unwoven were actually dwindling. The pit was empty save for arrow-speckled bodies, a few still writhing, and human dead. Over on the opposite side she thought she spotted Mergan for a moment. Unwoven were thicker there, for less Althalans had gotten around that far before the enemy had begun to pour out.

  A bold idea struck her.

  ‘Don’t follow me,’ she said to Jandryn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘just don’t.’

  He would be all right, she told herself. He had a band of good soldiers with him who had killed many Unwoven together. If they survived, they could rightly call themselves veterans.

  She turned and jumped into the pit.

  ‘Yalenna!’

  She ignored his call and landed on the slope, her momentum carrying her downwards at speed. The earth was soft and her feet threatened to sink and make her stumble, but she conjured wind to help her balance. At the bottom the slope levelled out and she dashed across the centre of the bowl, leaping and dodging as half-dead Unwoven snatched at her. Upon reaching the other side, she channelled wind to boost her upwards, whipping her hair about in front of her eyes. Near the top she took a great last leap, summoning a final blast that lifted and carried her to rise the last few paces out of the pit and land on her feet.

  Here, she was no longer among friends. Unwoven all around uttered a low collective hiss, and she reached for anything about them she could influence – a pair of pants, a leather belt, a sword, a steel helm – and flung objects together, dragging their owners with them. Unwoven staggered about, crashing into each other, pricking themselves with swords, butting heads. It was not enough to kill them, but it kept them at bay.

  ‘Make way!’ came Mergan’s voice. He appeared, hopping nimbly to avoid his stumbling minions. His eyes shone madly, and his face and beard were covered with jam. There was not much left, by the looks of the jar in his hand.

  ‘You’ve strayed off the path, my dear,’ he said.

  This time she did not allow herself to get drawn in by his nonsense. She reached out with all her might, intending to crush the brain in his head. He gave a cry and pinched his brow. She added wind to her assault, directing it hard against all before her. Mergan staggered backwards, robe flapping, while his Unwoven struggled to reach her. One, with a crooked scar on his brow, crawled on his belly, and she sent a shower of dirt into his eyes that set him blindly pawing. Desperately she squeezed at Mergan’s mind, trying to squash it beyond recognition, but the next moment his pattern snapped back into shape – her ethereal grip soundly rejected.

  ‘I can’t believe you would do that!’ he gasped, with a kind of horrified indignance.

  ‘Why?’ she said furiously. ‘You do realise this is not a game, don’t you? The things you’re doing actually have consequences – wake up why don’t you? The Mergan I know would be ashamed of you!’

  He blinked at her, her words washing right over him. ‘Well,’ he growled, ‘if that’s the way you want to tussle …’

  Perhaps she had been unwise to pick this fight. His influence seized her like a steel claw, digging in under her skin. Her wind died away like lost breath as she concentrated everything on keeping herself whole – on pushing him out whenever he tried to settle on a heart, an eye, a liver, a backbone. It was the most she could do to assert her pattern, but she could not be rid of him altogether, as he slipped painfully from one place to the next. Her bones began to throb. She fell to her knees. The scarred Unwoven rose to his feet but Mergan waved him away as his grip grew more insistent. He laughed, holding the jam jar higher, as if it was a trophy.

  Jam was the least of what he deserved.

  Yalenna lashed out, catching Mergan off guard with her target, and the jar exploded in his hand. Splinters lodged deeply in his palm as sticky remnants fell to earth. Mergan gave a wail of abject sorrow, which turned to hate so quickly that Yalenna thought his tears might evaporate as steam. He howled and both his hands shot to the sky.

  She was hurled upwards as if loosed from a catapult, air whistling in her ears as she arced out over the sea of battling forces.

  ‘Will you look at that,’ said Forger.

  No arguments now, Rost
igan sent his crows, more forcefully than he had ever commanded them before. Do exactly as I bid.

  Half-dazed and slightly nauseous, Yalenna passed the apex of her climb. Forcing herself to focus, she tried to muster wind beneath her, but it did little to slow her fall. A rush of air to aid a leap from a pit was not the same as halting a downwards plummet, it seemed. She could not even send her influence downwards to soften the oncoming ground, for it was hidden by hard, spiky warriors.

  Would she die? She wasn’t sure. If she didn’t, she certainly would be broken for a while. If she did, she hoped at least to land near Rostigan, for he was the only one she trusted with her threads.

  A wing slapped her forehead, and something sharply tugged her hair. Leave me alone, she thought, imagining some silkjaw had come to bother her in these last, maudlin moments.

  A dark shape floated across her vision and seized her by the flapping sleeve. Claws settled all over her, up and down the length of her arms, across her back, pinching her bare skin or grabbing onto hair and clothes. As the crows beat their wings, their multiple grips digging into her painfully, her fall slowed.

  She could not believe that he had done this.

  Rostigan.

  Now a little wind did help, a gentle upwards draft – not enough to tear free the birds, just enough to buoy them. More settled on her as she flew over the upturned faces of amazed soldiers, angling towards the ground. Despite the help, she could tell the impact was still going to hurt, and she would be lucky not to break anything. Then, as she was nearing a crash, other influences took hold. She tracked them to Rostigan – and Forger – holding their hands up towards her. They steadied her as she descended and, as her feet touched the ground before them, the crows immediately dispersed. She wobbled slightly, blood rushing back into countless places, and with all manner of scratches, yet happy nonetheless.