by Sam Bowring
‘Boys,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you.’
Rostigan nodded stoically, while Forger beamed.
‘Why, Yalenna,’ he said, ‘it has been such a long time!’
Mergan wept as he licked a thin piece of glass, the taste of jam masked by dirt and the blood welling from his tongue.
‘No, no,’ he whimpered.
Zero jars of jam, sung the interior voice.
‘Shut up, by piss and fire!’
Strong arms slipped under his, lifting him to his feet.
‘Don’t do that, lord,’ said Scarbrow, gently prising the shard from Mergan’s fingers. ‘The food is gone.’
Mergan nodded meekly. Absently he plucked splinters from his palm as he took in the situation around him. It was much worse than predicted. The inexplicable pit had set them on the back foot right from the start. On top of that, the combined might of the other Wardens, the ferocity of the enemy, the way his Unwoven had broken off on their own instead of fighting together, and the crows cleaning up the last silkjaws the world would ever see …
‘Tide’s end,’ he muttered.
There was an option left, something that would never occur to his children on their own. His beautiful, honest children, who would fight on regardless of things like odds, who were too pure to feel the fear that would save them.
It was something only he could bid them to do.
‘Retreat,’ he said.
‘Lord?’
‘I said retreat!’ shouted Mergan, blood spraying from his tongue. ‘Retreat to the Pass! Our people can defend themselves better from there.’
‘Are you sure, lord?’
‘Do not question me! Lord Regret bids retreat!’ He raised his voice for the benefit of all. ‘Pass the word along! Retreat! Your lives belong to me, they are mine to keep if I so choose!’
Scarbrow frowned, but took up the call. Quickly it spread – the Lord Regret bids us retreat – and thankfully, although it was a difficult order for the Unwoven to understand, it was even more difficult to disobey.
‘I will carry you, lord,’ said Scarbrow. Again he hoisted Mergan onto his back as though he were a little boy. He turned from the fighting to run as fast as any Unwoven could, with long legs and unending strength.
‘Follow me, my children!’ cried Mergan. ‘Follow, follow! To the Pass!’
‘Follow Regret!’ came the call behind.
Grey runners pelted after them across the grasses, as others more deeply ensconced in the battle broke free in dribs and drabs. They streamed around both sides of the pit, heading back towards the Pass.
A great cheer went up from the enemy forces, which cut Mergan to the core.
‘Retreat,’ he cursed, and buried his head against Scarbrow’s cold, hard neck.
LORD OF LIES
Evening fell, and the mood in the camp was more jubilant than Rostigan cared for. Loppolo was walking around with his entourage telling everyone what a good job they had done, the soldiers were laughing and carrying on, and despite the fact that grog was not part of anyone’s allotted rations, many people seemed to somehow be drunk. Rostigan knew that, after a long day of running and fighting, it would be unwise not to let the soldiers celebrate – but he did not want them celebrating too hard.
There was still work to be done, bodies to organise and a funeral pyre to be built.
‘Do not mix the Unwoven with our people,’ he told those doing the collecting. ‘Throw them into the pit and leave them there.’
No one asked why, and he supposed it must seem natural that slain enemies would be shown such contempt.
Leave them for the crows, was what he really meant.
He stood with Yalenna and Forger, with his arm around Tarzi, in the midst of the officer’s tents, staring into a fire. His lies were growing numerous and it was making life difficult. Forger kept eyeing Tarzi as if he couldn’t make sense of her, no doubt because of the obvious affection she bore Rostigan. She had rushed to him once she had been able, just as he had feared, and he chided himself for not mentioning her to Forger, pre-emptively inventing some reason why he kept her. Perhaps he had not ever really believed they would all make it to this point.
‘Tell me again,’ said Tarzi, slipping from his embrace, ‘how is it that you and Hanry know each other?’
‘Why,’ said Rostigan, ‘we were childhood friends – is that not so, Hanry?’
Forger raised his eyebrows, amused to be playing an impromptu role. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘Like brothers, we were.’
‘And you came across each other again,’ said Tarzi, ‘while you were killing worms?’
‘Most fortunate,’ said Rostigan. ‘What a surprise it was to discover Hanry taking care of the same business as I. I could not have asked for a better ally.’
‘Then how is it,’ said Tarzi, ‘that you have not seen each other in so long?’
‘Oh,’ said Forger, and Rostigan tensed – if possible, he wanted to be the one making up this story – ‘I’ve been living far away for quite a time. I only came back when I heard about how much the world needed my help.’ He smiled and, although it seemed genuine, it still involved a lot of teeth. ‘Get moving, old Hanry, I told myself. Hurry up and do some good!’
Yalenna shuffled her feet. She was doing a passable job, at least, at not appearing uncomfortable while standing beside one of her greatest enemies.
‘And you two,’ continued Forger, cocking his head intently at Rostigan. ‘How did you two meet, precisely?’
‘Tarzi is a minstrel.’
‘That’s right,’ said Tarzi. ‘And when the great Skullrender crossed my path, I decided to follow him in case he did anything worth a song. As it turns out,’ she slipped a hand in his, ‘I followed a bit longer than anyone expected.’
‘I see,’ said Forger. ‘How delightful!’
Rostigan knew there would be questions later. Already he had a throb in the back of his head from keeping all his falsehoods in place. Why can’t we simply threadwalk to the Spire? Why must we kill the Unwoven first? Why don’t we behead Forger in his sleep and take his threads? Where did you really go and how did you get there? Who is this woman and what is she to you?
It was a relief when Loppolo wandered up, rubbing his hands and smiling gleefully. ‘My friends, no doubt we are proud of our victory?’
‘It is not victory yet,’ said Yalenna.
Loppolo was confused by her displeasure.
‘Remember,’ said Rostigan, in a milder tone, ‘the last time you and I fought the Unwoven, king? When I counselled pursuing them into the Pass to clean up the remnants?’
‘Indeed. But we were spent, Skullrender.’
‘Perhaps, and yet years later they return to cause us further grief. Loppolo, I tell you, there will be no victory until they’re all dead.’
Loppolo nodded, a little worried. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘that is tomorrow’s work. Will you not allow our folk a little cheer at their triumph today, at least?’
‘Not everyone is cheerful,’ put in Yalenna. ‘Many have lost friends, comrades … lovers …’
‘Thus we must honour the fallen,’ said Loppolo sagely. ‘The pyre is almost built. Shall we go? I will say a few words before it is lit.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ muttered Yalenna, almost under her breath.
As Loppolo led the way through the camp and out into the growing darkness, tensions flitted about the group like gnats. Tarzi dragged on Rostigan a little, causing them to fall back from the pack, which left Forger and Yalenna walking together. As those two glanced at each other guardedly, Rostigan hoped they were capable of remaining civil, and strained his ears to hear what they were saying. Tarzi, however, would not allow it.
‘He’s very odd,’ she whispered.
‘Who?’
‘Hanry. Who else?’
Rostigan sighed. ‘Yes, he has always been something of an outcast.’
He could tell that Tarzi was frustrated – but about what?
‘If you w
ere just going off to kill some worms,’ she said, ‘why did you turn it into such a secretive thing? You’ve left me behind before to walk into danger … but this time you built it up like you were going to your death!’
Rostigan could not think of a way to explain it.
Maybe it was the recent regularity with which he had broken his old rules, or maybe he could even argue to himself that it was for her own protection, but he found himself doing something he had never done before. He threaded words directly into her mind.
‘I am sorry I upset you,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to be mysterious. Fighting worms was all I was doing, and running into Hanry was simply a stroke of good fortune. That is all, I promise.’
He didn’t like doing it. He had not done it before, and hoped to never have to do it again. It was one thing to manipulate a cowardly king for the good of the world, quite another to do it to his Tarzi. In his estimation, however, this qualified as a special exception. He had not asked for any of this. He would have remained content in his former quiet life, collecting herbs as he and Tarzi wandered, she a pleasant inconvenience in the way of his endlessly fruitless search, but the Spell had had other ideas. It was not fair or unfair, it just was. But if he had to live with it, well, he felt justified in minimising the damage to his personal life.
Just this once, he told himself. I cannot explain the truth to her without risking everything.
She nestled closer, happy again, her doubts dispelled.
Would he have the same luck with Forger when he came asking about Tarzi? In that circumstance he could not cheat with implanted belief.
He glanced ahead, curious as to how Forger and Yalenna were getting on. Forger, surprisingly, was chattering away happily, and Yalenna was smiling and nodding in response.
Excellent actors, the both of them.
Further on, Loppolo turned about, his sleeve to his mouth, for the stench of death wafted on them.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
Soon enough fires blazed beneath piles of the dead, as Loppolo spoke words to those who had gathered. Off in the night, crows in the pit squawked over a bounty of flesh, and Rostigan tried to suppress the pleasure that came to him through them. He wondered if he would be able to let himself feel anything freely, ever again.
Rostigan and Forger loped along on the outskirts of the army. A day or two’s distance from the Pass, there was less urgency about the march now, for the enemy wasn’t going anywhere, and there were plenty of soldiers who would benefit from a little healing time.
Forger took a stalk of grass he’d been chewing out of his mouth and inspected it, as if it were something extremely interesting. ‘You never mentioned her to me,’ he said.
‘No.’
Off out of earshot, Tarzi was riding with Yalenna and Jandryn, strumming away as she composed a song about the battle.
‘Well?’ demanded Forger.
‘I apologise,’ said Rostigan. ‘I simply did not think about it.’
‘I have never known Karrak to keep a woman.’
‘Don’t say that name!’ Rostigan did not have to manufacture his annoyance. ‘I had to fit in, do you understand? You have no idea what it’s been like.’
‘What?’
‘Being alive! Do you know how hard it is, to be the kind of man I am, yet unable to show it, or use my gifts? Do you think the good people of Aorn would have let me live, if they’d known such a toothless snake slithered through their midst?’
‘You could have used your gifts. Not doing so was a choice you made.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
As if to prove his point, the ground tremored.
‘I had to live among them,’ Rostigan said. ‘Had to pass for a mortal. Thus I have taken more than one name over the years, and kept more than one lover too. Anything to seem like one of them. Do you understand?’
‘Maybe. But a committed lover is not necessary to create the distinction of normality. There are plenty of lechers in the world, brother. One more man who went from woman to woman would not raise a whole field of eyebrows.’
‘I had to learn to control my appetites, lest they run away with me. Had to practise restraint.’ Rostigan shot Forger the darkest glower he could muster. ‘She is not such a bad choice, anyway. Would it mollify you to know that I actually enjoy her? She has a pleasant voice, and other enthusiasms too, to keep a fellow satisfied. Besides, if I can fool the one held closest, I can fool anyone.’
Forger pursed his lips. ‘I see. But what will you do with her once we succeed in our plan? After we’ve healed the Wound and killed Yalenna, once we are free to be ourselves again?’
Rostigan shrugged. He thought about a callous answer, but somehow none seemed to fit with his prior justifications. ‘I imagine I will keep her, for a time at least.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ll see. Centuries can teach one patience, brother. I do not need every last thing in every moment. Besides, the use of my manhood is not in deficit. It is other muscles that ache to be flexed.’
‘Will she still love you though, if she learns who you really are?’
‘I can always twist her mind to my liking. Who’s to say I haven’t already, a little?’ A note of truth was always useful in lending credence to lies. ‘And if I decide I can’t be bothered with that, can you imagine the exquisite expression on her face when she learns who she has really been sharing a bed with? Such realisation would exceed the more mundane mutilations that come to us so easily, brother. It may even count amongst my greatest cruelties inflicted. Eh?’ He gave a mean cackle.
Forger nodded, as if convinced.
Mergan stalked back and forth, considering things from every angle.
‘More rocks!’ he ordered. ‘Up there!’
There were ledges in the mountainside above the winding path through the Pass, reached by steep and narrow ways, upon which his children were busy stockpiling rocks and whatever other projectiles they could find. Once upon a time there had been battlements up there, but these had since crumbled, and a few remnants of walls comprised the best remaining cover. That said, from those heights, simply crouching down was enough to remove one from sight.
Those Unwoven who knew how to use bows – not enough of them for Mergan’s liking – would be strategically situated among the rock hurlers. He had ordered them to teach others the skill as well, although ‘teaching’ was a rather alien concept, and he doubted many of the archers-in-training would prove effective in whatever time they had left. Still, they might surprise him.
‘There is not space for all up there,’ said Scarbrow. ‘Where shall the bulk of our people wait?’
‘Just inside the Dale,’ said Mergan, ‘ready for any who make it through the gauntlet. Be clear that they are not to disperse, back to raising cattle and making swords, or whatever they normally like to do. They are to remain in position.’
Scarbrow nodded. ‘And I will protect you.’
His sword would not be much good up where Mergan planned to be, on the highest reachable ledge, where the sweeping view gave him plenty of scope for magic.
‘No, I want you with our people inside the Dale. Make sure they stay where I have said. And get her down.’ He gestured at a pregnant Unwoven on a ledge who had apparently gone into labour.
‘You,’ called Scarbrow, ‘get down from there.’
‘Why?’ she answered, water dripping around her ankles.
‘You cannot fight while giving birth!’ shouted Mergan.
‘Why not?’
She set her jaw stubbornly and slammed her spear end to the ground, causing dust to fall.
‘You disobey the Lord Regret?’ called Scarbrow.
‘Oh, leave her,’ said Mergan, with a dismissive wave. ‘Let her hurl her newborn at them when they come for all I care.’
‘When will they come?’
‘Do you remember that helpful concept I recently taught you called “scouting”?’
Mergan did love his people, but it constan
tly surprised him how useless they could be.
As the army slowed to a stop, Yalenna considered the daunting Pass. Even from this distance, in the light of the setting sun, she could see grey shapes moving about the upper reaches, many well above arrowshot from the ground.
‘My lady,’ said Jandryn, ‘it is a death trap.’
She grunted in agreement. There was good reason why no one had ever been able to scour the Unwoven out of their Dale.
‘If we try to venture through,’ said Jandryn, ‘they will rain the mountains down upon us. Would that the Spell deliver some fortunate quake to shake them loose, like that which opened the pit beneath them.’
Ah yes, thought Yalenna, that convenient pit.
Loppolo sidled up, flanked by officers.
‘Priestess,’ he said stiffly, ‘I have been talking with my commanders and we cannot see a way into the Dale that does not result in ruin.’
‘Have a little faith,’ she replied, ‘in the powerful threaders you have with you.’
‘You have a plan?’
She glanced around for Rostigan. There he was, talking with Forger, gesturing at the Pass.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Let us make camp. We will attack tomorrow morning.’
‘But Priestess –’
She shot him a look to quiet his objections, and he glanced sideways at his officers.
‘We shall speak further tonight then,’ he said, ‘about how to address the problem. In the meantime, I will take your … advice.’
‘Very well.’ She turned away, heading towards the other Wardens, and Jandryn moved to join her. ‘Not now, Jandryn,’ she told him. He frowned, but she had no time for his insecurities just then.
As she arrived, Forger grinned at her. ‘My goodness, Yalenna! You look more radiant every day. Could it be that your young gentleman has warmed your once-cold heart?’