The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  Yalenna had not seen whatever it was that found her, but something had, that was certain. She remembered a perplexing kind of pain as her pattern was invaded, which quickly led to blurriness. Then Mergan was beside her, croaking something. She tried to pay attention.

  ‘Salarkis,’ he said.

  She followed his gaze, and lost a breath as she took in her comrade’s new body.

  ‘What happened?’ said Salarkis, gazing upon his stony hands. ‘My word. I feel as if I can finally do it! All those failed lessons Mergan, but I think I can finally threadwalk!’

  He grinned, revealing sharp teeth like those of an animal, and the next moment began to unspool. He was threadwalking, faster and more easily than Yalenna had ever seen.

  ‘Stop!’ said Mergan. ‘We need to stay together! We need to understand what has happened to us.’

  Salarkis, however, disappeared. Beyond where he had stood, Forger tittered in amazement.

  Braston, on his feet, was stooping over Jillan, who was trying to hide her face.

  ‘Jillan?’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ she cried, with a strange gurgle. Shielding her mouth from view, she dashed to the Spire stairs, and down.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Mergan. ‘Jillan!’

  Jillan did not turn back.

  Yalenna, who could feel herself changed as well, began to see the blessings wafting from her, though she did not yet understand what they were. Fearfully she looked to Karrak for support, and found his eyes cold and steely.

  ‘Karrak?’

  But he was not truly himself anymore. He was the man who would become known as the Lord of Crows, and she would learn that his appetite was ever for war, to feed the skies with the bodies of the slain. In the coming days he would kill his father and brother, take the crown of Ander for himself, and raise legions bent on turning all into his slaves. People would look towards his growing empire as they would a terrible storm on the horizon, though Yalenna did not know so in those moments, in which she only sought comfort from a friend.

  None of them had been the same after that day. With no other place to go, the threads Regret had stolen from the Spell made the Wardens their new homes. Five of the eight were touched by violent, chaotic aspects, their patterns twisted in terrible ways that drove them insane and filled them with malice. It was the beginning of a new conflict, which would last until only Yalenna and Braston were left standing.

  She remembered how, upon killing another Warden – Forger had been the first – she and Braston had remained on guard, expecting Forger’s Spell-born bundle of threads to rush upon them out of the rest of his fading pattern. They had planned to deflect it as best they could, in the hope that it would somehow join the rest of him in slipping behind the veil. The bundle, however, had never come. They had assumed that it had done what they wanted, thus coming to believe that murder of their owners was the best way of restoring stolen threads to the Spell. And, in the end, knowing that she and Braston were corrupted also, Yalenna had convinced him the only way to close the Wound for good would be to end their own lives.

  Yet here she was. And every time she tried clearing her mind, Regret’s eyes stared back at her.

  ‘Damn you,’ she whispered. ‘Get out.’

  No one had bothered to at the time, but now she imagined herself running a palm over the dead man’s eyes to close them.

  What had really happened to the threads of dead Wardens? They obviously had not sunk under the veil, else she would not now be back, and breathing out blessings into the bargain. Had the threads gone so deep that they had faded from perception, yet somehow not been able to make the final crossing? If that were the case, why had they behaved so differently on the Spire roof?

  The Great Spell, she knew, did not function under a set of rules – at least none that anyone had ever been able to ascertain. It was a fluid, changeable force, and perhaps over the years it had tried different ways to retrieve what had been taken from it. She had a vision of her own Spell-stolen threads straining to pass through the veil, like something too big to fit through a sieve, while the ones that she had been born with – the ones that were really her – wavered beyond it, still attached and anchored, wanting to disperse in death and yet not able, until the Spell somehow reversed the flow, and spat her back out in entirety.

  She shook her head. How could she tell what had really happened? She would probably never know. The Spell worked in mysterious ways.

  She took a deep breath and turned eastwards. Summoning a picture of Althala in her head, she concentrated until her pattern began to thrum. Her vision suddenly broke into line, sliding apart in different directions – and then she was undone, no longer aware, a collection of threads whizzing along faster than any regular person could travel.

  Sometime later she tumbled out of the air, reforming in farmland pastures with a gasp, just outside the walls of Althala.

  THE LORD OF PAIN

  Forger stared up into the sky, his view framed by towering blades of grass. He blinked.

  ‘What?’ he said, and sat up.

  He had awoken on dirt, though the particles were much bigger than they should have been. Not to mention the pebbles, which were the size of melons.

  ‘Except,’ he picked up a pebble and considered it, ‘they aren’t the size of melons.’ He rose and looked about the forest of grass surrounding him. ‘Because a melon would be the size of a castle!’

  He dropped the pebble and kicked it away to thud flatly against a stalk. It was like kicking a heavy rock, and it hurt.

  ‘Ah!’ said Forger, rubbing his foot. His grimace twisted into a grin. ‘I’m alive!’

  He patted himself and found he was wearing his usual garb; brown straps holding together a collection of odd little patches of leather scattered about his body. Then he patted his bald head.

  ‘So I’m me,’ he mused. ‘But I’m small.’

  A huge ant appeared, and Forger gave a yelp of alarm. He went to the ground, grasping about for a sharp pebble. The ant paid him no mind, and cantered off amongst the stalks. Forger watched it go with wide eyes, ready to attack with his pebble … then rocked back and howled with laughter.

  ‘Scared of an ant! Me!’ He wiped tears from his eyes. ‘Right. Now, by blood and fire, what predicament am I in?’

  The last thing he remembered was Yalenna and Braston, killing him. That was the only way they had been able to do it, the cowards – together. He remembered a kidney exploding in his side, while they fought on with faces set serious in concentration, not even taking any pleasure in their success. What a waste.

  That had been in a little cottage.

  ‘Hmm.’

  He found a second sharp pebble and approached a blade of grass. Jumping up it as far as he could, he stabbed the pebbles into its soft flesh like daggers.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Up, up, up!’

  Using the pebbles arm over arm, he began to stab his way higher, climbing the stalk with tiny muscles bulging. As he reached the top, the stalk began to bend beneath him, and he took a moment to steady himself. Around him stretched a sea of grass, and off in the distance stood monumental trees and an enormous cottage.

  ‘Are you the same?’ he asked it. ‘Or is this,’ he gestured around himself, ‘the exact spot where I died? And my cottage, glorious crypt that it was, has since rotted away? Because,’ he froze his gesturing hand and stared at it hard, ‘it is obvious much time has passed.’

  After Regret, Forger had learned miraculous things about his changed self. Pain made him stronger, whether it was pain he caused, or pain he took away. It had been pleasantly surprising to realise that this did not disturb him. Gone were the foibles of his human days, when the world’s troubles weighed upon him heavily. Blissfully gone was the tendency to make every problem his own, to care and fret, as if compassion were some kind of currency and he aimed to grow rich. What a relief it had been, to be done with all that! He had gone on very happily to feed on humanity’s
misfortune wherever he found it, or created it. Something else he had learned, however – if he did not feed, he grew smaller, weaker.

  So how long had it been?

  ‘Cottages,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter, what cottage is what, or where?’

  The stalk gave in and he tumbled downwards, bouncing off other blades to land back on the dirt.

  ‘Piss and fire,’ he growled, sitting up to rub his bruises.

  Behind him a patch of earth rose slightly, and eyes glistened in the shadows beneath. The trapdoor spider burst from its tunnel and seized him around the waist, dragging him backwards into its lair. The trapdoor fell back neatly in place, indiscernible from its surrounds.

  Off in the distance, a child from the cottage began to play, his merry laughter echoing through the grass. A breeze rustled the stalks, and spots of light flitted about.

  The trapdoor flew open with a force that sent it spinning, and a howl of rage issued from the tunnel. A hand reached out to clench the ground, and Forger hauled himself out of the darkness. He grunted, scratched and bleeding, and pulled on something with his other hand that did not want to leave the hole.

  ‘Oho!’ growled Forger. ‘Not so keen now, eh?’

  From the dark he dragged the spider forth by its front leg. In terror it tried to break free, but Forger heaved until it was bodily out of the tunnel. Ignoring its clicking jaws and flailing legs, he sent gestures at the surrounding grass, ripping sinews from the stalks and floating them to the spider. It felt good to be threading again, even on such a small scale. He set the sinews tying knots about the spider’s limbs, which he then directed to root it to the ground. Soon the spider was pinned flat, its soft belly rubbing against the earth as it tried to rise.

  ‘Want to return to the darkness, don’t you?’

  Forger gave a wave upwards and the grass bent away, dappled light replaced by blazing sun. He moved in front of the creature, squatting to stare into its multiple terrified eyes.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘pain is what I need. Luckily, you have it to give.’

  He ran a hand over one of the splayed legs, ruffling coarse bristles. Hair covered the spider, up its legs to its head, and all over its plump abdomen.

  ‘Lots of hair,’ said Forger.

  He began to pluck.

  For most of the morning he laboured on the spider, joyously drinking in its torment. He was deliberate and measured in his work, making sure he gripped bundles of hair for long enough before pulling them, that the spider knew what was about to happen each and every time. Eventually it was almost bald, its quivering flesh peppered by blotches of sticky blood. And Forger, having fed for the first time in three hundred years, grew until his head was just above the grass.

  ‘That’s better.’ He sighed contentedly. ‘Getting too big for an intricate project like you,’ he told the spider, and turned away, leaving it staked out in the sun.

  Pushing grass aside, he made his way towards the cottage. Two little boys were playing under a tree, their mother looking on from the porch, smiling at their silly game. It was like some hybrid of tag and wrestling, and also involved sticks somehow.

  ‘How nice,’ said Forger. He ducked his head beneath the grass, careful to stay hidden as he approached. The tree the boys played beneath was an easy climb, and up he went, keeping to the side facing away from the house. Once he reached the higher branches, he climbed around until he gained a good view of the boys. They raced about, but always eventually returned to the shade – all he had to do was pick the right moment. In the meantime he set about untying the threads that kept a heavy branch in place, until all it would take was a final tweak.

  He did not have to wait long. The boys fell beneath him, a heap of gasps, grunts and chuckles. He gestured at the branch, snicking the last thread. With a crack it plummeted, and his timing was good. The boys were on top of each other, and the branch fell on top of both, crushing them to little-boy jam.

  The cry from the mother came as expected, full of horror and disbelief – not quite what he needed, yet. She raced over and, with strength that belied her frame, wrested the branch off her sons. As she fell beside their broken bodies, Forger sensed hairline splinters running through her heart.

  No, she mouthed silently, no sound escaping her throat. She pawed at her children, as if by rearranging their limbs back into normal positions, she could restore them to life. Her pain began to reach Forger, sharp and clear – a soul pain, the purest sort, and oh, it was good! She rocked as her tears flowed, and Forger grew stronger with each racking sob. She would not get over this quickly, he knew, and maybe there was a father about too, who would soon discover this pain himself. With any luck, Forger could lurk about this house until he was well satiated.

  He realised he was growing heavier, perhaps too heavy for his current vantage. The branch beneath him cracked and fell, and he gave a little squeak as he went tumbling after, to land on his feet beside the mother. She flinched, blinking at him rapidly. He must have grown, for although she knelt and he stood, they were eye to red-and-weepy eye.

  ‘There goes that idea,’ he said.

  Somehow she associated him with what had happened, and reached for his throat with a shriek of rage. Forger flicked his fingers at her feet and rooted her in place. Quickly he decided that, although less thorough than what he’d intended, there were faster ways to eke more pain from her.

  ‘Who did I think I was fooling?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have the patience to sneak about unseen while you mourn! Ha.’

  He gave a wave, and, directing her body for her, sent her stumbling towards the cottage.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Stop!’

  He considered the dead children for a moment, then floated their corpses after her.

  ‘I think we shall prop up your boys at the table,’ he told the hysterical woman, ‘so they can watch what I do to you.’

  Bouncing up the porch steps, he opened the cottage door and stood aside, hand held out in a gesture of welcome.

  ‘Come on in!’

  The lurching woman screamed at him without words.

  ‘Really,’ he said, ‘can’t you understand? I’m just trying to be happy. Why don’t you want me to be happy?’

  And he took them all into the house.

  PRESENT TRUTH

  Rostigan drew deeply on his pipe, filling up his lungs with smoke. He enjoyed the bite of it, strangely, the hot prickle of damage done.

  Nobody bothered him here, sitting in a dark corner of the busy tavern. His stern face and heavy sword usually made sure of that, but tonight people were skittish, distracted by all they had heard over the past few days. This town lay in the plains some leagues from Silverstone, and enough travellers from that direction had given accounts of the missing city to leave the townsfolk frightened.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ said a farmer at the nearest table, ‘it’s just not natural.’

  ‘Oh, thank you for that, Borry,’ replied a pock-marked man. ‘A whole city up and vanishes, and you declare it’s not natural? What insight! It’s a wonder you’re just a common farmer and not some famous, wealthy scholar.’

  ‘Settle down Tanis,’ said a woman, ‘there’s no need for that. We’re all worried.’

  ‘I’m not worried. Has any of you actually seen Silverstone?’

  ‘That’s the whole problem,’ said Borry. ‘It can’t be seen!’

  ‘I mean, coal and ash, has anyone here actually verified the truth of these claims? It could just be some traveller spreading lies as a trick.’

  ‘But it weren’t just one. It was –’

  ‘At least three,’ said the woman. ‘Different ones too, not travelling together.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Tanis, growing ever more exasperated, ‘that they didn’t arrive together. Maybe they met on the road beforehand, and said to each other, “Let’s conjure a tale before visiting town one by one, so the poor fools don’t suspect that we’re lying sons of goats. What fun it will be to scare whatever semblance
of wits they may or may not have right out of their hollow heads!”’

  ‘You believe what you want,’ said the woman. ‘I saw the look in one of ’em’s eyes, and I’m telling you, he believed what he saw. Said there was a voice in the air, just … hovering.’

  ‘Haw!’

  As the conversation grew louder, it attracted attention from other tables.

  ‘I heard that too,’ put in someone. ‘Ghost words, no one there to speak them.’

  ‘And what about rumours from the north?’ asked a younger man. ‘I was in Yar today, and there’s talk going about that Braston rules again in Althala!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Borry. ‘I heard that, Klion.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Tanis, thumbing towards Klion. ‘You heard it from him.’

  ‘And Yalenna, too – they say she came back to life in the Temple of Storms!’

  Rostigan, regrettably, did not think the rumours were false. He knew for certain that one Warden had returned from death – and if she had, why not others?

  Borry, it seemed, echoed his sentiment. ‘Wardens,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘The Spell’s upped and brought ’em back, that’s what I reckon. And if it’s done Braston and Yalenna, well, why not also … but, ah, I don’t want to say.’

  ‘We all know who liked to leave words hanging about in the air,’ said the woman.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ muttered Tanis. ‘You’re talking about children’s stories!’

  ‘Horse shit,’ said Borry. ‘Spell’s done it before. What about feverblossom? It disappeared for a hundred years, and now it’s everywhere in the west, thicker on the ground than grass.’

  ‘And wildercats,’ added the woman. ‘And harp flies.’

  Tarzi returned to the table with two mugs of ale and sat down despondently. ‘Innkeeper doesn’t think it’s a night for minstrels,’ she said. ‘People are too worked up.’

  Rostigan puffed on his pipe.

  ‘You’re all idiots,’ Tanis declared as he rose, sounding more afraid than convinced. ‘Why go putting such ideas in people’s heads? Eh? To what purpose?’ He stalked away toward the door.