by Sam Bowring
The figure was man-like and naked, half-crouched as if to spring, hands outstretched with sharp fingertips, its inhuman smile full of fangs. Its body was covered by overlapping scales, smooth where its manhood should be, and a tail curled around its leg, ending in a tuft of feathers. Feathers also stood in place of its hair, sticking out all which ways like some kind of wild crest.
‘What’s this?’ said Cedris, going to stand before the statue. ‘This shouldn’t be! Last time I passed this way, a statue of King Ulden stood here.’
Tarzi frowned as she considered the statue – she had described the figure enough times to know who it was.
‘Salarkis,’ she said.
‘Salarkis?’ repeated Cedris, aghast. ‘So someone’s replaced Ulden with this … tribute … to a corrupted Warden? Who would do such a thing?’
No one answered. Rostigan kept still, watching the statue.
‘We should topple it!’ called a young man with a shaved head.
Angrily Cedris pushed against the statue, but it was far too solid and heavy. Some of his friends joined him, and they all heaved together, to no avail.
With a grunt of disgust, Cedris backed off. ‘Come on everyone,’ he said. ‘We’ll warn the people at the next town that some demented sculptor is vandalising their roads.’
The group moved on, though Rostigan dallied. As the feathered Warden continued to stare ahead at whatever he was planning to spring at, Rostigan looked behind him into the bushes. There the legs of poor King Ulden poked out from the vegetation, his feet cracked where they had been wrenched from the pedestal.
Rostigan frowned, and went after the group.
Some half a league onwards, Cedris gave a cry of dismay. Ahead, by the side of the road, was another statue on a pedestal. This time Salarkis was down on one knee, his finger beckoning, his fangs revealed in a fearsome snarl.
‘I can’t believe it!’ said Cedris. ‘This one was Queen Jilwyn. Who would do this? The detail is so fine – it has to be the work of some insane threader!’
Fearful looks shot about as the group imagined such a thing.
Rostigan approached, taking out his sword. He turned it slowly in his hand, almost as if he showed it to the statue … then, with a mighty heave, he swung it against the Warden’s leg. The blade rebounded with a clang, leaving the stone unmarked.
‘Do not blunt your weapon, Skullrender,’ said Cedris. ‘This will take time to pull down. We must tell them about it at the next town.’
On they went, and Tarzi slipped her arm through Rostigan’s, sending an uneasy glance back at the statue.
‘At least we know it was really stone,’ she said.
No, thought Rostigan. Stone would have chipped.
When they came to the third statue, it looked like Salarkis was shrugging.
‘Just move past the damn thing,’ muttered Cedris.
In the afternoon they arrived at a sleepy little town in the midst of well-tended fields. Tarzi and Cedris immediately went to find the mayor and tell him about the statues. It would help in their recruitment efforts, Rostigan supposed, for if anyone here thought themselves remote enough to avoid the Warden’s influence, this was proof they weren’t.
Meanwhile, he had his own task – having finally bent to Tarzi’s plaintive requests, he went looking for a local herb merchant. There were some wooden stores along the main road through town, and locals with carts of produce. He passed such a one, and overheard an exchange between a trader and an old lady.
‘This apple tastes like clay,’ said the lady.
‘Looks fine to me,’ said the trader, turning it in his hands. Where she had bitten it, the flesh was a healthy glistening white.
‘Try some,’ she challenged.
The trader shrugged, took a bite, and screwed up his face in distaste.
‘See?’
‘I got these fresh from the farm this morning,’ he said confusedly, picking another from the cart. Tentatively, he took a nibble. ‘This one too … what’s wrong with them?’
‘I want my coin back,’ said the old lady.
Rostigan spied a store with thick purple curtains and a sign that read ‘Borgan’s Herbs and Potions’. Trying too hard to seem arcane, he thought as he went to the door.
Inside, shelves lined the walls, stocked with jars well spaced out to make them look more plentiful than they actually were. As the door banged behind him, a man – Borgan, Rostigan assumed – emerged from behind a curtain to favour him with a smile and take an alert position behind the counter.
‘Good day, sir. Are you looking for anything in particular? I have some fresh ascenia, excellent for burns or bruising.’
Rostigan scanned the sad looking jars. ‘I am neither burned nor bruised.’
‘Ah, but you never know – next time you are burned or bruised, you might wish you had been more forward-thinking!’
‘If I had been forward-thinking,’ said Rostigan, ‘then I would not be burned or bruised.’
By the look of the shop, he suspected there was little chance Borgan had the sack of gold lying around necessary to buy even a single leaf of curltooth. And, assuming he didn’t, there was no reason for him to know that Rostigan carried a kingdom’s ransom worth of the stuff.
‘I was actually wondering if you’d be interested in purchasing some stock.’
‘Ah,’ said Borgan, less enthusiastically. ‘Well, that depends. What do you have?’
Rostigan dumped his satchel on the counter, and began to fish out bundles for Borgan to pore over. The jar of curltooth, however, he palmed and slipped into his pocket. With it safely hidden, he pushed the satchel towards Borgan. Maybe he could earn enough from his more common findings to tide Tarzi over.
‘Hmm,’ said Borgan, regarding Rostigan with slightly more respect as he pushed some of the bundles aside. ‘I’ll definitely take the purple moss – running low on virility potions. Not the ascenia – as you may have garnered, I have enough trouble shifting the stuff. Is this milkweed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wonderful. Haven’t had any in stock for a while.’ He gave the pale stalks a sniff. ‘How long have you been carrying it?’
‘A few days.’
‘Hasn’t gone green yet,’ said Borgan approvingly. ‘Oh, and black cress, yes, and … no, I don’t need any halia.’
Rostigan remained silent as the man fussed about, sliding bundles from one pile to another.
‘There,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll take trade for these?’
‘Do you have any food or weaponry?’
‘I have a flash potion or two, handy for blinding an opponent …’
‘Weapons of the more pointy variety, I was thinking.’
‘Mmm.’ Borgan tried to remember whether or not he had a stockpile of swords out the back. ‘Can’t say I do.’
‘I’m afraid it will have to be coin then.’
Borgan cleared his throat. ‘Very well. Let me see now …’ He sized up the bundles he’d chosen, produced a piece of paper and quill, and started tallying. ‘I’ll give you … let’s say two silver for each bundle, four for the milkweed …’ His glance asked if this was acceptable, and Rostigan nodded. ‘Give me a moment,’ said Borgan, and disappeared behind his curtain.
He re-emerged with a cloth bag and began to count out silver. It wasn’t as much as Tarzi wanted, but it would have to do. The ‘troops’ could eat hard-bread if they weren’t paying their own way. Once they reached Althala, it would be Braston’s responsibility to feed them properly.
As Borgan laid the last coin on the counter one of the shop’s windows broke inwards, the glass splintering. There was a whizzing sound and Borgan gave a yelp. His hand went to his chest where, embedded through his shirt into his flesh, there quivered a thin sliver of metal.
‘Wind and fire!’ With a wince, Borgan drew the sliver out easily – it was the length of a pin, only the very end dotted with blood. ‘What is this?’
‘Something from the window?’
said Rostigan dumbly.
Borgan came around the counter and went to the door. Outside, there was no one on the street.
‘As if I don’t have enough problems without unruly children bursting my windows!’ He turned the sliver for inspection, hand shaking a little. ‘But it doesn’t look like anything from my building.’
Rostigan shrugged.
‘Well,’ said Borgan, ‘the mayor will hear of this!’
Rostigan pocketed his earnings and allowed himself to be ushered out of the store.
What are you playing at, Salarkis? he wondered.
He sat on the tavern porch, puffing on his pipe. It was a peaceful spot, at the end of the main street on the outskirts of town. As the sun set, he found a melancholy stealing upon him. There seemed much to do, when all he wanted was to sit in peace. Instead, when he closed his eyes, he saw the white walls of Althala looming ahead.
Tarzi, Cedris and some of the others arrived, moving past on their way into the tavern. He gave Tarzi a nod and she plonked down next to him.
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘The mayor waits on a rider to return and verify what we reported,’ she replied. ‘Such a strange thing – who would erect monuments to Salarkis?’
Rostigan gave his shoulders a slow roll.
‘Are you going to come in?’
‘No, songbird. I shall take in the air.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Did you sell any curltooth?’
‘I sold some of the other herbs. The local merchant could not afford such treasure.’
‘Are you sure? Maybe he had a cask of coin buried out the back, left to him by his old grandmother.’
‘Such an inventive mind. You should find work as a storyteller.’
‘Rostigan, this is serious. We have to get as many people as we can to Althala.’
‘Why is that your responsibility?’
‘Because I’m a part of the world! If it fails, where will I go? Who will I drink with, Rostigan, who shall I sing to? Who shall I lie in bed with at night with? Nobody, and nothing! Have you not seen the sky this evening?’
She pointed up at something Rostigan had been trying to ignore.
In the sky around the setting sun, among the wash of oranges and reds, darker patches could be seen, like huge, distant bruises – or as if the sun was a lantern glowing behind a sheet stained by dirty smears. Perhaps, if he hoped it, Rostigan could imagine they were the beginnings of night, somehow come ahead of greater darkness. Or …
‘Maybe clouds,’ he said.
‘They aren’t clouds, and you know it. The Spell is ailing. Don’t you feel compelled to do anything? Aren’t you supposed to be a brave warrior?’
Rostigan felt his face darken. ‘I’m coming with you, aren’t I? You never really asked if I wanted to, and nevertheless, here I am. Just don’t expect me to help stir up villagers to go and get killed.’
‘Of course not,’ said Tarzi. ‘That would require some hint of emotion, some passion on your behalf!’
She watched him carefully, as if searching for that which she’d accused him of lacking.
Rostigan took a long draw on his pipe.
‘You’re a strange man,’ she said, rising, and went into the tavern.
Night soon swallowed the bruises in the sky. Inside, Tarzi began speaking, and all else fell to a hush. Although her purpose these days was to do more than simply entertain, she still gave a good performance, twisting words and adopting voices, bouncing about taking on characters. Sitting alone in the dark, Rostigan listened with half an ear. He didn’t really want to, yet he found her words infiltrating his calm. Eventually he turned to look through the window behind him. Tarzi was in her usual place before the fire, adeptly commanding the room’s attention and speaking with great gravitas. In the deep place, Rostigan knew that she rivalled the minstrels of the greatest kings.
‘Before he fought Regret, Salarkis looked like any man,’ Tarzi said. ‘But afterwards, of all the Wardens, his appearance was the most changed. The threads that came to him from Regret, were akin to those the mad lord had used to create his monsters. Salarkis became like a monster himself, with hard scales for skin, sharp teeth, and stone feathers for hair. Rar!’
She lunged at a child on the floor, who squealed with delight.
‘He also received special talents – he could travel quickly, and find someone just by knowing their name. What’s your name, sir?’
The fellow she had singled out shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Tavan.’
‘Well imagine, good Tavan, if you somehow earned yourself note in Salarkis’s eyes. Maybe he would come to get you himself … or maybe he would simply speak your name to a blade and release it. Even if you were far away, the blade would fly, fly, fly until it crashed through the glass …’ She spun and flung up her hands at a window, and Tavan almost jumped out of his seat, ‘and deep into your breast!’
People chuckled at Tavan’s fright, and he blushed.
‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘see how you like it, if someone says that to you!’
‘Salarkis,’ continued Tarzi, ‘could kill anyone in the world, and he didn’t even need to be there. Not his fellow Wardens, of course, or no doubt he would have sent knives to Yalenna, Braston and Mergan. Instead he acted as a messenger between the others, and delighted in joining their destruction. When Karrak attacked Galra, the city’s king chose not to ride out with his army, but instead cowered in his throne room. Salarkis spoke his name to an axe and sent it over the castle walls, through a balcony door, down a hall, up some winding stairs and then!’ She smacked her hands together. ‘It burst into the throne room and spun towards the king. They say it struck him with a force that slid his throne to the wall, smashing seat and ribs with equal ease.
‘Oh, they knew good times together, Karrak and Forger, Despirrow and Salarkis. Armies marched, rivers ran red, and Karrak’s crows grew fat on gobbled eyes. But, one by one, Salarkis’s comrades fell, or disappeared, until he was the last one left. He fled, and Yalenna and Braston hunted him a long time, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Eventually it was Yalenna who found him, in the wilds of Dapplewood, near the village that had been his childhood home.’
There came a sigh from the seat beside Rostigan. He froze, hairs prickling along his arms. No one could have taken that position without him noticing. Slowly he turned, as Tarzi’s words still reached his ears.
‘Little is known of their meeting. When Yalenna returned from it she claimed that she had blessed Salarkis, and that she had killed him.’
In the shadows by Rostigan, barely reached by the flickering light from inside, a figure reclined as if he had been there for hours. Scaly arms lay along the arm rests, his tail idly flicking the floorboards between his legs. He smiled at Rostigan, fangs gleaming behind the dark lips that framed them, and he tilted his head towards Tarzi inside.
‘She’s a pretty one,’ said Salarkis. ‘What’s her name?’
For a moment Rostigan dared not breathe or move. Then, slowly, he set down his pipe.
‘That was you,’ he said, ‘back on the road. Those statues.’
Salarkis gave a little bow in his seat.
‘To what purpose?’ asked Rostigan. ‘Why show off like that? What point in sticking the herb vendor with a needle?’
‘Just trying to get your attention,’ said Salarkis. ‘A little harmless fun. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk about purpose – you who did whatever you wanted, who tore down kingdoms simply because they were there, Karrak.’
‘Hush! Do not call me that.’ Rostigan glanced back through the glass. No one was watching, but if someone came to the window, or stepped outside, and saw him talking to Salarkis …
‘Let us go from here,’ he said, rising.
‘I want to hear the end of my story.’
‘It’s over,’ said Rostigan, moving down the porch steps. ‘You’re dead.’
Without looking to see if he was being followed, he moved around the side of the
tavern and headed out into the fields. There was a ripple in the air and a heavy crunch on the grass as Salarkis appeared beside him.
‘I see your manners have not improved,’ Salarkis said.
‘What do you want?’
‘Why, the same as you, no doubt. To know what is going on!’
‘I do not care a speck,’ said Rostigan, ‘what is going on. It has nothing to do with me.’
‘How can you say that, when we have all of us come back from the dead?’
Rostigan sighed. He supposed it would have been too much to ask for, for even one of them to have remained at rest, yet if anyone could tally them, it was Salarkis.
‘I did not,’ he said, ‘come back from the dead.’
Salarkis was surprised. ‘You didn’t?’
He glanced back at the tavern, and Rostigan could see him having thoughts. It was irksome.
‘You did not want me to speak your name where it might be heard,’ Salarkis said slowly. ‘Those people back there – they are not under your sway?’
‘No.’
‘They do not know who you are?’
‘No.’
‘You never died?’ said Salarkis. ‘You have been alive since …’
‘Yes.’
‘But where did you go? You disappeared! Not even I could find you, and I know your true name, no matter what false word you presently offer when it’s asked of you.’
‘Rostigan.’
‘Rostigan,’ snarled Salarkis. ‘Why couldn’t I find you?’
‘I didn’t want you to.’
‘I found you today.’
‘I’d forgotten to guard against the likes of you, sometime in the last three hundred years.’
‘How? Please tell me, or curiosity will eat my brain.’
Rostigan supposed there was no harm in elucidating – it was not as if knowing how it was done would render the technique inert. ‘I shrouded my pattern with the borrowed threads of dead crows,’ he said. ‘Dimming my “bright light”, as it were, disguising myself as one of the flock.’
Salarkis remained confused. ‘But where did you go? Why did you leave us?’