The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  Rostigan snorted disdainfully. ‘Were you such kittens, meek and mild, that you needed looking after?’

  ‘You wound me, old friend. Why won’t you explain it to me?’

  ‘It’s nothing I chose to share with you then. What makes you think I wish to now? I was living peacefully – nothing more or less – before you all came back. Now the sky is bruised, apples have no taste, and doubtless stranger things are on the way. The corruption is renewed, because of all of you.’

  ‘You had no hand to play?’ said Salarkis. ‘You share no responsibility?’

  ‘I’ve held my power close these many years. Unlike you, and the others, using it with reckless abandon. Sending pinpricks into innocent shopkeepers – is that worth another mark in the sky, Salarkis?’

  ‘Innocent?’ Salarkis shook his head. ‘This from the slave lord of Ander? The man who chained mother to babe to hammer, so she had to hold both as she smashed rocks in the quarry? Yet he uses this word “innocent” at me, over a little jabbing?’

  ‘I’m not that man anymore.’

  Salarkis bore his fangs.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand,’ said Rostigan. ‘It was happening to you too, before the end. You were remembering who you used to be, growing uneasy in your scales. You began to think Forger was going too far.’

  ‘Shut up Rostigan.’

  ‘Why else did you let Yalenna bless you? She found you, yes, but what of it? You could have escaped.’

  ‘She caught me by surprise.’

  ‘Did she? Or did you want what she offered?’ Rostigan began to move back towards the road. ‘You must have, else she would not have been able to force it on you. Do you still want it?’

  ‘What makes you think I don’t still have it?’

  That caught Rostigan off guard. ‘Do you? I did not think a blessing would survive death.’

  ‘The rest of my pattern did, so why not a blessing?’

  ‘That isn’t an answer.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Rostigan frowned. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ He might have to give a little here, he thought dully. ‘Forger?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I would … ask … that you not tell him where I am. Or any of the others, for that matter. You’re the only one who can find me.’

  ‘Though will I be able to again, after today? You have a way of hiding which you may deign to remember the use of.’

  ‘I told you, I do not use my powers anymore. I’ll be on this road, walking along it, like a man.’

  Back toward town, the light of the tavern on the outskirts twinkled.

  ‘What road is this, anyway?’ said Salarkis.

  ‘From Silverstone.’

  ‘Or, to put it another way, to Althala.’

  ‘To many places,’ said Rostigan.

  ‘Either way,’ said Salarkis, ‘why would I strike a bargain with you? What do you have to offer me, besides distemper and accusation?’

  Rostigan felt in his pocket, where a certain jar still nestled. He drew it out, undid the top, and carefully plucked out a single, crackly leaf.

  ‘Curltooth,’ breathed Salarkis. ‘I haven’t been able to find any since –’

  ‘No,’ said Rostigan. ‘Folk say it has gone from the Spell. I found a little, however, after many years of none at all.’ He twisted the leaf. ‘I will give you this now if you agree to my request … and another later, if you do well by me.’

  Salarkis smiled. ‘Like old times, then? Offering scraps from your table, in exchange for my compliance?’

  ‘Do you want it, or not?’

  Salarkis held out a palm, into which Rostigan placed the leaf. Delicately, careful not to crush it in his scaly fingers, Salarkis picked the curltooth up and, to Rostigan’s surprise, placed it straight into his mouth.

  ‘What are you doing? You’re meant to have it with food!’

  Salarkis grinned. ‘I prefer to reawaken the taste of every meal I’ve ever tasted.’ He began to work his jaw, crushing the leaf to tiny fragments, working them into the corners of his mouth.

  Rostigan thought he heard something, and glanced towards the town. Figures were moving along the road, getting closer, some of them holding lanterns.

  ‘Rostigan, is that you?’

  It was Tarzi.

  ‘Tide’s end,’ he growled. ‘Salarkis, they must not see you. You –’

  It was too late. Salarkis, rocking back on his heels, moving his tongue around his mouth in pleasure, gleamed as light found him.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Cedris, holding a lantern aloft. ‘By the Spell, it’s him! It’s Salarkis!’

  Ruefully Rostigan made up his mind. ‘I must attack you now, Salarkis,’ he said quietly. ‘Apologies.’

  He drew his sword and swung hard against the other Warden, hurling him from his feet. Salarkis rolled, giving a stifled grunt of surprise as he also tried to keep his mouth closed to preserve the precious curltooth. Using his tail for support, he sprung back to his feet, his face furious.

  ‘You will pay for that, warrior,’ he muttered from between tightly clenched teeth.

  ‘Get back!’ shouted Rostigan, waving his sword. ‘Get away from here, vile creature!’

  ‘It wasn’t statues on the road!’ said Cedris. ‘That’s why the mayor’s rider didn’t find anything when he went back. It must have really been him!’

  Salarkis smirked. ‘What a smart fellow you are!’ He threw his hands up in supplication to the sky, and did his best imitation of Cedris. ‘Oh, what travesty, that someone would do this to our precious statues? Who, who could it be? Some crazy threader, maybe?’

  Rostigan’s sword came at him again, and he bounced backwards out of the way. Meanwhile Cedris and some of the other young folk fanned out on either side of Rostigan.

  ‘We’re with you,’ said Cedris.

  ‘You have to wedge your blade between his scales!’ called Tarzi. ‘It’s the only way to drive through into his flesh.’

  ‘Well,’ said Salarkis, turning on Tarzi, ‘somebody’s been reading their bedtime stories. And who might you be?’

  ‘You really think I’d tell you my name?’ said Tarzi, though her voice faltered as she was singled out.

  ‘Funny girl! You think I need your name to kill you? I can clamber through a stranger’s window and stab her the old-fashioned way, should I wish to. I was just being polite.’

  Whether or not it was part of a performance, Rostigan did not like Salarkis threatening Tarzi. He howled in earnest and ran at him, and they crashed to the ground together. For Rostigan, it was like falling on a sack of rocks.

  ‘We struck a bargain,’ he hissed into Salarkis’s ear. ‘Leave.’

  Salarkis caught Rostigan’s hand and bent his fingers back until there was a snap. ‘This isn’t over,’ he said.

  Rostigan fell to earth as the stony body beneath him vanished.

  ‘Where is he?’ shouted Cedris. ‘Spread out! We must find him!’

  ‘Desist,’ said Rostigan. ‘There will be no finding him.’

  He hauled himself to his feet, wincing as he pushed his fingers back in place. It wasn’t a bad hurt, and the bones would probably mend overnight – a petty slight, maybe, to remind him he was not in charge. Or maybe to maintain his disguise convincingly? Salarkis had not spoken his true name, after all, and had, when it came down to it, gone along with the charade.

  ‘Is it bad?’ asked Tarzi, gently touching his damaged hand. ‘We should see if the village has a threader.’

  ‘No!’ said Rostigan, more harshly than he’d intended. Then, ‘No, songbird. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘What did he want?’ said Cedris, still clearly agitated and wanting something to swing his sword at. ‘Was it revenge for killing Stealer?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Rostigan, trying to think fast. ‘I
suspect he was just out causing mischief, and I happened to bear the brunt of it.’

  ‘Does he know your name?’ said Tarzi worriedly, looking around as if knives might flash out of the dark at anytime.

  ‘No,’ said Rostigan. ‘He did not seem to.’

  ‘Strange that he found you out here by yourself,’ said Cedris. ‘Or did you –’

  ‘Come,’ interrupted Rostigan. ‘Let us get back to the tavern. I am sore and in need of ale. We can postulate there about the motives of corrupted Wardens.’

  Without waiting for answers, he stalked off down the road.

  REGAINING STRENGTH

  Forger sat in his cell, listening to a man scream. The novelty of his capture had almost worn off, and he was growing restless. Already he had played a guessing game as to whom the various bones scattered about belonged to. Some of them were so old, it was possible they had been people put down here by Forger himself.

  A roach ran across the grimy floor and his fingers clamped down upon it. Idly he began to pick off its legs, feeding on little morsels of its pain. That was the thing about pain – the size of the victim did not overly matter. Pain was pain, pure and simple.

  ‘That said,’ Forger whispered to the panicked bug, ‘the greatest pain comes from intelligent things, since they know what’s being done to them, and have the faculties for mental anguish also.’

  He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, squashing the roach’s head.

  Opposite the row of cells, empty but for him, was a warmly glowing recess in which Tallahow’s torturer went about his work. The man was called Yoj, and his subject, Forger had gleaned, was a noble called Artanon. Artanon was suspected of some kind of foul play that had earned him the ire of Lady Elacin. He was strapped into a metal chair, his arms running with a hundred tiny cuts, his face bruised and mangled, his fingernails burnt.

  ‘I … don’t know anything,’ he half-mumbled, half-dribbled, even as the torturer picked up an iron rod and rested it in a brazier of coals.

  ‘Threver says you might,’ said Yoj.

  ‘Might? Might!’ wailed Artanon. ‘That is not grounds for this!’ His wail took on a different timbre as hot iron touched his skin.

  Forger watched with interest. It was a tantalising thing, seeing another pain-giver work. He could not benefit from the results, since he was not their source, yet he had an appreciation for the art. Yoj was methodical and impassive, excellent qualities for any torturer worth his salt.

  ‘And you need salt,’ Forger told the dead roach, ‘for rubbing into wounds.’ He flicked it away, wiping sludge from his fingers.

  It was time to make a move. As far as he could tell there were no guards besides Yoj, and the threaders who had brought him here hadn’t been seen again.

  Artanon passed out, and Yoj gave a little sigh.

  ‘My turn yet?’ called Forger. He rose from the shadows in the back of his cell, moving up to the bars.

  Yoj glanced at him and scowled. ‘You’re just mad,’ he said. ‘Anyone can see that.’

  ‘Aha! And what is madness, save a different way of thinking? By whose standard,’ Forger ran his hand levelly through the air as if over an invisible tabletop, ‘am I to be judged?’

  Yoj ignored him, setting his iron in an urn of water, where it hissed and steamed.

  ‘The threaders who sent me here,’ said Forger, ‘seemed to think I might know something. And I do!’

  ‘Just be quiet, and you might avoid any hurt.’

  ‘Neither of those things seem possible. If you were me, you’d understand.’ He moved along the bars, knocking an old shin bone against them.

  ‘Stop that!’ said Yoj.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Forger, still banging away, ‘is the infirmary in the same place?’

  ‘You’ve spent time in the infirmary, have you? That does not surprise me.’

  ‘Is it in the same place?’ repeated Forger.

  ‘The same place as what?’ said Yoj with annoyance.

  ‘The same place as it used to be.’

  ‘Listen here, you’re not going to the infirmary. Someone is going to come for you soon, to check the soundness of your mind. It is they who’ll ask you questions.’

  ‘What about you? You seem good at asking questions.’

  ‘You don’t have anything to tell me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because only a mad person would try to rile a torturer.’

  ‘Shows what you know,’ said Forger. ‘As it happens, very soon, I’m going to topple this Elacin and make her eke the filth from under my toenails with her tongue.’

  Yoj, who had been wiping his hands, put down his cloth and turned around slowly.

  Forger gave him a big smile. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ He set his hand on the cell door and surreptitiously fiddled with the lock’s threads. It clicked open audibly, and Yoj’s eyes slid to it immediately.

  ‘You stay right there,’ said Yoj, slipping a dagger from his belt.

  Forger gave a little wave and took away Artanon’s pain. Although the man was unconscious, the tautness left his posture, his head slumping in relaxation.

  Yoj did not notice. ‘Now,’ he said, edging towards the lock, ‘you leave that door closed and you won’t get into more trouble. It’s just an old lock that’s come undone, so don’t do anything stupid while I lock it again.’

  ‘Is the infirmary,’ said Forger slowly, ‘in the same place?’

  He gave Yoj all of Artanon’s pain.

  The dagger slipped from Yoj’s fingers as he staggered forward on wobbling knees. He collapsed against the cell door and tried to grab the bars for support. Forger opened the door, pushing Yoj backwards to the floor. He stepped out of the cell to stand over the stricken torturer, whose frantic eyes were now full of terror.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Forger. ‘I know that. You don’t know who I am.’

  ‘Puh … please …’ managed Yoj, as he tried to crawl away. His arms, though undamaged, rippled with the fire of a hundred cuts.

  ‘Answer my question,’ said Forger, and kicked him in the stomach.

  ‘Wha … what question?’

  ‘Think, man!’ shouted Forger. ‘I’ve asked you ten times already! If you make me ask again, I’ll feed you coals from the brazier!’

  ‘It’s in the same place!’ cried Yoj. ‘The same place!’

  ‘See?’ Forger kicked the man again. ‘It’s not that hard to be nice.’ Stepping over Yoj, he went towards the stout dungeon door.

  ‘Wait,’ came a soft voice. Artanon was stirring in his seat, and though a patchwork of wet and dry blood crisscrossed his chest, and he had trouble speaking through puffy lips, he was no longer in any discomfort.

  ‘What?’ said Forger.

  ‘Unbind me, sir, I beg you. You said you wanted Elacin dead? Well, so do I.’

  Forger was goggle-eyed in amazement. ‘You actually were plotting to kill her? My, you did hold out. I admire your strength of will!’

  ‘What? No.’ Artanon spat out a shard of tooth. ‘I was never part of any conspiracy. But I’d say what she’s done to me is reason enough to hate her, wouldn’t you?’

  Forger laughed. ‘My goodness! She made herself an enemy? That truly is amusing. Very well.’

  He gestured at the straps holding Artanon and they popped undone. Shakily, Artanon stood – although he couldn’t feel it, his body was still very weak. His ruddy face twisted in hatred as he picked up a hammer and headed for Yoj.

  ‘No!’ said Forger, knocking the hammer from his grip with another wave. ‘Your quarrel is not with him.’ He opened the door, and stood aside expectantly. ‘He was just doing what he was told. Leave him be.’

  Artanon glowered at Yoj a moment longer, then grunted and moved past him. Forger waited for him to go through the door, then followed him out and shut it firmly behind. They stood at the bottom of a dark, narrow set of stairs.

  ‘I’ve set you free, oh limping wolfhound,’ Forger said, ‘but now you�
��re on your own.’ He bounded up the stairs towards the fresher air of the castle proper.

  ‘But … wait …’ said Artanon, hobbling after him.

  Forger laughed at his optimism, and trotted off towards the infirmary.

  Forger caught a few odd looks on his way through the keep, but nothing he wasn’t used to. Servants gave him a wide berth and courtiers wrinkled their noses at the smelly, dirty, plain-clothed man who strode so boldly along their majestic corridors.

  ‘Has there been a dungeon break?’ a noble scoffed to his lady friends, and they laughed behind their hands. Forger knew it was just a rude joke, that the noble did not realise he spoke the truth, yet he yearned to turn and teach them a lesson.

  ‘Focus, my dear,’ he told himself. He did not want to get bogged down, not when threaders could be waiting around any corner. He needed more strength before he was truly himself again, and he meant to get it.

  In his days as Lord of Tallahow he had travelled this path often enough, and was pleased to find he still knew the way. The infirmary was on the keep’s ground floor, quite near the dungeon as luck would have it – and quickly he reached the archway that led into the long, well-lit room.

  There were threaders here, of course, moving from bed to bed, tending to the sick and injured. They did not worry him much, however, for they were only healers, who tended to be more skilled at restoration than destruction, so he liked his chances against them. For a moment he thought of Hanry, but his friend would not be here. This place was for soldiers, servants, nobles and other occupants of the keep. Doing a quick scan, he counted three healers, though there could be more through other arches that led to private rooms and operating chambers.

  He reached out his influence to the nearest healer and felt about inside her pattern. She stopped what she was doing and frowned, obviously sensing the invasion. Quickly he gathered up a handful of the threads inside her foot, and wrenched. There was a crack, followed by a wet sucking sound, as her ankle popped out of her like a bloodied, misshapen plum. As she squealed and fell, people sat up in their beds, trying to see what was wrong. The other two threaders came running over and crouched down beside her asking what had happened. With tears in her eyes as she clutched her bloody foot, the injured threader stared around trying to work out where the attack had come from. Her gaze settled on Forger, and he gave her a wink. Then he took hold of the bed they were all clustered at the foot of, and, patient and all, sent it hurtling over them, rolling them to a ball of flesh and broken limbs under its juddering legs, to smash against the opposite wall.