The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  Quickly he set about his task. It was easier, he had reasoned, to give people pain when they were already in it – gouge the right spots, crack the right bones, apply the right pressures, and what had merely been discomfort could be quickly turned to agony. Not to mention that this lot were in no shape to offer much resistance.

  He ran from bed to bed, using his hands to harm while also sending objects flying – scalpels and scissors whisked about so randomly they even nicked him a couple of times. Mainly they found their intended targets, however, and slashed at faces or stuck into eyeballs.

  A soldier ran towards him, apparently unhurt save for a bandage on his arm, and as he passed a mirror Forger gestured at it, ripping it inwards to prickle the fellow with glass. He turned back to the young man who squirmed beneath him, digging in further with his thumbs. Death showed a moment later, but the prize was won – for all their brevity, the youth’s last moments had been pain clear and true. Moving on, he waved at a heavily bandaged patient, and the bandages twisted to constrict too tightly, refreshing old blood stains. At the next bed an old woman fumbled with the corner of her sheet, as if it was the only obstacle between her and escape.

  Pathetic.

  He pummelled her extremities, knowing she was only good for a few sound hits. Power began to course through him, straining against the inside of his skin as if his muscles grew too big.

  He continued through the room as fast as he could, leaving behind splattered walls and slick floors. Each attempt by those who tried to rise against him was more laughable than the last. A couple more threaders appeared from other rooms, and these he aimed to kill quickly, finding it gratifying to see how easily he unspooled the spells they hurled at him.

  ‘Barely a tickle,’ he grunted, as he felt one of them trying to slow the blood that moved through his veins. In return he summoned all of hers, and it sprayed out of pores all over her body.

  Before he knew it, he had reached the end of the room. Looking back, he saw a couple of patients he’d missed fleeing under the archway, their bed robes flapping behind them. He took a moment to drink in the scene. Some of the pain he had caused was ongoing, and continued to feed him as its sources moaned in tangled bedclothes.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, wiping his mouth as if he’d just taken a satisfying swig of water. ‘That’s better.’

  Forger strode through the keep towards the throne room. He stood taller now and flexed his bulging arms with pleasure. The patterns behind things were clearer to his enlivened eyes, the threads that made up the world were his to twist and knot as he saw fit. The feeding frenzy at the infirmary had been just what he needed.

  Guards began to swarm. There seemed to be confusion over who or what the threat actually was, and he saw several groups rush past in parallel corridors. Inevitably, however, some came upon him – evidently a dirty, bloodstained man was worth asking a few questions.

  ‘You!’ demanded a guard, braced by several other fellows. ‘Who are you? What is your business in the keep?’

  Forger grinned, and gave a little wave. A slight rearrangement, and suddenly the guard’s nerves felt as if they were on fire. The pain spread through their number like flash contagion, and they screamed, ripped off their armour and fell to the ground to roll around, as if that was a way to smother the myriad pinpoints of agony.

  ‘You are my guards, really,’ he told them. ‘That’s why I won’t damage you properly. You’ll live through this, if your minds can take it.’

  Forger knew the noise would bring others, so he quickly moved on. He noticed a tight servant’s stairwell curling upwards, and darted into it.

  ‘’Scuse, miss,’ he said, sliding around a serving girl carrying a teapot on a tray.

  Several openings and levels later, he found himself at the top of the keep. Feet pounded the stairs beneath and he knew that he was being followed. He ran out into a sweeping corridor of grey stone lined with long windows that overlooked Tallahow.

  ‘I like what you haven’t done with the place,’ he chortled.

  Ahead, blocking the throne room doors, guards clustered to cut him off as others spilled into the corridor behind.

  ‘There he is!’ came a shout. Weapons were drawn, crossbows notched, and he slowed to a jog. Several silver robes were also present in the mix, including the two threaders who had accosted him at the gate. He reached out for the woman, intending to constrict her heart to a pip, but instead, as he tried to grip her threads, she solidified herself against his influence. She was strong and focused, and he found her pattern difficult to alter. As she pushed him out, for a moment he felt the clothes covering her, which she was not concentrating on protecting. With a snicker he ripped them from her, leaving her completely naked. She gave a gasp as she stared down at her exposed breasts and, in that moment of humiliation, he lifted her, unaltered body and all, and flung her through a window.

  ‘He’s a threader!’

  ‘Kill him!’

  He dove beneath arrows as soldiers rushed towards him, preceded by the first threader attacks. He unspooled a few spells before his fingers suddenly flopped limply, his bones melting to milk. Cursing, he reasserted his pattern, thickening his bones once more, brushing aside the influences that worried at him. He roared as he sent out more pain, giving the charging guards the same fire as those below.

  Shards from the smashed window flew at him – ‘That’s my trick!’ he growled. He caught some of them in the air and burst them to sprinkles, but several planted up and down the length his body. Angrily he brushed them out, blood welling in the punctures. The guards were now flailing and wailing, running about and crashing into each other. Threaders advanced amongst them as best they could, and he saw one stoop to a writhing man and pass a hand over him, dispelling his pain. The next moment a floating fully armoured guard crashed into Forger, knocking him from his feet. The guard was still alive and thrashing wildly until Forger grabbed his head and twisted with all his strength.

  ‘Someone threw a guard at me!’ he said incredulously as he rose.

  It was the male threader from the gate, watching him meanly with fingers twitching. As he stared the man down, more attacks pinched at him from other sources, easy enough to fend off – but this fellow, Forger had a feeling, was the one to beat.

  At once they both attacked, reaching for each other’s hearts. Forger felt his tighten in his chest, as if an ethereal hand had squeezed it. Meanwhile he squeezed back, and sweat showed on his opponent’s brow. The man’s heart was like a palpating rock, and Forger could not get a grip strong enough to crush it. He slipped his influence behind the heart, and the threader’s eyes went wide as he sought to counter, but Forger grasped his spine. He ripped it upwards, suspending the juddering body for a few last moments as it slid out of the man’s neck into the air, until it broke free and the threader folded backwards like paper.

  The remaining threaders were no competition. Flinging them from windows or popping their internals, Forger pushed his way through staggering guards as he moved to the throne room doors.

  ‘I am Forger,’ he bellowed as he burst them open, above the chorus of suffering behind him. ‘Lord of Pain! Unrightful Lord of Tallahow Keep!’

  He slammed the doors, jamming them tight so they became a solid wall.

  The room was deep, its walls lined with mounted weapons. At the far end guards clustered around a dais upon which stood a grey velvet throne, and a middle-aged woman with dark curly hair, wearing a glossy green dress. More guards spilled in from a side entrance, though Forger did not see any threaders with them.

  ‘You must be Lady Elacin!’ he shouted.

  Elacin watched him cautiously, wetting her lips as he approached. The nearer he drew, the more her guards bristled.

  ‘Weapons down!’ she barked. ‘Stand aside!’

  She moved through the surprised guards, making her way down from the dais to arrive before Forger at floor level.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Forger. ‘You do not wish to fight me?’<
br />
  ‘We had no idea it was you, Lord Forger,’ Elacin said, forcing a smile. ‘Though we had heard tales of the Wardens’ return, we did not … dare hope … that you would come to reclaim your old throne. But now you are here, and it’s obvious that only fools would stand against you.’

  ‘But you have not ruled for very long,’ said Forger, somewhat plaintively. ‘Only a year or so, I’ve been told. Surely you wish to hold on a little longer?’

  ‘I would rather not rule, than be dead.’

  Forger found himself at a loss. He had expected simply to kill this woman, then torture the guards for a bit until they learned to obey him. Now he had to decide what to do with her.

  A man appeared at Elacin’s side, old and grey in a simple brown robe.

  ‘I am Threver, my lord,’ he said, bowing. ‘Advisor to the rulers of Tallahow for many decades. Perhaps I may be of help in assisting your return?’

  Forger glanced between Threver and Elacin uncertainly. He flexed his hand – and saw with satisfaction that it was now almost big enough to crush a child’s head. He was nearly back to his normal size. No wonder they were so scared of him!

  Guards continued to funnel through the side entrance, and he noticed one limping yet shouldering through, a lurching effect that created a small stir among the rest.

  ‘What do you suggest then, Threver?’ he said.

  ‘A peaceful handover.’

  As if in refute of these words, someone fell against the other side of the sealed throne room doors, screaming in agony. Forger chuckled and gave a wave, withdrawing his influence from the afflicted guards outside. Right away, the screaming died down.

  ‘There is no need,’ continued Threver, ‘for further bloodshed. Except, of course, to kill Lady Elacin.’

  ‘What?’ she blurted.

  Threver ignored her, focusing on Forger. ‘My lord, there must be no question over who is in charge. The people will be confused as it is, and Elacin alive would only foster debate and possibly lead to internal conflict.’

  ‘You’re a cold one, aren’t you?’ said Forger admiringly. ‘Though I find your worries somewhat misplaced. I intend to reclaim my empire, to wage war upon the greatest powers in Aorn. Absolute loyalty is what I demand, and if I don’t receive it, well, you’ve seen what I can do. Do I appear to be someone concerned with politics?’

  ‘My lord, I only meant –’

  ‘Lord Forger,’ Elacin cut him off, ‘I could be of service to you. I could –’

  A crossbow bolt thudded into her chest, knocking her off her feet. Forger twisted to see who it was – and found the limping guard with crossbow dangling, laughing as he tore his helmet off.

  ‘Artanon,’ sighed Forger.

  ‘There you are, bitch!’ howled Artanon. ‘Consider yourself lucky that your end was so swift!’ He did a mad little dance with the crossbow, as if it was a partner. Guards watched him, ready to move but unsure if they were supposed to.

  ‘Does my lord,’ said Threver, ‘wish that man seized?’

  Somehow Artanon had notched another bolt. ‘And you!’ he shrieked, loosing it from an unsteady grip. The bolt flew at Forger, sank into his side, and his own pain blossomed.

  Artanon moaned. ‘By the Spell, forgive me! I did not aim for you – I meant to hit the brown-robed rat!’

  ‘Dim comfort,’ growled Forger. He gritted his teeth and yanked the bolt out. There were no threaders he would trust well enough to heal him, so he knew he had some wincing days ahead.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you have earned your pain back, Artanon.’

  He gave a nod and Artanon swayed on his feet, burbling.

  ‘Seize him!’ shouted Forger, and guards rushed to obey.

  THE LORD OF CROWS

  As the man who had killed Stealer and now fended off Salarkis, Rostigan had to be extra dour to avoid being asked questions by excitable young people. Meanwhile Cedris and Tarzi did a good job of keeping everyone moving along the road to Althala, the group larger after every town or village. Rostigan was not sure if Braston’s call to arms was pre-emptive, overzealous, misguided, wise or even hypocritical. Obviously Braston considered it inevitable that his enemies would raise forces of their own, and certainly there was real fear from the populace on that count. Legends told of a time when the corrupted Wardens had all but swallowed the east, its people either destroyed or absorbed into a great marching front. The Lord of Justice tapped into that dread, his messages cropping up everywhere through the lips of threaders, encouraging all to stand with him against the coming storm. The only clouds Rostigan saw on the horizon, however, were not even clouds at all, as Tarzi had been quick to point out. The unnatural stains in the sky, which continued to appear around sunset, could only be blamed on the presence of the Wardens’ themselves, twisting the world by existing in it, and using their Spell-stolen magic – and that included Braston himself. Why, thought Rostigan, not for the first time, would the Spell bring back those who damage it with their very presence? Unless the ultimate purpose is to heal the Wound for good, and it matters not if there’s some suffering in the short term. It’s like a fever growing worse before finally breaking.

  And perhaps Braston’s efforts to unite Aorn’s forces were not entirely misguided. Even though Rostigan knew that he himself, at least, no longer represented the threat he once had, the Unwoven certainly needed to be dealt with. If nothing else, that was something an Althalan army might be able to do.

  Tarzi used the money he’d made selling herbs to buy supplies and keep them all going. The thought that he had funded this group was enough to make him grimace. It put him too much in mind of a time when he had raised forces of his own, a time now hidden away deeply inside him.

  He had been almost forty when Regret’s stolen threads had changed his pattern. Things before that point were hazy, for he had been another man entirely – a good Prince of Ander, from a loving family, who might have led an unremarkable life had it not been for Regret. After suffering the change, all chances for that life were gone.

  It was difficult to recall everything from his centuries in the world – to bring all relevant experiences to the forefront of his mind, especially those he had deliberately buried. But now, with would-be soldiers marching around him, and other Wardens roaming Aorn, he could not help but dwell on who he really was.

  Karrak. The Lord of Crows. A dread figure of legend, a man without remorse, fear, or empathy. Reviled in his time and after by the free people of Aorn, he had brought ruin wherever his gaze fell, and ruled his own roost with uncompromising cruelty. While the other Wardens had been somewhat capricious in the chaos they caused, he had always maintained a steady focus, unrelenting in his aim to descend the world into war. Recently he had heard folk speaking his name in hushed tones, wondering if he too had returned, if the horizon would soon darken with the cawing cloud that heralded his approach. What would they think if they knew he actually marched alongside them?

  Looking around at the group, he found he did not care. They did not know him. They did not know how far he had come from being Karrak.

  Or how far I have fallen.

  It was only Tarzi, newfound determination and all, whose heart he would not see shattered. He found himself imagining the horror in her eyes, the disgust that would fill her as she realised who she had shared a bed with all those nights, and all those playful, lazy mornings. Would she spurn him, or accept and understand?

  I am Rostigan, he told himself.

  It was a hollow assertion. Rostigan was just a name he used, and only for the last few decades. There had been other names before that, famous names, warriors of note in history’s pages. Every time he had become known for some great deed, he’d eventually had to disappear and reinvent himself, lest people question why he did not age. It was not difficult, as long as he avoided any permanent residence. Old warriors, it seemed, were meant to fade away.

  He sighed. It would not be the worst thing, for Tarzi to hate him. He knew she was not the on
e he searched for. She deserved better, someone who could love her as much as she loved them. And Tarzi was not her. In all the days since first seeing her, he had never found her like again.

  He’d been sitting on his war stallion, both of them adorned with tortured pieces of metal armour. His guards clustered about him – brutes one and all, fiercely loyal, for he rewarded those society usually shunned, raising common thugs to captains. As for the rest of his army, they required a more constant effort to keep in line. Sometimes he gave deserters to Forger, to make examples of, and by the Spell they were grand examples. Karrak was more than capable of his own sadism, though, and also had a way to make his soldiers believe they fought on the side of right. With a little threading, he could make the words that left his mouth seem more real than they actually were, implanting them like belief in the minds of those who heard them. Lord of Crows, they called him, and Lord of Lies.

  In fact, he watched over the results of just such tampering now. An influx of slaves in wagon cages were being driven along the ridge of the quarry in which they were destined to die, in stony land stripped of vegetation just outside Ander. King Alcrane of the Plains, it seemed, had got into a bitter dispute with Queen Cordahl of Sortree, each believing the other to be plotting conquest. The rest of the world had not understood why these formerly peaceful neighbours had clashed, especially when there was so much else to be concerned about. Nobody knew that Karrak had visited both Alcrane and Cordahl, and filled their minds with hatred and untruth, turning them against each other. They had fought until Karrak’s words finally faded from them, and then they had cried together over the mutual desecration caused … just in time for Karrak to lead his forces against what remained of theirs and crush them with a finality that saw the Plains Kingdom and Sortree firmly under his jagged thumb.