The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (11 page)

‘Don’t you know, son? Didn’t you see it for yourself?’

‘I’m sorry, Hanry, but like I said, I’ve been away.’

‘But this happened all over Aorn. For just a moment, it was as if the sun just up and left. The next moment it was back, everything
normal again. Spooky, if you ask me.’

Forger frowned. ‘So there’s a problem with the Spell.’

‘That’s what some folks say. Others think it has to do with the Wardens, Braston back from the dead and who knows which of
the others.’

Forger held his excitement in check.
Braston?
That was a name Salarkis certainly wouldn’t visit first, which meant there was at least one other, and if there was one other,
well hang it, Forger may as well go ahead and believe that they had all returned.

‘Karrak,’ he whispered.

‘Oh!’ Hanry shivered. ‘There’s been no talk of Karrak. Don’t wish him upon us.’

‘Apologies,’ said Forger. ‘It’s just … well, I’ve always been curious about his legend. They never found out what happened
to him, did they? In the years after the Wardens died?’

‘Reckon from the sound of things, people were simply glad he was gone.’

‘Yes, good riddance,’ agreed Forger. ‘A horrible bastard he was.’ He tipped his hat to a lady on a horse going the other way.
‘Tell me – is there any news about the other Wardens?’

‘Some whisperings – oh!’ Hanry gripped his stomach again, a line of sweat breaking along his brow.

‘You should really see a threader about that,’ said Forger.

‘I mean to,’ replied Hanry. ‘Why do you think I’m going to Tallahow? I just hope they’ll help me.’

‘Why wouldn’t they?’

‘Oh, you know, from what I hear the ones good at healing are always in demand. They may not have time for a worn-out scrap
like me.’

‘They’ll heal you,’ said Forger. ‘They’ll want to – it’s in their nature.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough. Forger looked about avidly, despite the fact not much had changed – or maybe
because of it. The sun shone brightly, and the road was full of people to greet and tip hats at. Hanry told Forger rumours
he’d heard about Yalenna and Stealer, and they spoke of other things as well. Forger learned that Tallahow’s ruler was now
a Lady Elacin, who
had a reputation for being hard and shrewd in court, but generous with her people. Apparently hers was a recent rise, a troubled
succession debated by some, and heads had rolled because of it. Intermittently Hanry was troubled by his guts, and after a
while Forger offered to take the reins so the man could rest.

‘Not much to it,’ Hanry grumbled as they switched seats. ‘Not much exertion in yanking a bit of leather every now and again.
Doesn’t change how I feel one way or the other.’

‘But it’s only fair I get a turn!’ said Forger. He had never driven a cart, he realised – such a common thing, when he had
done so much that was uncommon. It was strange and fascinating, and he slapped the reins down hard.

‘Whoa, there,’ said Hanry. ‘We’re like to lose a wheel if you rile them to that speed.’

In the late afternoon they drew close to Tallahow. The city was built on a gently tiered slope that ran up to the vertical
cliff face of the eastern Roshous, against which lay Tallahow Keep. Grey walls surrounded the city, and a healthy stream of
traffic ran to and from the western gate. They slowed as they joined the queue, and Hanry craned his neck to see over those
ahead.

‘It would be faster to walk from here,’ he said, ‘should you wish to.’

‘That wouldn’t be very polite,’ said Forger. ‘I’ll keep you company until we cross the threshold.’

Hanry grunted. Forger could tell the pain was making him grouchy. It would be easy to reach into the man and
intensify it … but not only would the resulting screams draw attention, he also found he did not want to.

‘Listen, Hanry,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘You’ve done me a favour and it’s only fair that I return it. Can you keep a
secret?’

‘Unless I’ve a few ales in me.’

‘I’m being serious.’

Hanry nodded. ‘You can trust me.’

‘It’s for your own good, believe me.’

‘Very well.’

‘In that case, I’ll tell you this: I can weave a thread or two myself.’

Hanry was surprised. ‘You’re a threader?’

‘I can’t heal you,’ added Forger quickly, ‘but, if you wish, I can ease the pain.’

A hesitant hope showed in Hanry’s eyes.

‘It is important that you still seek a true healer,’ said Forger. ‘What I can do will make you feel well but the lump will
still be there, eating you up. So you must promise that you won’t forget your reason for coming here.’

‘I promise,’ said Hanry.

Forger nodded and passed his hand over Hanry’s belly. He drew the man’s pain into himself, finding more there than expected.
Hanry had been good at hiding it.

‘By the Spell,’ said Hanry in amazement, patting himself, ‘I didn’t believe you could really do it!’

‘Remember, you aren’t cured.’

‘If all you have given me,’ said Hanry, ‘are some peaceful months before the end, then that is a great gift, fellow Hanry.’

‘And yet you will still seek the healers?’

‘I will. Wind and rain, I thank you.’

Forger smiled. ‘Well, good. And now, with my debt repaid, perhaps I will walk on ahead. I am keen to find my friend, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ said Hanry.

Forger stepped down from the cart. He was a little confused about why he liked Hanry enough to bestow such favour upon him.
There was something about the man though, or maybe not even about him specifically, but … had Forger known another Hanry,
once?

It matters not
, he thought.
I do whatever I like!

‘The best of luck to you, sir,’ said Hanry, offering his hand, and Forger shook it.

He moved on, joining foot traffic past the line of waiting horses and carts. As he passed by grey-steeled guards watching
over everyone, he tipped his hat once again.

Inside the walls, the streets were paved with darkly shining stones, and the tightly clustered houses were neat and orderly.
Most people headed off down the slope to the city centre, but Forger made his way upwards, towards the keep. He turned into
a street full of regal buildings with an official look to them, and came to a spiked gateway that led into the cold bare space
of the keep courtyard. It was all wonderfully familiar.

The keep itself loomed overhead, squarish and flush with the cliff, carved of the same stone, staring at him with many windows.
Wide stairs ran up to thick double doors, and two guards watched him suspiciously as he trotted up them. There was a smaller
open doorway inset in the bigger ones, and he made to go through it.

‘Oi!’ The taller guard stepped in front of him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘What’s your business?’ added the other.

‘Why,’ Forger said merrily, ‘I’m here to reclaim the seat of my power.’

Swords went up, levelled at his chest.

‘Must be a mad man,’ said the tall one.

‘Aye. I’ve a cousin like that. Some days, he thinks he’s a bird.’

The tall one grinned.

‘What kind of bird?’ asked Forger.

The short one glowered at him. ‘Do you know how dangerous it is to walk up here and say stupid things to us? It isn’t funny,
friend.’

Forger stroked his jaw. His power might still be growing, but he would have no trouble crushing the guards’ hearts in their
chests.

‘What was that man saying?’

Two figures in silver robes emerged from the doorway – threaders. The one who had spoken was a cold-faced woman of middle
years, staring at him suspiciously.

‘Er …’ said the short guard. ‘Nothing, ma’am. Just something crazy – he’s not a real threat.’

‘Something about reclaiming Tallahow,’ said the male threader. ‘Unless I imagined it?’

The tall guard faltered under his piercing gaze. ‘No, sir.’

‘Take him to the dungeon,’ said the woman.

‘What?’ blurted the short guard. ‘I mean, excuse me, ma’am, but I think he’s just a little touched.’

Forger imagined the looks of terror they would all have if they knew who he really was, and chuckled. In such a circumstance
they certainly wouldn’t be talking about him as if he wasn’t there! It made him feel like a predator lurking in bushes, watching
prey that was blissfully unaware of his presence.

‘It may be the case,’ said the woman, ‘but Lady Elacin doesn’t take chances. Besides, if he is insane, he may be repeating
something he heard from somebody else.’ She gave an impatient wave. ‘Come on, get him inside.’

Now that there were threaders present, Forger considered attacking unwise. Maybe he could best them, maybe not – but he did
not think there was any harm in waiting until he had grown a little more.

‘Sorry about this, fellow,’ muttered the tall guard, as he set about binding Forger’s wrists.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Forger, ‘I’m just happy to be home!’

He was marched into the keep, through the lower floors towards the dungeon.

‘Oh!’ He stopped by a wall on which a tapestry depicted a bloody battle scene. Althalans and Plainsfolk were fighting Unwoven
on a great field of yellow grass. ‘That’s new. What battle does that show?’

‘Keep walking,’ said the male threader, giving him a shove.

The muscular youth from the tavern the previous night – his name was Cedris, he’d informed them eagerly – stayed true to his
word. As Rostigan and Tarzi arrived at the edge of town at daybreak, a group of young people were waiting there to travel
with them. Cedris was a popular figure, it seemed, his friends keen to follow him.

As they set off, Cedris was already talking loudly and bravely in a way that Rostigan instantly found tiresome. It
was
a good thing, he supposed, that there were others to galvanise people to action, and that it didn’t have to be him. What
surprised him was Tarzi’s hand in it, her determination to bring others to the cause. Ahead of him, she and Cedris spoke about
how they would spread the word at the next settlement they came to, and rally more to Braston’s army. A part of Rostigan wondered
if Tarzi’s motives were so golden, or if what she really sought were more stories. Maybe she even thought Cedris worthy of
making them? The younger man would probably prove a willing subject, and for a moment Rostigan found himself imagining her
following him instead. Jealousy flared, but he snuffed it out and let its ashes rain down into the deep place. If such a thing
happened, the fact was, everyone would be better off. Rostigan would be free to start his search again – not that he had ever
really stopped, but he did not relish the idea of breaking Tarzi’s heart. She was good to him and he was fond of her, even
if he did not truly love her. He would not see her hurt if he could help it, and she did seem to relentlessly adore him …
why was that, anyway? What had he ever done to deserve such a thing?

His mind turned to the task at hand.
To travel to Althala and join Braston’s army
. The thought almost made him laugh. And yet, for the first time in a long time, he was a little nervous too.

It was good to feel something.

‘I know that look,’ said Tarzi, falling back from the others. ‘You’re foreseeing trouble.’

‘I always foresee trouble.’

‘I know.’

Fortunately, for some days, there was no trouble at all. They walked in fair weather, stopping at towns where Tarzi and Cedris
encouraged others to join the group. Rostigan found taverns to sit, drink and smoke in until inevitably Tarzi showed up to
perform. Word, it seemed, had spread everywhere about the miraculous return of legends, and voices of doubt were fewer and
further between. The
Wardens’ reappearance had become accepted as fact, and everyone wanted to hear stories about them – their lives and adventures,
their downfalls and deaths. Tarzi spun her tales with even more gusto than usual, and was effective at inspiring more folk
to journey to Althala.

One day, as they were walking side by side, she gave Rostigan a friendly nudge.

‘Come, my statue – why the dour face? You’ve been wearing it for days. Don’t you think it’s good to be doing something?’

Rostigan grunted.

‘Better than scrounging for herbs in the wild,’ she said.

‘I like scrounging for herbs.’

She chortled. ‘I know, I know. Speaking of which, you still have that curltooth, don’t you?’

‘Lower your voice if you wish to speak of it.’

‘We, er … I wonder if we might sell a little? Could we? We need more supplies to keep this lot on the march. Some of them
didn’t bring much but the shirts on their backs.’

Rostigan gave her a flat stare. ‘So I’m funding an army now?’

‘No, no … it’s just … well …’

‘Piss and flame, you really believe in this, don’t you Tarzi?’

She looked startled, and he realised he had spoken with fire in his voice.

‘Sorry, songbird. It’s just I haven’t seen this side of you before. You know, wanting to give away gold and such.’

‘I think you have,’ she said, slightly offended. ‘Not the gold part, but … well, what about at Sapwood? Who was it who pushed
you to kill that Worm?’

‘Pushed me? I was always going to kill that thing.’

‘Were you, indeed?’

Cedris sidled up – as much as such a broad-shouldered fellow could sidle. ‘Are you speaking about a Worm of Regret?’ he asked
eagerly. ‘I hear they can rear taller than houses.’

‘Yes,’ said Tarzi, not removing her glare from Rostigan. ‘Rostigan slew one some time back.’

‘By the Spell, tell us the tale then! It would make a welcome change from hearing about Wardens all the time.’

‘
Apologies
if I have been boring you, Cedris,’ said Tarzi.

Cedris blinked. ‘No, no, I did not mean that as it sounded. Please, I just think –’ he turned as he walked, addressing the
whole group, ‘that I, for one, would enjoy hearing the exploits of the hero who walks among us!’ He nodded to Rostigan, who
in that moment realised he was not being thought of as some piece of driftwood dragged along in the wake of others. Was that
how he’d been thinking of himself?

‘Come, Tarzi,’ he murmured with a smile, ‘keep your followers happy.’

Tarzi gave an exclamation of vexation. ‘There was a big Worm,’ she said. ‘Long as five horses stood nose to tail, with black
skin and rotten little eyes. It wound tunnels under the village of Sapwood, feeding on happiness and leaving
the people there empty of all save a sense of regret – barely able to go about their day, struck down by melancholy over past
misfortunes. But luckily Rostigan came along, and killed it. The end.’

She gave a half-curtsy and folded her arms.

‘Sometimes Tarzi doesn’t feel like telling stories,’ said Rostigan.

‘I can see that.’ Cedris made an exaggerated backing off motion.

Rostigan found himself chuckling, and a scowling Tarzi moved away from him.

Cedris took her place. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’ll tell me, though, won’t you – what was it really like to kill a Worm of Regret?’

Rostigan pursed his lips. ‘Messy.’

Later that day they came to a fork in the road. A signpost stood there – to the east was Ander and straight ahead, Althala.
Beside it on a pedestal stood a strange statue carved of black stone.

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?’