The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (20 page)

How he cursed his resilience as the years crept by. He had tried to kill himself in every way he could think of. A couple
of times he had charged headfirst into a wall, and while he had blacked out for a time after that, his eyes had eventually
opened again. These days, he barely had the strength to gain a running start.

He had tried using pieces of vase to dig around in his chest, but stabbing his heart never did any good. While he was unconscious
his body would always push out the shard, and he healed and woke again. Perhaps, he had thought, if he could actually get
his heart
out
, get it away from him … but as soon as he cut enough flesh away to attempt gripping it, he would always pass out. Then he
would dream of throwing it away to bounce across the floor, until he woke up healed.

If only he still had his magic. He had been powerful, once, especially after the change. Unlike the others – what were their
names? – he had not acquired any new talents, though his native skills had grown remarkably in potency. Time and again he
imagined using them to rip himself apart, yet that option had left him at the door. He had parted the barbed threads to make
his way inside easily enough, yet as soon as he’d crossed the threshold,
his abilities had become stifled, somehow unusable. The threads had snapped closed, and he had not been able to affect them
since. He tortured himself thinking that there must be some way, that his magic was still there, buried somehow … he went
on living, after all.

After a while he had stopped trying to kill himself. There was no point. While a period of blankness seemed enticing, the
fact was, it made no difference. He would always awaken to the same circumstances. There was no actual break for him, just
because a few days had passed in the world without him knowing it.

His greatest hope was that the threads which trapped him would one day lose their strength. Surely they wouldn’t last for
all time! They had shown no signs of losing their potency, but he hoped nonetheless – if someone was to heal the Great Spell,
maybe they would finally fail.

He had given up thinking that his friends might come to rescue him.

Why hadn’t they come?

He had not told them where he was going. What a fool. When he had discovered this place, he’d thought perhaps there was some
clue here, to help him heal the Spell once and for all, and, in his impatience, he had entered alone.

Impatience
.

It was a strange word now, for one who had lived centuries in the dark.

Even though he had not told them where he was going, surely his friends would have searched for him? If either
Yalenna or Braston had disappeared, he never would have given up trying to find them. So, had they given up on him? Or had
they died? Did Forger and Karrak rule out there now?

Sometimes he saw things that weren’t really there. Beautiful Yalenna and courageous Braston, at the front door, finally come
to set him free! Then he would wake, and how he would have wept every time, had he any moisture left in him. Sometimes he
thought he saw markings on the walls, but when he looked at them, they faded away. Sometimes he imagined that the smashed
vases were restored, standing proud, all
sixteen
of them.

Maybe he would go and look at his precious vase now.

He moved along the floor, running his fingers over the tiles. If he cracked some more of them, it would make for new counting.
The thought made him angry, as mostly everything did. Along the corridor he went until, there, some ten paces away, the last
vase stood. He sighed, relieved by the sight of it, and slumped against the wall.

Light shining through the door from outside rippled, as if something moved out there. He thought he heard voices, and grinned.
More ghostly company, more illusions. He would not believe in them, but at least they broke the monotony.

A figure moved into the corridor, feeling her way.

Here she is again
, he thought.
What does she have to say today?

‘Mergan?’ came her sweet voice. ‘Where are you?’

Always here, dear Yalenna
.

A piece of vase cracked under her foot. It was a big piece too, one of the biggest left. She gave a little cry, took a stumble
forwards, and knocked the stand where the last vase stood. His eyes opened wide as it tumbled, seeming to turn forever in
the air. Then it smashed against the ground, into a hundred pieces – or maybe a hundred and three?

No, no
, he told himself, clutching his arms,
it hasn’t really dropped. Hasn’t really dropped because, if it really dropped, she would really be there. I still have my
vase, my precious last, it’s still there. I’m just imagining that it dropped, but it hasn’t really
.

‘Everything all right?’

Braston’s voice, from somewhere outside.

‘Yes,’ she answered.

Everything all right
, he laughed.
My friends are here, my good old friends
.

She stepped over the debris and came a little closer, squinting down the dim corridor.

‘Is someone there?’ she said.

He gave a faint croak, all that he could muster from his bone-dry throat. It did not matter. Words spoken in his head were
as real as the ones he heard from her.

Yes, yes, I am here. For the rest of time, I am here
.

He laughed to himself, idly tracing the edges of a tile with his fingertip. It was a good one – one of his favourites.

Suddenly she was standing over him.

Sit down
, he said irritably.
Don’t loom! Sit down and we’ll talk about old times, if that’s what you wish
.

‘Mergan?’

She reached for him,
touched
his shoulder.
The illusions never touched, they never touched him!
He gave a strangled gasp.

No, no!
Ghosts of tears formed behind his eyes.
I cannot stand it, do not touch me! It is false!

‘He’s here!’ she called back down the corridor.

‘Do you need help?’

‘Don’t step beyond the threshold!’

He slid upwards against the support of the wall, as she stared at him with amazement and horror.

Go away, torment!

‘Can you talk? Mergan, you must come with me.’

She reached for him again, and he gave a little cry and tried to twist away. It was no good – she caught hold of his arm and
he was too weak to resist, nothing but skin stretched over bone.

‘I’m sorry, but I have to get you out of here.’

Now she was dragging him as he struggled lamely.

You will not get the better of me, spirit! I do not believe in you!

As they passed the place where the last vase had stood, he willed it to appear back on the stand. Then he realised, with growing
despair, what had really happened – in his hallucinating,
he
must have smashed it! It really was gone!

A cracked expulsion trying to pass for a wail parted his lips, and still she dragged him, cutting his feet on the other vase
pieces, carefully laid out in patterns he’d arranged.

No, no!

Towards the door they went, where Braston stood, holding the threads open for them from the outside.

It’s not true!

Panic seized him as Yalenna thrust him towards the opening – how he hated bouncing off the barrier that trapped him here,
hated knowing how strong and impenetrable it was – but suddenly he was through, falling to his knees in the blazing light,
trying to blink away the pain it brought to his eyes.

‘Mergan!’ exclaimed Braston, coming down by his side. ‘By the Spell, what has happened to you?’

And then Yalenna on his other side, weeping and trying to gather him up. He felt the realness of her, her bosom heaving against
him, her arms soft and enveloping. Her tears fell upon his cheeks, ran down to slip into the cracks of his lips, bringing
the sting of salt. He spluttered as if he had swallowed a river.

Were they real?

Were they real?

Summoning all his concentration, he worked his lump of a tongue, trying to form sound.

‘Wa …’

‘What’s that, Mergan?’ said Braston, taking him by the shoulders. ‘What are you trying to tell us?’

‘Wa … ter …’ he managed.

‘Water!’ Braston near-shouted, the sound piercing Mergan’s ears – so close, so real! The next moment a skin was being held
to his mouth, and before he knew it water
was pouring down his throat. He coughed and gulped messily.

‘Be gentle!’ said Yalenna, but Mergan seized Braston’s wrist and didn’t let go, not until all the water was squeezed into
his mouth or down his front. He had never tasted anything so fresh.

He would wake at any moment, he knew, back in the dark, as parched as ever.

He released Braston’s wrist, weeping piteously.

Soldiers sat along wooden tables running the length of the barracks’ dining hall, the buzz of their conversation filling the
air.

‘Standards have gone down,’ muttered the man next to Rostigan, letting brown stew slop from his spoon back into the bowl.

‘It’s the new camp,’ said a woman opposite. ‘Supplies are stretched and some of the cooks have gone over.’

‘Bah,’ said the man. ‘All these clean-eared kids.’

‘You might be grateful for them soon enough,’ put in Tarzi, from Rostigan’s other side.

She had respected his request so far – to keep a low profile while they took in the situation, and certainly not to make a
big song and dance about him being a hero – but it seemed she could only hold her tongue so long.

‘And who are you?’ said the man. ‘You don’t look like a
soldier, and certainly I haven’t seen you in here before. I’d remember,’ he said as he leered at her.

‘Careful,’ said Rostigan, staring ahead while he wiped his mouth. The man took in his stony face, went to say something more
and thought better of it.

‘It’s not just kids, as you call them, either,’ said Tarzi. ‘There’s plenty of people from all walks of life, come because
they care about what happens to Aorn.’

‘Ha!’ said the man. ‘Fairytales and fantasies have made folk crazy. I’ll tell you this – Wardens or no, I’d like to see the
army that could take Althala!’

Outside, screaming began. First one voice, barely audible … then two, three, more joining in, all of them sounding like murder.

‘Wind and fire,’ said Tarzi fearfully, ‘what is that?’

Soldiers rose, glancing around uncertainly. An officer moved towards the doors that led to the square outside. They banged
open before he got there, and another soldier stumbled in, his helmet hanging half off his head, blood running down his face.
A white monster shambled in after him, swiping him across the back with its clawed wing-tips.

‘Silkjaws,’ muttered Rostigan.

‘To arms!’ someone shouted, and soldiers swarmed the creature. It opened its wings full-span, beating them to send forth blasts
of wind. Rostigan raced to the fireplace at the end of the room and reached in for a flaming brand. Ignoring the blistering
of hot wood on his skin, he leapt onto a tabletop and hurled the brand at the silkjaw. It
bounced off the creature’s chest with a fiery puff, and the creature reared as it began to blaze. Soldiers hacked at it, their
swords cutting easily where the silk turned black.

Rostigan joined them as they spilled past the smouldering body, out into the square. There waited a sight which, in all his
long years, he had never seen the likes of before.

Ghostly shapes wheeled in the sky as people fled every which way. Nearby a ’jaw landed on a frantically dashing woman, and
arced back up into the sky with her struggling in its claws. Another advanced towards a courtier, who backed away with trembling
hands held up pointlessly.

‘No!’ he cried as the creature surged forward to bite down hard with fanged maw. Blood poured from the courtier’s neck into
his fancy clothes, and the ’jaw raised him up to shake him savagely. Red lines spread from its mouth to soak into its silk.

The woman hit the ground with a crunch, having been dropped from a great height.

Looking upwards, Rostigan saw a ’jaw land on the side of the castle, clinging on like a bat, and batter its head against a
window. The window smashed and three more ’jaws flew through it into the castle.

A pair of threaders appeared on a high balcony carrying torches, from which they sent glowing threads jagging thinly upwards,
like orange lightning running from earth to sky. Far above, the ’jaws they hit burst into flames.

More soldiers poured from the barracks and castle out into the square, looking for an enemy to fight – but the surprise attack
was spread over the entire city, only a few of the ’jaws within swinging distance.

‘What do we do?’

It was Tarzi, beside him.

‘
You
get inside.’

‘No. I follow you.’

Soldiers charged at the silkjaws that had landed nearby, which stomped about gnashing their teeth in various states of redness.
Rostigan watched as a group closed in on one, which seemed to realise it was surrounded and took off.

The officers present were too flustered to give any real orders. Rostigan found himself disgusted by their weakness.
Almost
without thinking about it, he unstoppered his power.

‘Ears to me!’ he bellowed, threading his voice so all it reached would surely pay attention. ‘They are not attacking any singular
place, so we cannot muster our strength. Form groups and spread into the city! Watch one another’s back!’

Soldiers leapt to obey, squads of them running out of the square in different directions. Rostigan pounded after them, arriving
on the street to see a cart overturned, a silkjaw crashing down on a fleeing merchant and breaking his back. Rostigan charged
the beast, swinging so hard he almost took himself off his own feet. The blow sliced through bone and silk alike, and the
tattered creature collapsed.

‘Someone needs to get word to the camp!’ said Tarzi.

So, she followed him still. Well, he could not spare the time to argue.

‘I’m sure they know what’s going on.’

On he ran, trying to judge where the silkjaws were landing, with streets or buildings between. He came to a tavern with the
front wall wrenched open, where someone had evidently fought with fire, for the building now belched smoke. He ran inside,
reached for an upended chair, broke it across his knee, and handed the legs to Tarzi.

‘Get fire,’ he said. ‘Use a rag and cooking oil.’

As she ran behind the burning counter, a sooty tavern keeper stumbled into view, waving his own fiery brand at the sky. ‘That’s
right!’ he yelled. ‘No free drinks for you!’

Tarzi returned with two chair legs, each holding a fat ball of flame. The one she handed to Rostigan consumed some kind of
checked cloth.

‘Dead man’s shirt,’ she said, her eyes a little blank.

‘Keep yours with you,’ Rostigan said, and headed into the street again, sword in one hand, brand in the other.

He rounded a corner to find three blood-spattered silkjaws ripping someone apart like squabbling seagulls. A gasp came from
above, and he looked up to see a woman who had somehow managed to get herself onto the flat roof of a two-storey building.
She backed away from a silkjaw stalking towards her, tightly holding an infant to her chest. The child began to mewl, and
the three ’jaws on the ground swivelled their heads towards the enticing sound, dropping appendages from their mouths. Rostigan
took in the whole
situation at a glance, and knew there was no way he could get to the woman in time. He felt a twang of remorse play on his
heartstrings … and, for a moment, it stopped his feet as he experienced a moment of sharp realisation.

He
cared
.

Here was a classic victim, the kind he would have laughed at during the height of his power. Mothers who protected their young
with all their will, even if they stood against overwhelming odds – such as Karrak and a group of his leering soldiers – were
to be mocked. And yet, standing here now, he experienced a sadness that he would not be able to save this woman, a feeling
that would never have occurred to Karrak.

The woman backed to the edge of the roof, and sent a terrified look at what lay below. The three ’jaws on the ground craned
their necks, spread their wings, and took off. Rostigan gave a shout that he hoped would distract them, but it came out dispirited,
for while he might divert one or two, it was a very dim hope indeed that all four might turn about and suddenly find him the
more tempting target.

Before his shout even reached them, however, his leading foot crunched against something hard, and he stumbled with a grunt.
As he fell he dropped both brand and sword to put out his palms and catch the ground. He winced as cobblestones dug into his
skin more severely than expected. Glancing back at whatever obstacle had felled him, an abandoned rag doll smiled her stitched
smile at him.

When his foot had hit it, the doll had felt like stone.

Time had stopped.

Carefully Rostigan lifted his palms from the ground. The extra cuts and bruising had been caused by small pebbles and grit
that would, under normal circumstances, have given way. He picked up his sword and the brand – having had them in his hands
when time had frozen, they were now here with him in this
other
place. He was interested to see that the brand did not burn; its plumes were motionless and giving off no heat.

On the roof the woman’s back foot had shuffled halfway over the edge. The ’jaw facing her was tensed to pounce, and the three
that had taken off from the ground were now suspended below her at different heights.

Sometimes you have your uses, Despirrow
, thought Rostigan.

He took a running leap towards the ’jaw closest to the ground. He landed on its back and it held firm underfoot. He took a
short run across it and jumped up to the next one, which was angled more sharply, so he dug his feet into the nook where its
wings met its shoulders, lodging and steadying himself. Then he clambered upwards, reached its neck, and inched out along
its snout. The third silkjaw was more over than up, so he bent his knees for a spring. Over the gap he went, heavily onto
the ’jaw’s back, and kept up momentum for the last leap to the roof. He landed next to the woman and saw the stark horror
in her shining eyes.

It will be all right, miss
.

Now that he found himself here, it was not so clear what next to do. With no idea of how long the freeze would last, he considered
the attack from each direction and wondered if the woman would keep her balance into the bargain. Then he remembered the frozen
fire he carried, and smiled.

The silkjaw closest in the air had its jaws wide open, ready to snap on the woman. Taking careful aim over the short distance,
Rostigan tossed the brand to clatter perfectly into the creature’s gaping mouth, the fiery end furthest inside. The creature’s
silk was somewhat reddened, but hopefully there would be enough dry material there to set it quickly alight.

He took off his belt and tied it to his pants, then knotted the other end around the women’s free wrist, attaching her to
him firmly. He positioned himself before the ’jaw on the roof, raising his sword. When time came back, it would happen without
warning, so he had to stay ready.

As he waited, thoughts began to swirl. He had used his powers, hadn’t he, back in the square, on the soldiers. For so long
he had kept them dormant – with the one necessary exception of convincing Loppolo to march to the Ilduin Fields – and then,
without any hint of internal debate, he had gone ahead and unleashed them. Why? Because of the other Wardens?

His reason for stifling his own abilities had always been to go on existing without causing any harm to the Spell. That was
happening now anyway, with or without him, as the others were doing whatever they pleased. If he
intended to weather their presence, perhaps it was foolish to think he could do it as a mortal. Yet that was not entirely
the reason, either. The situation itself was extraordinary, and so perhaps called for extraordinary actions. If he was to
save as many people as possible, was it natural to do so by any means necessary? It did not mean he was going to abandon abstinence
entirely, but there had to be exceptions.

…
save as many as possible
…

He chanced a glance at the sky. Were there crows about? Probably they had taken to hiding, if they were there at all. He could
not feel them out while time was frozen, his magic as static as the fire.

He would just have to wait.

At least Tarzi would not see him blink from ground to rooftop, for she had not yet run around the corner. She had been close
on his heels however, so there was every chance that seeing him suddenly up here would rattle her. How long was he going to
be able to keep his secrets from her?

All at once, everything unstuck. The ’jaw in front of him, formerly intent on lunging at the woman, was thrown off by his
sudden appearance in its way. The woman yelped as he dragged her away from the edge with his momentum as he swung, slicing
the silkjaw across the face, cracking the bones that gave shape to its head. There was the sound of an impact, and he spun
about, manoeuvring the woman behind him with his free hand. The leading silkjaw clung
to the edge, its mouth working furiously as it tried to spit out the fire that consumed it. One of the others that followed
crashed into it and they fell together, leaving a trail of glowing filament. The last one managed to dodge past them, to land
clumsily on the roof.

The woman was in a panic now, pulling at Rostigan as she struggled to be free. With one hand holding her baby, and the other
tied to him by the wrist, she was having some trouble.

‘It’s a simple knot!’ snapped Rostigan. ‘Get it undone and get off the roof!’

A moment later the belt fell against him loosely, and he knew she had succeeded. As the final ’jaw advanced, he heard her
retreating down a flight of stairs.

On the street below, Tarzi skidded around the corner, stopping to take in the scene with surprise. The two fallen ’jaws were
not yet dead, as the blood that streaked them meant some silk remained to hold their rickety bones together. As a combined
mass of wings and limbs, they began a lurching, entangled crawl towards Tarzi. She steeled herself and ran forward to meet
them, clubbing them with her torch, dancing in and out of range of their dangerous bits, and stamping hard on grasping wing-tips.

Rostigan dealt with the final ’jaw quickly, executing double downward sweeps on each of its shoulders to break the framework
of its wings. He gave it a decent kick, sending it backwards off the edge, to land in Tarzi’s pile.

‘Finish that one off for me, will you?’ he said, leaning
over the edge with a grin. He could not help but admire the pluck of his minstrel in that moment.