The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (26 page)

‘She worked you over, eh?’

He noted the crossbow on the man’s back. He might have use for such a thing, for, if he had to stop time, neither he nor anyone
else could use their magic. An actual weapon might not go amiss.

‘’Scuse me,’ he said, moving behind the fellow to pull the crossbow free. The man, stuck as he was to the spot, could still
move his arms, and tried to grab at Despirrow.

‘None of that, thanks,’ said Despirrow, and with a waggle of his fingers, ripped the man’s throat out. Blood arced across
the thoroughfare, splashing people nearby.

‘Murder!’ someone shouted, and people began to scramble in a panic.

On the opposite side of the street he saw Karrak dash out of a tavern with sword drawn, looking about wildly for the source
of the commotion. Despirrow smiled at him, waiting to be seen, scraping mashed cobblestone off his heel.

Rostigan saw the body first, led there by a trail of people dashing away. A man stood next to it, under the shaded eaves of
a whorehouse, and Rostigan recognised the cruel,
angular features, the sunken cheeks, of Despirrow. The Warden grinned at him, reached out – and Rostigan readied himself to
unthread any spell flung at him – but instead Despirrow attacked nearby townsfolk. A merchant fell with blood squirting from
his ears, his head misshapen as if hit by a hammer. Further away in the crowd – far enough for the attacks to seem random,
to confuse everyone – two women suddenly smashed together as if crushed in an invisible vice. People began screaming, fleeing.

Rostigan ran towards Despirrow, and was instantly caught up in the frightened crowd. He ducked and wove as best he could,
elbowing and pushing when necessary. The next moment all went silent, as everywhere people froze in place. A man who would
have moved out of the way if time had been running naturally instead remained, and Rostigan charged into him. The impact was
hard and jarring, akin to smacking headlong into a tree. Despirrow laughed as Rostigan staggered backwards, and time started
again. As Rostigan appeared unexpectedly to those around him, people ploughed into him from different directions, knocking
him to the ground.

Time stopped again, and he opened his eyes. Through the sea of statues sauntered Despirrow, raising his crossbow at Rostigan
as he gained line of sight. Rostigan raised a hand instinctively, but threading was impossible in the suspended world. The
bolt whizzed through the air, and went straight through his palm.

‘Despirrow!’ came a voice from above. It was Yalenna, standing at a window in the whorehouse above street level. From somewhere
else in the still town came a raging roar.

‘Ah,’ said Despirrow. ‘So dear old Braston is here too?’

He loosed a bolt at Yalenna. She ducked from sight, and it bounced off glass that it should have shattered.

Despirrow dashed away, and Rostigan tried to rise. Time unfroze and again the crowd closed in, trampling him as he appeared
under their feet. A boot landed square on his chest, its owner crashing down after.

‘Keep away from me!’ he wheezed, loudly as he could, threading his words. The crowd began to recede, leaving him an island
in the turmoil. Then a firm grip took his arm and hoisted him up.

‘Where did he go?’

It was Braston, looking wild. He shook Rostigan, though he probably didn’t mean to do it so savagely.

‘Damn you, Karrak, where?’

Rostigan held out his punctured hand, the dripping bolt still lodged there.

‘That way.’

Braston released him so suddenly he swayed, taking off in the direction he’d pointed.

Steadying himself, he took hold of the bolt, and pulled it out with a grunt.

Yalenna appeared. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’

He began to move after Braston, wondering if he could yet break into a jog.

‘Come on – he’s getting away!’

The crowds thinned as people ran for cover, and Despirrow ducked into a deserted side street lined with moulting trees. Where
did he want to go? Briefly he wondered if he could take on all three of his pursuers, and end the threat to himself here,
today. The thought was tantalising – if he succeeded, there would be no one to stop him doing whatever he wished for the rest
of time, however long that ended up being.

Instincts of self-preservation quieted the fantasy. Much as he admired himself, his foes were formidable, and to be respected.
He needed to get away, and find somewhere he could hide long enough to threadwalk. He decided to make for the southern path
back up the hill to the bridge, where woods and caves would provide good hiding spots.

‘Despirrow!’

The bellow followed him up the street, and he felt a chill at the anger it contained. Braston would always hate him the most,
for they had been friends, once. After the change, they had gone back to Althala Castle together, and Despirrow had thought
he could hide his new self from the king, and have his way with all the prissy, stuck-up noblewomen who had previously refused
his advances. He did not
have
to stop time in order to rape them – just seal
them in their rooms against intrusion and, afterwards, kill them, or tangle their minds until they could no longer speak sense.
He had not counted on Braston’s new talent, however, to
see
the lines of injustice wavering from Despirrow’s victims, and understand that his old court threader had taken a sinister
turn.

‘Can you catch me again, oh King?’ he called over his shoulder.

The answering roar was closer now.

Subtly Despirrow manipulated the air, sending up a breeze.

Leaves began to lift behind him.

Rostigan picked up speed as he followed Yalenna, his body gradually correcting some of the hurts he’d garnered from being
stomped and winded, his stubbornness overriding the rest. The pain in his hand was the worst and would probably take some
days to heal, but as long as he had his legs, he could run.

Ahead Yalenna was spry and sleek, and further on Braston tore into a side street. Rostigan entered after them to see trees
along the pavement swaying slightly, fallen leaves on the ground stirring. Behind the fleeing Despirrow more leaves swirled,
as if he’d kicked them up behind him.

Rostigan realised what was about to happen.

‘Yalenna,’ he tried, but breath was short – maybe he was still a little winded after all. He reached out, attempting to
take control of her boots, and instinctively she undid his influence. She did stumble a little, however, and she turned to
jog backwards for a moment.

‘What?’

‘Stop,’ he wheezed.

Braston pounded the cobblestones, eyes fixed on his fleeing adversary. Mocking cackles bounced back to him off buildings,
maddening him further. Despirrow could not be allowed to exist, his presence in the world was a mocking insult – a grave
injustice
. There was nothing left of the person who had been Braston’s friend, the familiar face naught but an illusion to cover the
foulness that now possessed him. Braston sent spells after the man, but each and every one was adroitly unthreaded before
it reached him. Despirrow was the better caster, whereas Braston preferred strength. If he could just get the little rat in
his hands, he could break him like a twig …

A leaf stuck to Braston’s forehead, and absently he brushed it away. How to halt Despirrow, how to get close enough to seize
him? Maybe he could use the wind that whistled down the street, channel it to slow Despirrow. As he reached out to harness
the breeze, though, he realised it was not a natural one.

Time froze.

Leaves hung in the air all around, immovable and razor-thin. Braston, already moving at speed, ploughed
into them directly. They sliced through him smoothly, his flesh offering all the resistance of warm jelly. One passed through
his arm, half-severing it, while another caught him on the neck, barely affecting his momentum as it cut muscle and artery
with equal ease. He tried to stop, but had little control as his legs were shredded underneath him. A leaf scraped along his
shin, peeling bone like curled apple peel. He fell upon more leaves and slid downwards. A bright agony blossomed as one passed
through his gut. As it was about to reach his spine, he slowed to a stop – not all the leaves lay at cutting angles, and a
few now cradled his doubled-over torso, so that with knees bent and arms hanging loosely, he could not make it all the way
to the ground.

His anger became muted, as if it poured from him with his blood. The leaves embedded in his body were sickening presences,
tearing him further every time he shuddered. If only he could lift himself off them, but with so many nerves and muscles damaged,
so much flesh hanging from him loosely, he could not make his body respond.

Yalenna stopped, ashen-faced, on the edge of the cloud of leaves.

‘Careful,’ said Rostigan, arriving by her side.

Braston was bent over and sagging in the air, though something had stopped him from collapsing entirely. It had been so fast
and brutal, and already an impossible amount
of blood was pooling around him, and dripping from nearby leaves that had been showered in the spray. Beyond it all, Despirrow
disappeared around a corner.