The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 (14 page)

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?’

‘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.

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 one 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.

‘Come,’ he said to his captains. ‘I wish to inspect the new goods. See if there are any tasty morsels.’ They laughed, and
he led them towards the wagons.

Crows clustered in the bare branches of the few lonely trees that remained, or flapped down into the quarry to perch on rocks.
They were a constant threat that kept slaves working – anyone lying down on the job ran the risk of losing an eye. There was
more that one hollow socket down there in the dust and grit, serving as a reminder. Some of the birds preceded Karrak as he
rode along the
slave train, inspecting the sorrowful faces that peered out of cages. Usually this kind of thing warmed him, yet today he
found the experience strangely empty. He’d already seen it many times – maybe too many, for the expected satisfaction did
not come. It made him angry and he snarled, sticking his sword randomly through a wagon’s bars. There came an answering cry
inside, a thump and a child began squealing.

‘Lucky dip,’ he told his captains, wiping his blade, and they laughed.

They always laughed.

Two figures stumbled along behind the wagon, tied to it by their wrists. An older man, whose rangy hair and beard were streaked
with dried blood, and a slip of a woman, her eyes so crinkled with worry that they drew in the freckles from her cheeks.

‘This looks promising,’ muttered Karrak.

The man – her father, he guessed, by the similarities in their features – almost fell, and she shoved her bonded wrists under
his arm to lend balance. Suddenly a crow swooped upon him, beating its wings about his head and stabbing at his face. He cursed
and struck out, powerful even with his hands tied, and sent the crow to the ground, to lie with one wing flapping uselessly.

‘Well,’ said Karrak, sliding from his horse, ‘time to teach this new lot the pecking order. Stop the wagon!’

The driver obeyed, and the wagons following also drew to a halt.

‘Look at me,’ said Karrak, bringing his sword up under the man’s chin, forcing him to raise his head. Fearful eyes met his,
though there was anger there too.

‘Who am I?’ said Karrak.

The man ran his tongue over cracked, parched lips. ‘Karrak,’ he croaked. ‘The … wretched … Lord of Crows.’

‘And what have you just killed?’ asked Karrak.

Without waiting for an answer, he slid the sword into the man’s throat. The daughter screamed as blood poured down her father’s
chest and he pitched into the dust.

‘Let that be a lesson to you!’ roared Karrak, his voice booming along the wagon train. ‘I am your master now, these crows
worth more to me than you!’

‘Damn you,’ cried the woman, tears clearing the dirt from her hate-filled eyes. ‘You are nothing but a disease, come to blight
the land.’

‘Watch your tongue,’ said one of his captains, stepping forward with a raised hand.

Karrak blinked … and he saw.

Never before, or since, had patterns aligned like they had that day. A rush of imagery filled his mind, showing him how things
could have been, if he had never been changed on the Spire roof, never inherited Regret’s stolen threads – showing him the
life that had been his to lose, an alternative to what it had become.

He would have kept on being the good Prince of Ander, would never have murdered his father and brother for the throne. On
a diplomatic mission to the Plains Kingdom,
he would have met King Alcrane in a different way, met his family, including his niece – a dainty girl with freckles whom
he would have adored from the moment he’d seen her. He’d have found an excuse to speak with her after the official meeting,
and then again the next day, lingering after negotiations had been amicably sorted. Alcrane would have watched with amusement
as a royal union blossomed, giving his blessing when it was publicly declared.

In those few moments of seeing his lost past, Karrak felt something he had never known. What an amazing phenomenon it was,
to care so much for someone else, to be so invested in their wellbeing, and to have someone care about him that way too, to
know such togetherness and abiding friendship. The way it made him light, made him float … this thing was called love, he
knew, and what miraculous wealth it was.

There followed a glimmer of the real past, of the night just gone – the wagon driver cackling as he raped the woman who would
have been Karrak’s wife, in the dirt.

Karrak came back to his surrounds as one of his captains backhanded her across the cheek. The captain gasped as Karrak’s sword
crunched through his spine. In a rage Karrak spun on the wagon driver, who froze like a mouse in lantern light. He brought
the sword down so heavily on the man’s head it sank all the way to his stomach.

Through swimming vision, he saw that his other captains were fearful, some backing away, others fighting
the urge. What was he doing? He clutched his brow, trying to make sense of it – what madness had he just experienced?

‘Bring her to the castle,’ he growled, gesturing without daring to look. ‘Unharmed,’ he added and, trying not to shake, pulled
himself up onto his horse.

Karrak sat in his chambers at the top of Ander Castle, the pipe in his hand long ago smouldered out. Some nights it pleased
him to sit here in his armchair, staring into the fire, drifting off to sleep. There was no sleep to be found this evening,
however. Not when he could all but sense her locked in a room far below, a bright glow on the edge of his thoughts.

She would never love him now, he knew that for certain. He had destroyed her home, murdered her father, and was the root cause
of violation done to her. She had fallen for a Karrak in another life, a man who was not him and never would be.

What do I care
? he wondered, turning the pipe to tip ash on the armrest. He could order her brought to him and do whatever he wished with
her. He could speak to her, warp her mind with threaded words until she really believed she loved him – but that, he knew,
would not evoke the feeling he’d had, which now haunted him. Oh, how he wanted it back, as much as he’d once wanted battle,
and control and domination. All his jewels, minions and castles now seemed like hollow trophies. He had eaten the finest food,
bedded
the finest women, watched kings kneel before him and beg for their lives … and yet, for all of that, this one simple thing,
this basic human experience, available to all from the lowliest peasant to the highest lord, was not available to him.

He pondered his alternative self – a smiling man, benevolent and charming. Was that who he had been? He had always seen his
transformation as a glorious gain, of newfound direction and aspiration to greatness. He had never questioned the fact that
ever since the change, he had been driven to
grind
and
burn
and
kill
and
conquer
, consumed by a hatred for weakness and vulnerability which gave him the strength to achieve what meeker, kinder men could
not. Now he wondered if he had actually been robbed.