The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (32 page)

‘Now is the time, gentlemen,’ said Yalenna.

No one made any indication they had heard her, for everyone gaped in amazement at the distant scene. The Pass was cascading in on itself, widening as it lost its sides, great clouds of dust billowing out over the foothills. A louder rumbling heralded the rockslides going on in the valley beyond, and even here the ground was shaking.

‘You … you really made that happen?’ murmured Jandryn.

Yalenna was too tired of lying to answer him.

Darkness fell across the land as if a hand had closed around the sun. Over the vibration of the earth, fearful exclamation broke out all around.

‘The … the Spell has failed!’

‘Ash and sorrow!’

‘She has broken the world!’

‘The sun is dead!’

‘Don’t panic!’ called Yalenna. ‘It will pass! Stay calm everyone!’

Daylight blazed back, making people start
and blink – some sighed with relief while others remained pale with terror.

‘It’s not right, it’s not right …’

‘This corruption will take us all …’

‘King Loppolo!’ Yalenna barked, breaking the man from his glazed stare.

‘Priestess?’

‘Order your army forth!’

‘You, er … you want me to send our soldiers into
that
? They’ll be crushed!’

‘It is petering out,’ she said. ‘Look.’

Sure enough, the Pass was beginning to settle, the debris falling from its higher reaches lessening in volume, though from the Dale there still came the sounds of tumult.

‘By the time we get there,’ she said, hoping she was right, ‘it will have stopped. We must act quickly if we are to press this advantage. The Unwoven may be momentarily buried, but something tells me they aren’t lying still.’

Rostigan and Forger arrived.

‘We must go,’ said Rostigan. ‘Now.’

Loppolo nodded uncertainly, but his voice rose to give the order.

Soldiers picked their way up the foothills, the layers of collapsed rock making for uneven footing. Dust hung everywhere, limiting
visibility to some ten or so paces. Footsteps crunched, people coughed, and the occasional sound of things falling sent nervous glances upwards at the mountains looming on either side.

‘Eyes open everyone,’ Jandryn said.

Yalenna took another step. A grey hand burst out of the ground to seize her ankle. She could not help but yelp, and tried to kick it off, but the grip was firm enough to make her lose her balance. As she fell backwards, hard on her buttocks, Jandryn appeared to hack at the arm. The hand came loose still clinging to her, and Jandryn drove his sword down into the ground from where it had appeared, until the rocks there stopped jostling, while Yalenna prised the bony fingers off her foot.

An angry yowl sounded and a badly bleeding Unwoven came stumbling through the dust, dragging a dead leg behind her, her face a twisted mess of hatred. Soldiers called to each other as they surrounded her and set about finishing her off. She screeched at them wordlessly, horribly, as she went down.

Yalenna decided she’d had enough of the dust. She summoned a wind to blow it away and gradually reveal the entire scene. The Pass was no longer a winding run between mountains, for enough of the slopes had caved in to create a wider, heaped incline into the Dale. A few dazed Unwoven were scattered about in various degrees of brokenness, some half-buried and pushing their way out of the ground. As
the air cleared, they noticed their enemies and began to move more swiftly.

‘Kill them!’ called Rostigan, running past her. ‘While they are weakened!’

Soldiers hastened to obey, keen not to face an amassed group of Unwoven ever again. Their damaged opponents attempted to fend them off, but they were outnumbered and had little chance. Jeering and harsh laughter began to ring out, creating a strangely jubilant atmosphere. Every time Rostigan made fast work of some staggering Unwoven, soldiers shouted ‘Skullrender!’ like a victory cheer. Forger was there too, jumping up and down on the spot, where he evidently thought someone was trying to struggle free.

‘Priestess!’

Jandryn stood over a prone body smaller than the rest, tangled in a brown robe. As Yalenna went to him, he bent down and rolled Mergan onto his back. Despite everything, seeing the state of her old friend made her heart flutter – there was a large dent in his forehead where something had struck hard, and his ashen face was streaked with blood, his beard run through with grit.

‘He breathes,’ said Jandryn warily.

‘Warden constitution,’ she muttered. Did she wish he was dead? It would have made things easier. Now she had decisions to make.

Jandryn raised his sword while sending her a questioning look.

‘No,’ she said.

‘It would be unwise to leave such
a dangerous foe alive.’

Over the incline she could see the top of the distant Spire at the far end of the Dale. If she could just get Mergan there, perhaps when the Spell reclaimed his threads it would suck the poison out of him. At the very least, he would cease to be so dangerous.

‘Have him bound,’ she said. ‘His fingers tied, especially – tightly, you hear me? Blindfolded too, gagged, and placed under guard by threaders.’

Jandryn looked uncertain, but her tone did not leave much room for argument.

‘As you say, my lady.’

Rostigan made his way up the incline. Larger pieces of mountain lay about, but nothing impassable. Forger accompanied him, blasting away anything in their path, while soldiers followed closely behind, wary of the shrapnel. Slowly and surely, the army was channelling through what had once been the Pass. Rostigan hoped the price had been worth it. The momentary disappearance of the sun had made him extremely uneasy. It always had, but being responsible for it was something else entirely. He felt certain now that it was linked to Stealer’s power, and fervently hoped he would never have need to use it again.

‘This is quite a day,’ said Forger, happily shattering a boulder. ‘Quite a day!’

They reached the
apex of the incline, to look into the Dale beyond. On either side the slopes had been shorn of their uppermost layers, leaving behind smooth runs of earth and freshly exposed rock. Across the valley floor lay a thick carpet of rubble, which had raised ground level by several paces. Of the city running through the valley centre, many buildings had toppled, and of those still standing, only the upper levels now jutted from the ground. Ahead was a wide area of relatively flat debris, where bruised Unwoven dug about trying to unearth their fellows. It seemed there had been a great many of them collected here, probably waiting in case anyone managed to fight their way through the Pass.

Perfect.

‘Don’t let them regroup!’ Rostigan ordered the soldiers fanning out around him.

The Unwoven heard him, and those who were able to charged up the slope, some of them stooping to pick up rocks on the way. Rostigan ducked as one spun overhead, heard a grunt as it smashed into some unfortunate behind. He came face-to-face with a male who had an ugly scar jagging across his brow, but before he could swing, Althalans closed in from either side. The Unwoven twisted about, unable to defend himself against so many, and Rostigan did not have opportunity to land a blow himself. Soldiers surged around him, waves of them emerging from the Pass to pour into the Dale, swallowing up scattered pockets of Unwoven as they went. He slowed to a stop to watch the scene unfold.

‘Well,’ said Forger, by his side. ‘I think we succeeded.’

It was true – the fight was all but won.
Those Unwoven who remained above the ground were no match for the overwhelming numbers they faced.

‘Clear them out!’ Rostigan bellowed. ‘Work through the entire Dale and
leave no stone unturned
.’

‘Will there be any sport left for us, I wonder?’ said Forger.

‘Could be. I want every last one of them dead. Maybe destroying them will balance out the stealing I had to do to gain us entry.’

‘I wouldn’t feel assured about that.’

Rostigan followed Forger’s gaze up to the Wound. It seemed to be growing larger, the edges throbbing, red tendrils whipping and waving, with great dark cracks spreading in all directions across the sky.

‘It is not the Unwoven to blame,’ said Forger. ‘You know that, don’t you? It’s good that we finish them, don’t mistake me – but they are defined by what was taken from them. Not like us, defined by what we never should have had. It is us to blame.’

Rostigan raised his eyebrows, surprised by Forger’s matter-of-fact tone and clarity. Forger dispersed the impression quickly with a mad grin.

‘Do you still think we can heal it, brother?’

Rostigan nodded. ‘But first, let us make sure the Unwoven truly are gone from Aorn. Perhaps the Wound is not of their making, but I still don’t want to have to do
this
again in another three hundred years.’

Forger chuckled.

They made their
way into the Dale. As the sun climbed higher the army spread out in a line across the valley, picking their way through rubble, poking swords into any who tried to rise from it. They were effective enough that Rostigan and Forger saw little action. They wandered through the buried city and, after a while, paused by what had been a second-storey balcony. From beneath their feet came a scratching sound.

‘Too deep to dig its way out,’ said Forger.

‘A shame they feel nothing,’ said Rostigan.

Forger nodded vaguely, looking at his hands.

‘What is it?’ said Rostigan, though he suspected he knew.

Forger did not answer, but turned to consider the Spire. ‘When do we go up there?’ he said.

Rostigan rubbed his jaw.
As soon as possible
, was the answer, but he did not want to seem overeager.

‘Evening is not far away,’ he said. ‘Let the army scour through the night until any Unwoven able to unbury them-selves have been dispatched. Then, tomorrow morning, we will go.’

‘Very well. In the meantime, I see no reason to burn my power without reward of pain. I’m heading back.’

Inside the Pass it looked as if a camp of sorts was going up – or at least, a base of operations.

‘Do you wish to come?’

‘I’ll follow shortly,’ said Rostigan.

Forger shrugged and headed off.

As Forger made his
way back towards camp, he saw various patrols moving around. The army was well organised, officers making sure ground was covered methodically. It was all very gratifying. One less super-strong preternatural army between him and ruling the world could hardly be a bad thing. The one annoyance was that there weren’t more wounded Althalans about whose pain he could exacerbate. He was hungry, itchy – all this fighting without the usual accompanying warmth to fill him up and keep him strong. Luckily, he soon found what he sought.

Inside a circle of rooftops, three soldiers stood talking. Suddenly an Unwoven erupted in their midst, showering grit, knocking the woman over and stabbing one of the men with a dull iron knife. The fellow fell onto his back clutching the hilt, the blade punched through his leather into a reddening stomach. The Unwoven snarled as it spun to face the remaining man, who cringed pathetically. Forger strode towards them, raising his hands. A rock shot off the ground to smash the Unwoven in the jaw. More followed, darting in and out until they cracked and were replaced. Quickly and brutally, the Unwoven’s hard bones were pummelled to a brittle soup inside a puffy sack of sagging, white-speckled skin.