Free The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 by Sam Bowring Page B

representation too, then,’ said Hunna. He gave a wave, and a younger man appeared beside him. ‘This is Captain
     –’
    ‘No,’ said Rostigan. ‘I beg your pardon, King Hunna, but the Unwoven and Plainsfolk are old enemies. Better to send removed
     parties, or else risk confusing things.’
    ‘And I beg
your
pardon,’ said Hunna, ‘but I won’t be given orders in my own lands by a man I do not know!’ He gave Rostigan a hard stare.
     ‘However … your words are not without wisdom. Things between us and them have been running a little wild of late. Besides,
     I doubt that thing,’ he stuck a thumb towards the waiting figure, ‘has anything real to say.’
    ‘We shall see,’ said Rostigan.

    The yellow grass crackled under hoof as Rostigan and Tursa rode out to the Unwoven. Drawing closer, they saw it was a male,
     sitting astride a silver horse. His skin was pallid grey and incredibly smooth, yet taunt, the outlines of muscles and veins
     showing through. His shirt hung off him like a rag, though in contrast his trousers and boots were sturdy and well made. His
     limp hair was streaked with dull and faded red dye.
    As they pulled to a stop, Tursa a little further back, the Unwoven gave them something that was not quite a smile, more a
     stretched display of jagged teeth.
    ‘Greetings,’ said Rostigan. He thought about introducing himself, but Unwoven did not use names, so he opted not to confuse
     things. ‘We are representatives of Althala.’
    The red-streaked Unwoven sniffed the air. ‘What’s that?’ he said, the voice too deep for the emaciated head it came from.
     ‘Can you smell it?’
    ‘Smell what?’ said Tursa. Rostigan raised an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘do you really want to draw attention to yourself?’
     and the advisor fell silent.
    ‘Can we smell what?’ said Rostigan.
    ‘Earth, burning,’ replied Redstreak. ‘And sometimes,’ he flicked out a ghastly white tongue, ‘like something is wafting through
     a crack.’
    Rostigan frowned. ‘Do you follow the scent?’
    ‘No. But it makes us remember.’ Redstreak blinked, focusing on them again. ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘I thought you wished to speak with us?’
    ‘Not at all. I was just taking my flag for a walk.’ The Unwoven snickered. ‘What point is there in talking to you and you,
     untarnished by his touch?’
    ‘That’s a joke – it’s
you
who are the aberrations!’
    This time Rostigan didn’t bother shooting Tursa a warning look.
    ‘How sad it must be,’ remarked the Unwoven, ‘to dwell inside your skin-bag with only ignorance for company.’
    ‘Regret is dead,’ said Tursa. ‘He was just a man.’
    ‘Quiet,’ snapped Rostigan, but the Unwoven’s facealready twisted in hate, dozens of lines wrinkling the once-smooth skin.
    ‘I will find you,’ said Redstreak, jabbing a finger at Tursa, ‘in the fray.’
    ‘So you do wish to fight?’ said Rostigan.
    ‘Yes!’ The Unwoven shrieked joyfully, as if this was an idea just occurring to him. ‘We shall fight! And after that, we’ll
     keep going, and fight others too. And after that, fight more others too!’ On another face, in another place, his would have
     been a true and happy smile.
    ‘So why,’ said Rostigan, ‘did you wish to speak with us?’
    ‘I told you, I don’t.’
    ‘You threw away your sword,’ said Tursa.
    ‘I didn’t like it anymore. When I come for you, fat man, I won’t need a sword. I’ll rip your head off with my hands.’
    ‘I won’t listen to these … these foul lies!’ exclaimed Tursa, and clumsily wheeled his horse around to gallop away.
    Rostigan sighed. ‘Why did you have to go and scare him like that? He just wanted to look brave in front of the army.’
    Redstreak stared at him uncomprehendingly.
    Rostigan leaned forward in the saddle. ‘Tell me something, my fine friend. I wonder if Regret’s Spire still stands in the
     Dale?’
    ‘The Spire? Yes, it stands. It will always stand.’
    ‘Of