The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (5 page)

He rolled over onto his side with a growl.

At one point he looked out of the window, and saw strange ribbons of light in the sky. The world had been unnaturally frozen for so long, that day was now trying to break through.

‘Release us, Despirrow,’ he shouted, many times.

Then, all of a sudden, everything came back at once. Day ripped across the sky like fat, expanding lightning, stuttering light through the window. Mergan spun around to see his dining companion, her mouth hanging open to display the food she had been chewing. It did not matter, he told himself, silently forgiving her – what could have been a moment of ugliness only endeared her to him further.

‘You’re back!’ he
exclaimed, as he ran to the table. His appetite was raging, and he picked up a chicken leg to chew on while he stared at her. He had expected to find it steaming hot, as it had been when the freeze had come, and was momentarily taken aback when the meat proved stone cold instead. It seemed that time of day was not the only part of the natural order trying to assert itself.

No one else was eating, for they were dumbfounded by the sunny day taking over outside.

‘Don’t worry about it!’ he told them. ‘Eat, drink, while we can!’ He rounded on the barkeep. ‘Bring more food, this has gone cold! Quickly, quickly.’

The barkeep ignored him, moved around the bar towards a window, and stepped in a pile of defecation. He looked down, his confused expression taking on a note of disgust.

‘Who shat in my tavern?’ he asked, almost offhandedly, as if it were the least of his questions.

‘I did,’ said Mergan, words that instantly haunted him.
I did, I did.
Why had he gone and told them that? No one would have ever known!

The woman rose from the table.

‘Where are you going?’ he cried. ‘Don’t go, stay! The food still tastes good, no matter it’s gone cold. See?’

He wolfed down the chicken leg, to show her, and reached for another.

The tavern door opened as folk spilled into the light, and she moved to follow.

‘Stay!’ he
begged. ‘It’s all right!’

‘Get off me!’ she shouted, and he realised he had grabbed her arm. Roughly she shook him off, and fled.

But I love you
, he thought, trailing after.

Not only had Despirrow made Mergan wait forever for his feast, he had ruined its continuation.

I will kill you, Despirrow.

Shielding his eyes against the inexplicable sun, Mergan stepped outside. The tavern stood at the edge of a village in the north of the Plains Kingdom, and everywhere people were emerging from thatched houses.

‘Unwoven!’ someone suddenly shouted.

Sure enough, away across the dry grasses, twenty or so Unwoven sat upon their horses. They seemed distracted by the day, cantering about and pointing upwards. They would have been meaning to approach under the cover of night, Mergan supposed, hoping to surprise their victims. Now that they had been revealed, Mergan imagined they had a decision to make.

‘To arms!’

There was no wall around the village, which Mergan considered remarkably stupid. That said, as soon as the call to arms went up, weapons started to appear in hands. Out on the plain, the Unwoven began to gallop towards them.

Mergan wasn’t sure what to do. He knew he was in danger, for if a normal person’s threads were like silk to his touch, then Unwoven were instead thick, coarse wool. He could deal with a few of them at once, but twenty was maybe too many. Besides, why should he stand and fight? He did not feel particularly sympathetic towards the villagers. He’d
had
to shit in the corner, he’d had no other choice! And yet, after his kindness and the sharing of his feast, he meant no more to these people than a cloud to an ant.

Well, then, they
meant nothing to him either, he decided. That was only fair.

He probably had time to hide and threadwalk somewhere else, but could not think of where to go. He had no kinship left with anyone alive. He was hungry still, but it was an angry hunger, and he did not think more food would sate it. He was eating already anyway, he realised, oafishly gnawing a dripping slab of meat he had unconsciously brought with him from the tavern.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere he belonged.

‘I’m all alone,’ he told a man running past with an axe, but the fellow didn’t respond.

Maybe Mergan had mumbled while his mouth was full.

His mind’s eye returned to his prison of the tomb, to the mountains surrounding, to the Spire where he had been remade. Something about them called to him, and he felt like part of himself was still there, would always live there. Anchored, whether he wished it or not. Why else did he dally within sight of the Roshous? He had the world at his feet, yet had gone no further afield than the Plains Kingdom.

The world is so small
, he thought, as a tear formed. He could visit Althala, or Saphura, or Ander, but the idea of each terrified him. How could he relate to anyone, anymore? His heart and mind were riddled with cracks, through which shone only greed and lust. Imagining himself sitting at a table of lords and ladies, making polite conversation as he delicately cut his carrots, set his hair on end – he saw himself harnessing flame from the candles, burning his companions to cinders and laughing.

Someone bumped
him, and he blinked.

What terrible thoughts.

‘Get inside, old man!’

Probably a good idea.

He spotted an open door and walked through it. Inside, the little house was empty. There was a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, and two windows in each.

Six windows in total.

He raised his hands and concentrated. Sending his influence into the house’s walls, he took hold of the latticework of threads making up their structure and drew them together like bootlaces pulled too tight. The house quaked as it shrunk, its materials constricting until they were dense enough to be near impenetrable. The windows shrunk and thickened too, though these would remain the most fragile points, so he darkened them into the bargain.

As soon as he was finished, the first screams sounded outside. Blades clashed and horses whinnied – the Unwoven were somewhere close by. Mergan went to one of his smoky little portals and looked out onto the street. Three burly Plainsmen charged past, and he moved to the next window where they appeared again. An Unwoven stood in the street, ferociously swinging her sword in readiness. The villagers split into a semicircle around her, staying back from the long sweeps. The Unwoven gnashed her teeth and stuck out her ghoul-white tongue. Mergan found himself admiring the unflinching Plainsmen – it seemed to him that they must have faced this kind of opponent before.

The Unwoven
made a wild jab that was turned aside by one of the Plainsmen, and the other two darted in from different directions. One stabbed deeply into her exposed armpit, while the second swung his blade halfway through her neck. The Unwoven’s grin stretched wider on her head, her lips jostling open as she convulsed to make her seem ridiculously happy. The third Plainsman moved about to strike the neck from the other side, completing the cut, and the Unwoven’s head spun away, glugging blobs of white blood while her body crumpled.

Mergan was impressed – the Plainsmen had been methodical and calculated, done a fast and efficient job in the face of an intimidating foe. Maybe they would beat back the raiders after all.

Two more Unwoven leapt into view and hacked the Plainsmen to pieces.

Mergan realised he was gritting his teeth too hard and tightening his fists. He tried to relax. One of the Unwoven noticed him watching, and came up to the window to squint in at him.

Such strength
, he
thought, staring into the creature’s eyes.
Such honesty.

The Unwoven frowned, crinkling up a scar on his forehead, and said something Mergan couldn’t hear.

Mergan pointed at his ears. ‘I can’t hear you!’ Then he laughed – if he couldn’t hear Scarbrow, then how could Scarbrow hear him?

Scarbrow cocked his head as if in recognition. He turned and shouted something to his companion, pointing at the window. The companion strode up, raising his sword, and Mergan withdrew. There came no sound of shattering glass, however. Peeping out again, Mergan saw Scarbrow gripping his companion’s sword arm and shaking his head.

A little girl ran past in the background, and the companion took off after her, as easily distracted as a kitten after a ball of string.

Scarbrow turned to stare through the window again. Then he cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted, and in the dense house Mergan could just make out the muffled words:

‘Do you want me to let you out?’

Mergan didn’t really know what to make of that.

He cupped a hand to his own mouth. ‘Not right now, thank you.’

The Unwoven seemed surprised for some reason. ‘I will come back in a while,’ he shouted, and took off.

Mergan moved to see if he could track him, but Scarbrow had gone somewhere out of reach of the windows. Meanwhile, a general ruckus sounded from all around as the fighting continued.

A woman appeared
across the street and dashed towards the house, fear shining in her eyes. It was his great love from the tavern, Mergan realised, who had looked at him with disgust and shaken him off. She gestured in panic at the front door – she wanted to get into his house? Mergan wasn’t sure if he could unseal the door quickly enough to get her safely inside and, as her eyes pleaded with him, he felt his own turn cold.

Never done anything for me
, he thought.

She glanced around, gave a cry he couldn’t hear, and tried to flee. A sword spun after her, sending her face forward into the dirt. An Unwoven strode past, smoothly retrieving his quivering blade from her back.

Mergan went into the kitchen to see if there was any tea. He found some, but unfortunately there was no fire in the fireplace. There was some bread and fruit, so he sat down at the kitchen table and began to munch on that. For a while he sat in a happy bubble, not even hearing the screams outside. All too soon he was finished – there had been quite a lot of food, so how long had it taken him? The sounds from outside had died down, he realised, and he rose, uncomfortable with his predicament. Did he dare to leave? It seemed he spent his whole life trapped inside small dwellings.

A knock sounded at the door, surprising him. He went back into the living room and there, at the window, was Scarbrow, blood smattered all over his face. As Mergan appeared he grew excited, and rapped his fist on the glass. There were others with him, and they pointed as they spoke to each other. Mergan wondered if he would meet his end, finally, in this compacted little house. Did he mind? Maybe death would be a release. Certainly he had once desired it.

A small piece
of berry lodged in his teeth fell sweetly onto his tongue.

Of course he minded!

Scarbrow shouted at him and he strained his ears to hear.

‘Spirit! Do you wish us to release you?’

Mergan did indeed want to get out of the house, but he wasn’t quite sure what awaited him outside. Oh well – he didn’t have many choices.

‘Yes!’ he called.

Scarbrow nodded and disappeared. A hacking started at the door, more than one sword working away. It would be hard work, Mergan knew, even with Unwoven strength behind the blows. He could always waggle a finger and part the door like a curtain, but somehow he preferred that they were the ones to make the effort. If they meant to kill him, he certainly wasn’t going to help.

Blades began to show though the wood, letting in slivers of sunlight. Soon woodchips were flying inwards, and Mergan waited with his arms folded. He wasn’t going to cringe in some corner of the house, so he may as well be there to greet them. Finally there was a hole in the door big enough for a person to step through, and Unwoven jostled to look inside.

‘Do not
enter!’ came Scarbrow’s voice. ‘Out of my way!’ He muscled others aside to appear at the door-hole. ‘Spirit,’ he said, ‘can you leave this place?’

‘Stand back,’ said Mergan.

Scarbrow obeyed, and Mergan stooped to pass through the hole.

Outside Unwoven stood in a semicircle peering at him curiously, while others down the street seemed less interested. Streaks of blood painted the town – through the dust and up and down walls, and across the bodies of villagers strewn about. A little way off a smashed-in hut was on fire, and Unwoven were dragging a horse carcass onto the flames.

‘How can you be sure it’s him?’ Scarbrow’s companion asked.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Scarbrow. ‘I know his face well enough. I visited the tomb often as a child, brought offerings and spent long hours trying to hear his wisdom.’

‘I recognise him too,’ said another.

Mergan wasn’t sure what they were talking about. The tomb? Offerings? No one ever visited him there. Had they? He would remember it if they had. He screwed up his eyes.

And he did remember.

He saw the view through the tomb doorway, which neither he nor screams could penetrate. Outside, Unwoven came almost to the threshold – children and adults, kneeling in worship or laying down bundles of grass wrapped in red ribbons, strangely shaped rocks or other useless objects. Mergan raged at them,
let me out
, beating his chest, tearing his hair. His visitors echoed his actions, danced around, flung their hands up to the heavens. How many times had it happened?

Maybe
many.

Maybe
three thousand and sixty-six
times.

How could he have forgotten such a thing? Had he forgotten, or had he just not thought about it for a while? Had these events been unimportant at the time, bleak and hopeless punctuations in his long internment?

Scarbrow stalked forwards and reached a hand to Mergan’s shoulder. Mergan felt the great potential in that grip, knew it could grind his bones to dust.

‘How can this be?’ said Scarbrow. ‘You are his spirit, are you not? How do you now have flesh? How do you come to be here, outside your tomb?’

Mergan began to understand. The implications of Scarbrow’s words so terrified and enthralled him, that he threw back his head and howled with laughter. They had seen him at the tomb! For centuries they had gone there to make him offerings.