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

course. And is there anything in the sky above it?’
    Redstreak blinked. ‘A smell though the cracks. A sack of grace flung upstream, leaking into the flow.’
    ‘Anything you can see?’
    Redstreak’s eyes flashed fervently. ‘Red,’ he whispered.
    The word was like a weight upon Rostigan. The Wound was still open, just as the rumours always said, but he had still managed
     to hope that, after all this time, it would find some way to heal. He stared off at the colossal Peaks, as if his gaze could
     penetrate them, and see what they shielded from view.
    ‘More cracks soon, warrior,’ said Redstreak. ‘And us to help spread his touch.’
    With that he laughed, and rode away.

    ‘I knew it,’ said Hunna in disgust. ‘It merely wanted to waste our time.’
    ‘Why?’ said Loppolo.
    ‘Why do Unwoven do anything, when the only good thing they could do is slay themselves?’
    ‘They do not think like you or me, King Loppolo,’ said Rostigan.
    Across the way the Unwoven were forming up, some on horseback but most on foot.
    ‘They’re coming,’ said Tursa, his face pale.
    From the Peaks beyond the Unwoven, a series of white shapes suddenly rose into view, like distant puffs of smoke. They ascended
     quickly, hard to make out in the brightness of day.
    ‘My king, look!’ said an officer, pointing. ‘What are those?’
    ‘Silkjaws,’ muttered Rostigan, dismounting from his horse. With such foes on the way, it would be prudent not to sit on high.
    ‘S … silkjaws?’ stammered Tursa. ‘But there are so many!’
    All at once the Unwoven gave a collective howl and charged. Meanwhile, as the white shapes flew closer they became clearer
     – silent monsters wheeling in the air.
    ‘Stand firm, Plainsfolk!’ shouted Hunna, riding to his soldiers. ‘We are no strangers to silkjaws, nor they to our swords!’
    Yes
, thought Rostigan,
but hunting down a single ’jaw for stealing sheep is not the same as this. I would not have guessed they even existed in such
     numbers
.
    ‘Your threaders, King,’ he told Loppolo, ‘are our best defence against those creatures!’
    Loppolo nodded determinedly. ‘And archers with flames!’ He began shouting orders as soldiers fanned out around him. Towards
     the back of the army, a couple of deserters broke loose.
    As the enemy drew closer above and below, Rostigan knew there was no more controlling the situation. He had done what he could
     by getting an army here in time – the only thing left was to stand beneath the breaking wave, and hope it did not knock him
     down.
    ‘At ’em!’ came Hunna’s bellow, and the Plainsfolk rode forth, spears held out before them.
    ‘Charge!’ called Loppolo, almost too late, for his soldiers barely achieved running speed before clashing with the Unwoven.
    Everything descended into chaos.
    From his back Rostigan unsheathed a broadsword most would need two hands to wield. Before him an Althalan twisted away with
     blood spraying from his neck, vividly painting the yellow grass. Another soldier swiped at the grinning Unwoven who’d dealt
     the blow, cutting a long gash down its arm. White blood oozed from the wound, too slow and sticky to spurt. Grinner laughed
     harshly and lashed out with his injured arm, landing a blow that broke the soldier’s nose back into his skull.
    ‘Go for the heads!’ shouted Rostigan, as he dashed at Grinner. He brought his sword down in a overhead sweep and, with a confident
     sneer, Grinner held his own up to block the blow. Their swords met, and there was a very brief moment during which a look
     of confusion began to form on Grinner’s face, and then both swords drove down deeply into his head at cross lengths. Like
     a partially attached quartered melon his head flopped to pieces about his neck, and Rostigan gave his body a heavy kick to
     send him away.
    Something kindled in the deep place – a little flame in the void, burning brightly. Rostigan was instantly wary of it, for
     it gave out a glow