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Authors: Sam Bowring
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know it was really her?’
‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said Tarzi. ‘You see, as fortune would have it, my travelling companion is none other than
Rostigan Skullrender, champion of the Ilduin Fields.’
Eyebrows went up as folk reconsidered the stranger in the corner, and the heavy sword resting beside him. Rostigan held their
collective gaze stonily, smoke seeping around his face, and no one stared openly for long.
‘We tracked the mysterious figure into a dark wood,’ Tarzi continued, ‘through which she made herself a path by ripping the
very trees out of her way!’ She made violent motions, pulling up imaginary trees as if they were carrots, and her listeners
tensed. Despite himself, Rostigan was amused.
‘But it seems even the worst of Wardens need their rest,’ said Tarzi. ‘As night fell, Rostigan walked the dark corridor, and
discovered the spot where Stealer was camping. You can imagine how quiet he had to be, to sneak up on the likes of her! He
snuck from shadow to shadow, circling her campsite for an age, knowing that even the tiniest sound – brushing a bush or bumping
a beetle – would bring her wrath upon him. While he moved he stole glances, saw her telltale cloak and hat, and her dripping,
gaping mouth.’ Tarzi pulled a twisted face that wasn’t much to do with what Stealer had looked like, yet it scared her audience
nonetheless.
‘They say hers is the mouth of death!’ breathed Borry.
Tarzi nodded. ‘Nonetheless Rostigan kept on, slipping quietly through the trees. And, once he was close enough, he slowly
raised his great sword …’ Tarzi raised her hands above her, ‘… and brought it down to smash her skull!’ She heaved her make-believe
blade with such force that peopleat the closest table flinched. Back behind the counter, the innkeeper rolled his eyes.
Rostigan knew it was not yet quite the exciting tale that Tarzi wished for. She would, no doubt, embellish it further with
each retelling.
‘But this alone did not end her,’ she went on. ‘Thus Rostigan cast her on the fire, just like the knights in the old story.
She kicked and howled, and burned as anyone would, to ashes and dust. I saw it and I can tell you – she will trouble the world
no more!’
The expressions in the crowd were mixed – some relieved, others sceptical.
‘Is that true?’ A bearded man, emboldened by drink, gestured at Rostigan. ‘You vouch for her tale?’
Rostigan tapped out his pipe, irritated to be drawn in, inevitable as it was. ‘Yes.’
‘You really are Rostigan Skullrender?’
He inclined his head.
‘Then where,’ said someone else, ‘is Silverstone?’
‘Did it come back, after you killed her?’
‘It can’t have – the minstrel said this was two days ago, but we’ve had other reports since then.’
‘We did not see Silverstone return,’ confirmed Tarzi.
This met with mumbles of dismay.
‘Then how could it have been Stealer?’ asked the bearded man. ‘All the stories say her death brought back her victims.’
Tarzi spread her palms. ‘As I told you, this is not a legend. I can only say what actually happened.’
The mood was confused after that. Had things been set to rights? Did the threat remain, or was it dealt with? If it had even
existed in the first place?
Rostigan sighed and swigged his ale. He’d warned her.
‘Sure you’re not just spinning yarns, minstrel?’
‘You think she’s having us on?’
‘Probably hoping for some coin.’
Rostigan’s chair scraped loudly as he rose, causing all to fall silent.
‘I
am
Rostigan Skullrender,’ he said. ‘And I don’t pretend to understand how the powers of Wardens work. Are
you
a great expert, sir,’ he addressed the bearded man, ‘in the ways of ancient threaders?’
The man, uncomfortable at being singled out, shook his head.
‘I thought not. I’ll tell you something I do understand, however – death. And I promise you this: Stealer is dead, by my
‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said Tarzi. ‘You see, as fortune would have it, my travelling companion is none other than
Rostigan Skullrender, champion of the Ilduin Fields.’
Eyebrows went up as folk reconsidered the stranger in the corner, and the heavy sword resting beside him. Rostigan held their
collective gaze stonily, smoke seeping around his face, and no one stared openly for long.
‘We tracked the mysterious figure into a dark wood,’ Tarzi continued, ‘through which she made herself a path by ripping the
very trees out of her way!’ She made violent motions, pulling up imaginary trees as if they were carrots, and her listeners
tensed. Despite himself, Rostigan was amused.
‘But it seems even the worst of Wardens need their rest,’ said Tarzi. ‘As night fell, Rostigan walked the dark corridor, and
discovered the spot where Stealer was camping. You can imagine how quiet he had to be, to sneak up on the likes of her! He
snuck from shadow to shadow, circling her campsite for an age, knowing that even the tiniest sound – brushing a bush or bumping
a beetle – would bring her wrath upon him. While he moved he stole glances, saw her telltale cloak and hat, and her dripping,
gaping mouth.’ Tarzi pulled a twisted face that wasn’t much to do with what Stealer had looked like, yet it scared her audience
nonetheless.
‘They say hers is the mouth of death!’ breathed Borry.
Tarzi nodded. ‘Nonetheless Rostigan kept on, slipping quietly through the trees. And, once he was close enough, he slowly
raised his great sword …’ Tarzi raised her hands above her, ‘… and brought it down to smash her skull!’ She heaved her make-believe
blade with such force that peopleat the closest table flinched. Back behind the counter, the innkeeper rolled his eyes.
Rostigan knew it was not yet quite the exciting tale that Tarzi wished for. She would, no doubt, embellish it further with
each retelling.
‘But this alone did not end her,’ she went on. ‘Thus Rostigan cast her on the fire, just like the knights in the old story.
She kicked and howled, and burned as anyone would, to ashes and dust. I saw it and I can tell you – she will trouble the world
no more!’
The expressions in the crowd were mixed – some relieved, others sceptical.
‘Is that true?’ A bearded man, emboldened by drink, gestured at Rostigan. ‘You vouch for her tale?’
Rostigan tapped out his pipe, irritated to be drawn in, inevitable as it was. ‘Yes.’
‘You really are Rostigan Skullrender?’
He inclined his head.
‘Then where,’ said someone else, ‘is Silverstone?’
‘Did it come back, after you killed her?’
‘It can’t have – the minstrel said this was two days ago, but we’ve had other reports since then.’
‘We did not see Silverstone return,’ confirmed Tarzi.
This met with mumbles of dismay.
‘Then how could it have been Stealer?’ asked the bearded man. ‘All the stories say her death brought back her victims.’
Tarzi spread her palms. ‘As I told you, this is not a legend. I can only say what actually happened.’
The mood was confused after that. Had things been set to rights? Did the threat remain, or was it dealt with? If it had even
existed in the first place?
Rostigan sighed and swigged his ale. He’d warned her.
‘Sure you’re not just spinning yarns, minstrel?’
‘You think she’s having us on?’
‘Probably hoping for some coin.’
Rostigan’s chair scraped loudly as he rose, causing all to fall silent.
‘I
am
Rostigan Skullrender,’ he said. ‘And I don’t pretend to understand how the powers of Wardens work. Are
you
a great expert, sir,’ he addressed the bearded man, ‘in the ways of ancient threaders?’
The man, uncomfortable at being singled out, shook his head.
‘I thought not. I’ll tell you something I do understand, however – death. And I promise you this: Stealer is dead, by my
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