The Dread

They come when the suns die. 

It happens every night, and all the others hide and close their eyes, praying to the Gods that deserted them to The Dread. Lunden never prayed to those liars. He cursed them while the others begged for salvation. Lunden hoped beyond hope that wherever those Gods fled to, it was worse than here. Then this dungeon of cowards. But Lunden had a sneaking feeling that there was nowhere worse than the Karvar’s Cradle in all the cosmos. Named after Karvar the Father, king of the gods, and thus the king of the cravens. It was built during the height of the Long Grace. A time before The Dread. A time when the cowards walked amongst the mortals and graced them with their oh-so-mighty glory. The old ones say the gods taught us the ways of the world; farming, fishing, building, smithing, and perhaps their greatest gift; the magic of the strings. 

“And yet, I’ve never seen a bloody Stringer,” Lunden mumbled. 

Steg must’ve heard him because the older man was looking at Lunden with eyes like daggers. “Do you want us to die, boy?” Steg asked in a whisper that was as leathery as his skin. He raised his one arm that The Dread hadn’t eaten and put a finger to his mouth. 

Living? This isn’t living, Lunden thought, as the cries of The Dread filled the night. Another scream flooded their cellar—a human scream. Lunden didn’t need to see the person to know what was happening. The Dread were no gentlefolk. They take the form of the creatures one fears the most and devour you with an unquenchable hunger. Lunden had never seen one, in all seventeen years of his life on this world; he spent his nights below ground. Where The Dread never searched. Or perhaps they knew the people hid below but allowed us to live down here like rats. No one had an inkling of an idea about why The Dread do what they do. It’s not as if they were open to hosting a discussion. But Steg had seen one, and he spoke of the story to anyone who would listen. 

“It looked like a twisted wolf with a dozen snakes in place of a tail,” Steg had told Lunden when he was just a boy. “But it didn’t have no fur. This beast was soaked with inky black sludge that dripped off its body like fat tears. It’s a demon, boy. You can’t fight no demon. You can only fear it.” 

The floorboard creaked above them, and Lunden felt that fear fill his body to the brim. Steg’s eyes had gone widener than a Liddless One, and he motioned Lunden and the others in the cellar to lay flat on the ground. Slowly, Lunden dropped to the floor and hugged the ground as if it would protect him. Wood moaned above—this Dread was a big one. I still won’t pray, Lunden thought, but then he heard a drip and felt something cold land on the base of his neck. It burned like frostbite, and the sizzle—Lunden could’ve sworn he heard his skin sizzling. He opened his mouth to scream away the agony, but Steg had already wrapped his hand over Lunden’s mouth. Lunden spent the evening writhing and doing everything in his power not to make a sound as the night—and the screams that filled it—went on. 

*

A stranger rode in into Karvar’s Cradle as the third sun made its way back to life. The guards at the gate sounded the Dread Bell, and the city went into lockdown for a brief moment before everyone realized that no Dread could survive in the light of the three suns. But commotion filled the weathered cobbled stone streets that cut through the city like a maze. Everyone was outside, muttering like children when elders were teaching. When he glanced their way, the muttering stopped. The stranger slowed his hortle to a trot, its six hooves clicking against the ground with gentle claps that rang out through the city like bells of their own. Draped in a purple cloak so dark, it might as well have been black, the rider looked like midnight sky atop the green and brown reptile with an oval shell that bore a checkered pattern not disimilar to the armor worn by the Knights of Karvar. The hortle mawed at the sky as the stranger reined it in. Lunden was sure of one thing—the man was assuredly not a Dread. The stranger removed his hood, and the face of a man stared back at the crowds, with hurricane-grey eyes. Lunden knew hard folk, battle-worn and tested, and this man’s face could’ve sliced those warriors like butter.

A stranger! Gods, when was the last a new face found its way into the city? A decade at least, Lunden thought, reaching back in his mind until he remembered one. It had been a woman then, but her cloak looked eerily similar. Lunden wanted to call out and ask the fellow's name, but he was on the terrace floor of Mulivar’s Meadery, and it would’ve been impossible to hear. Luckily for Lunden, another Cradler spoke up. 

“Oui, rider.” It was Steg. Of course, it'ss Steg. “What brings a stranger like yourself into Karvar’s Cradle? We’re a peaceful folk, mind you.” 

“Peace?” The Stranger turned toward Steg. “Was it peace that took your arm, then?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Steg’s face had turned redder than a summer rose.

“I asked if peace took that arm of yours,” The Stranger’s voice boomed though he wasn’t shouting. “If so, then I beg you to change your definition of the word, my friend. For it is not peace that I battle. My war is with the Drea’neard, as yours ought to be.” 

Drea’neard? Did he mean the Dread? 

“God-Speech?” Steg’s surprise had no cover. “Can’t say anyone else here would know what you’re talking about, but I’ve been around a bit longer.” 

“I can see that,” the Stranger replied. “Old age is a rare thing in this world, friend, you should be grateful to Solis. What might I call you?” 

“Steg. Steg of the Cradle. A worshiper of Karvar and his kin.” Steg held himself up tall and proud, and Lunden had to admire him for it. “And you, rider who speaks the God-speech, name yourself if you’d oblige an old man.” 

“Godrick Rinn,” the rider announced. “I fight with the Solis Armada. I’m a Stringer of her lady, the Matron Marionette.”

Chaos erupted at the mention of a Stringer. A bloody Stringer! A real live Stringer in the heart of the Cradle? Lunden could feel the smile grow across his face like a rash he didn’t mind scratching. 

“Oui! Settle down, folks, the man’s telling a fib.” Steg said.

“Friend,” Godrick said. “I’ve been called many things, but a liar is one I have a particular distaste for. Do you not believe I fight for the glory of the three Suns? Solis, the true lord, father of your gods. The God you forsake, yet still, we fight to keep the Drea’neard from devouring every last one of you. And you call me a liar?”

“I meant no offense to Solis, though it’s been a while since I heard that name.” Sweat dripped down Steg’s face. “I only meant that there ain’t no Stringers alive. The Dread killed ‘em all when I was no more than Lunden’s age.” Steg looked up at the balcony where Lunden was—somehow, that old bastard always knew where he was off.

“Hmmm,” Godrick the Stringer looked around, glancing back toward the Three jagged peaks of the Son’s Crown. They stabbed the horizon with their snowcapped hats. “It has been some time since any true legion passed over the Sondnar Peaks. Even the Drea’neard know it wise to avoid those passes.” 

“The Son’s Crown grants us protection, but it is Karvar’s blessings that keep his Cradle safe,” Steg replied. 

“Karvar’s Blessings?" He gestured around the city. Windows were boarded up with more timber than a forest. Every door had an extra lock. “I would not call this life a blessing.” 

“Amen!” Lunden shouted. He covered his mouth, but it was far too late. The crowd had shifted their gaze to the scrawny lad who’d had one too many mugs of mead. You know what? I’m sick of pretending. “He’s right! We hide away night-after-night like cowards.” Lunden felt a flush fill his cheeks as more eyes fell on him. “Being a coward and waiting to die is not living!"

“Bite that fat tongue of yours, boy.” Steg had the worst look of all—disappointment. Clear as the sounds on a cloudless sky.

“No, let the lad speak.” Godrick had dismounted from his Hurtle and walked toward the floor beneath Lunden. “At least someone here has sense about them.” 

“Watch yourself, Mr. Godrick,” Steg said, stepping in front of the man. “We don’t need no false stringer coming into town and recruiting our kids to—

Steg was in the air before he could finish his sentence. Lunden couldn’t believe what he was seeing—Godrick had simply motioned a finger upwards, and the next moment, Steg was floating. He had become a one-armed man-kite. It was as if he was suspended by billions of little ropes. Or threads. Strings. The idea formed quickly in Lunden’s mind. Yes, he thought, Godrick can create strings or something and then move them where ever he wants!

“A false Stringer?” Godrick lifted his finger, and Steg floated even higher. “Did I not tell you I find no humor in being called a liar? Yet here you have done so twice.”

“Let me down,” Steg cried. “Let me down, you Pendvar-damned Stringer?” 

“Okay,” Godrick replied, dropping his finger. “No need to invoke such a filthy God.” 

Steg fell to the floor like a sack of rocks onto his shoulder nub. Lunden knew that still hurt him, even though the wound had closed years ago. 

“You nearly killed him!” Lunden said, and without thinking, he leaped off the balcony and landed on his feet in front of Godrick. As much of a prick as Steg could be, Lunden didn’t like the idea of anyone hurting his friends, not even a Stringer. Not even a Stringer who stood well over a foot taller than Lunden. Okay, maybe I should’ve thought this one through.  

“Aye, I nearly did.” Godrick replied. 

“Well, if this is how a Stringer goes about business, then maybe it’s best we haven’t seen one in decades. You’re worse than the bloody Dread!” 

“You’re right,” was Godrick’s only response. 

“What?” 

“I said you are right,” Godrick looked around and bowed his head to the crowd. “Forgive me for my actions. They do not represent myself nor my order. The people of Solis fight for the light of the three suns and all people who live beneath them. Even those who worship the children of Solis. I’ve acted barbaric today, and I apologize deeply.” He turned to Steg and helped the older man to his feet. ”Steg, was it?”

“Aye,” the old man replied, wincing with pain. 

“Steg, I have dishonored myself, and for that, I am sorry.” 

“Mate, you just tossed me ten spans in the air with the flick of a finger,” Steg mimicked what Godrick had done with his one hand. “The way I see it, I should be apologizing to you. A real live Stringer in Karvar’s Cradle.” 

“Perhaps we should start over and discuss some matters I’ve been tasked with,” Godrick glanced toward Lunden. “A glass of mead and a meal would be much appreciated. I have the coin to spare for all three of us.” 

“Three?” Steg replied. 

“Aye,” Godrick said. “The boy’s a stringer, so he ought to hear what I’ve got to say.” 

A collective gasp shot through the street as if the residents of Karvar’s Cradle had practiced it while hiding away in the nights. But Lunden’s gasp was silent.

“I’m…a Stringer?”

“No,” A grin cut through the hardness of Godrick’s face. “But you will be.” 

*

The inside of Mulivar’s Meadery bristled with a commotion, as Mulk the barkeep placed pints of mead down on the table for Lunden, Steg, and Godrick. The three men—Lunden considered himself a man at seventeen—picked up their mugs and clinked them together. Steg and Lunden poured a few drops of their mead onto the sticky floor and Godrick frowned as he watched them. 

“Superstition runs deep in the cradle,” Godrick said, as he lifted his mug to his mouth and took a sip. The Stringer looked around at the grim faces that watched them with a curiosity unquenchable. “Little good does it seem to do. Hope’s End would be a better name than The Cradle.”

“Karvar’s Cradle,” Steg said, ice rode the words. Whatever amends the two had made before seemed to be whittling away. “We still respect our Gods, Stringer.”

“Aye, the Gods,” Godrick laughed quietly and looked at Lunden. “What do you think of your Gods?” 

“Cowards.” The word was out before he could stop himself. The dimly lit mead hall fell to a hush and all eyes turned toward Lunden. Anger brewed inside him at the looks they gave him. “They abandoned us!” Lunden met their glares with his own. “I am sick and tired of worshipping cowards and taking after them, night after night. If this Stringer wants me to fight The Dread, I’d say yes and die happy knowing that I’m not cowering in my own grave when the suns set.” 

“Watch yourself, Lunden,” Steg said. “You curse the Gods, you curse us. It is known, boy.”

“He’s no boy,” Godrick interjected, before taking another pull of mead. “Of all the folks I’ve seen in this sorry city, he might be the only man I’ve met.” 

Lunden laughed, but Steg slammed his mug down onto the table. “Now you listen here, Stringer, I don’t care if you could pull me apart with a flick of your fingers, but we’ve invited you in, given you drink and food and you continue to insult us as though we’re nothing but animals.” Steg steadied himself but his gaze was steeled. “You’ve apologized once, and I’ve accepted it. You may apologize again, but that will be the last we offer.” 

“Indeed,” Godrick eyed Steg. “Hospitality is foreign to me, but anger and the fight are my shadows and your shadows are never far behind. Steg, I will gladly take one more chance to redeem myself.”

“Good,” Steg sighed as if he thought the Stringer might actually have killed him on the spot. “Now, what business do you wish to talk about? And what is this nonsense about Lunden being a Stringer?”

“Tell me, Lunden,” Godrick was peeling the gloves off his hand. Both were scarred and covered in stitches as if his hand had been put through a meat grinder. “What did you see when I pulled your friend Steg here into the air?” 

“What did I see? I saw this old fart floating in the air like a ball of hot air.” Steg made as if to scold Lunden, but the old man bit his tongue.

“No, Lunden,” Godrick leaned in, those grey eyes swirled like thunderclouds. “Tell me what you saw.”

“I don’t know what you—

“Well,” Godrick kicked his chair out and stood up. “If that’s the case, I will see myself out.”

“I saw the threads. The Strings.” Lunden didn’t know if that was what Stringers called them, but it only made sense. “Silvery, iridescent lines that were holding Steg in the air as if he were a puppet, and you the puppeteer.” 

A smile opened on Godrick’s face like an old wound. “Have you ever seen that before?”

“No,” Lunden looked at Steg who shrugged. “Not until today.” 

“So I take it you have yet to pull on them?” 

“Pull them? I still don’t know what they are.” 

“Then I will teach you,” Godrick said, and took one final gulp of his mug. “Pack your things, Lunden of Karvar’s Cradle. We leave at the rise of the first sun. Your training begins with the rise of the third.” Godrick put his hand out toward steg. “Thank you for excusing my behavior today…things outside the walls have been grim of late, but alas, I have a feeling the suns shine on us once more.” 

“Aye, you’re welcome, Stringer,” Steg said. “But the boy stays here.” 

“He stays…” Godrick’s smile turned into a wicked frown. His hands tensed and Steg gulped. “I have been very patient, but if you—

“Stop it!” Lunden was on his feet. “Both of you. And Steg, this decision is mine to make, you’re not my father.”

“No, no I’m not,” Steg looked wounded. “But I’ve watched after you since your folks were…taken.”

“And I’ll always be indebted to you for that, old man.” Lunden put his hand on the man’s one good shoulder. “But if I can become a Stringer and truly help the people here, I don’t have a choice, Steg. I can’t keep doing nothing.” Lunden looked at Godrick. He stood head and shoulders above anyone else in Karvar’s Cradle. “Godrick, I accept your offer. I wish to become a Stringer.” 

“Lunden, you’re either a Stringer or you’re not. There never was a choice.” Godrick extended his arm out and Lunden followed suit. Godrick grasped it by the forearm and gripped him tight. “Tomorrow, the true fight begins ” 

Godrick emptied his mug in one swig, and Lunden followed suit.