CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  ‘I chose two of my former bondsmen, Master Needle Cliff and Master Smoke Silverfly……………’

  ‘Your messenger’ interjected Sharp again, his tone one of astonishment, ‘and a map maker, two old men and no warriors?’ said Sharp incredulously. ‘Were you standing under a fool’s moon when you made your choice?’

  ‘No nephew, they have not failed me, it is I who failed him. It is a long story but it would appear that in my haste to free Master Cliff of his bond to me I have inadvertently robbed him of his talent.’ A look of sadness crossed the old king’s face, an expression that both aged and wearied him. Needle was his travel companion and his friend. Breaking his bond would have hurt him, not telling him why he had done so would have confused him and now, not only had he robbed him of his unique talent he had also now put his whole plan in jeopardy.

  ‘So why continue on to the nest, why not return to No Marrow and remedy the situation?’ asked Sharp

  ‘Because nephew my own path and the solution to my current dilemma lie here. I had planned to come to Black Stain for no other reason than to talk to you. To ensure you heard from my own lips the truth about our kin and the threat a new war with the south. I came because no matter what choices we make, war is unavoidable. But when it became clear the rescue of the boy was going awry, I quickly realised that the remedy to this ill also lay here……………is that not so first brother?’ said Soar turning his head towards the one eyed Troll.

  The giant Troll pointed to his empty eye socket ‘You know who I am but you still do not speak my name old dog. You know me because of the mark your pet blade carved on my face. You know what I am because that was the reason you sent your assassin north of the Blue Cut. You sent him north to seek me out because you wanted my rare hide…………..but he failed you. I will tell you my name old dog royal, it is fitting for you to know, but, I will only fulfil your boon if you accept my price.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the old king without hesitation.

  The giant bull stepped forward stopping less than an arms length from where King Soar stood. Staring down at the old king the Troll named himself and his price. ‘My name is Shiver Cauldron, first brother and shaman mage to Boulder Spine, the bull of the nest. I am a far teller, a far walker and am a vessel of the white core. You seek a boon from me because I, and only I, can remedy your ill. Is this not true?’ The old king nodded. ‘You are here because you seek a place in time, a where and a when,’ said the Troll. ‘Is that not also true?’

  ‘It is true,’ said Soar.

  With a look of utter confusion, Sharp turned his gaze from Shiver Cauldron to his uncle and back again before his words finally flowed. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ said the Lord of the North. ‘What do you mean by ‘a place in time’ and a ‘where and a when’ and what is this boon you banter?’

  All eyes turned to King Soar. ‘The ‘where’ involves a journey from here to No Marrow and from there to the South Troll Midden, possibly beyond if things go further awry. The ‘when’ is, or was, six days ago. More exactly,’ said the old king ‘the morning of that day.’

  Sharp turned his shocked gaze swiftly back to Shiver Cauldron. ‘A wish walk back in time, can this be done?’ demanded the prince.

  Shiver Cauldron cast his one eye around the chamber as if seeking affirmation from the council for what he was about to say. At Boulder Spine’s nod the one eyed Troll turned back to face the old king and his nephew. ‘Yes dog kin, it can be done but not in that order.’ Shiver Cauldron raised his arm and pointed around the chamber. ‘You are aware that this great room we stand in is known to us as the Chamber of the Elders, it is also known as the Chamber of the White. It is one of our deepest chambers, a place where time slows without resort to any charm. It is a subtle effect and one that most who enter are unconscious to.’

  Shiver Cauldron stroked the wall of the chamber, the worm stone glowing brightly as he ran his massive fingers across the surface of the stone.

  ‘The flow of white is rich in this chamber,’ said Shiver Cauldron, ‘but to channel the white sufficiently to reverse the passing of time requires the summoning of the stone god. We do not however summon our god on the whim of a dog. The need must be great and the elders must agree that it is worthy’ said the one eyed Troll. ‘The walk to No Marrow however requires nothing more than my own talent. But,’ said Shiver Cauldron, ‘whilst neither is a test of Troll majic, my price for this boon is twofold,’ said the one eyed Troll.

  ‘And what are these boons?’ asked the old king calmly.

  ‘First...........when you die king dog I want your hide, nape to knee, wrist to wrist. I will then tan your hide with bark of hemlock and fashion it into a loin cloth that I will wear each day.’ The assembled Troll hooted and laughed. ‘The second is the life of one other. I will also take his hide but not before he is slowly sacrificed over many moons, his bloods and vitals offered in honour of my god.’

  ‘If that is your price then I am willing to pay it. Come that time I will have no need of this wrinkled shuck.’ The old king’s face remained calm, his expression one of acceptance. ‘I presume the ‘other’ is the man who gifted you the blade that now hangs from that ring around your neck.’ Shiver nodded. ‘I am reluctant to sacrifice another life but I understand why,’ said the king knowingly. ‘I agree to both your forfeits, but I have a condition of my own to impose.’

  ‘Which is what old dog king?’ responded Shiver Cauldron with suspicion.

  ‘That until such time as the boy is safe and under my protection, you aid him and his two guardians however you can………….what say you Troll?’

  SEVEN: The Cresting

  The book of God and King recounts the ascendancy of King Viper Sun Temple, leader of the crested peoples and founder of the first great dynasty. The first monarch of the Inner Sea, the unvanquished king, mage and sage, witness to the writing of the gods own book, his mark adorning each page. His high clans had descended to the earth from the low sun as it touched the far horizon of the Inner Sea and within a span of years had routed the unclean peoples of the Tribe, banishing them to the lands and barren places beyond the Wracked Lands. By the grace of King Viper, five high sects were formed; Mage; ward and majics, Temple; scripture and faith, Warrior; sword and shield, Phyzic; healing and science and Council; law and learning. He made a safe home and harbour for the crested folk, gave them rich land for harvest and precious veins for bounty. He gave them laws and schooling and made them strong, prosperous and adventurous, obedient to his word and in return the folk placed their faith in his biddings.

  The good book prescribes the route of advancement from common clan to high royal. Advancement is slow and does not happen in a lifetime but over generations. A good marriage can raise those of common stock to clan whilst those of the clan aspired to marry well themselves and in doing so, raise the hope that their grandchildren’s children will someday be blessed with a high clan crest. Five generations will pass before a high crest gains entry to the Low Royal court, ten generations of conspiring, manipulating and bribing, ten generations of building power and influence............and culling. Having attained suck rank, one crest may rise further and take their place at the Inner Royal Court where those deemed worthy of the crown wield power...........or so it is written, but with the great passage of time, it has never been witnessed.

  The first step on the path from common to clan stock was not uncommon, with luck and a good marriage, the rise achieved in one generation. For the rise to high clan, a further three generations would have to pass but five was more common and having gained a high crest, ascending to the rank of low royal would take a further ten. Clanrise was as much a blessing as a sorrow. For those from low stock, a child born with a clan crest was a blessing, immediately improving the eligibility of their sons and daughters. For clan folk, a child blessed with a high crest was both a joy and a sorrow. Their joy, pride and promise of gold, tempered by great sorrow when the new crested child leaves home, commanded by the king’
s law to present themselves at the sect house auctions where they will be sold into high guild prenticeships. The guild gold earned is often generous, but to many a mother and father it is scant reward, the sobbing parents knowing in their hearts that those sent forth to auction seldom ever returned. However, not all who rose up through the ranks remain high and a loss of class was not uncommon where poor marriages led to poor crests. But whilst a descent in rank brought family shame, it was not unknown for a these lines to reassert themselves.

  Confused feelings tumbled trough Cloak’s mind. The day had started badly, now, his torment worsened and his mood became black and anxious. Ahead the main avenue was a milling bustle, a place to be avoided. Desperate to be alone and with no immediate alternate route home, Cloak worked his way through the early evening crowd, his mood becoming more and more fretful, his angst growing at the thought of what awaited him at home. On the brink of tears Cloak pushed on until he reached the shelter of a narrow back alley. He had been given an insight into his own future, a telling that should have brought peace of mind and bought his silence. Instead, his confession before the altar had led to the teller’s public maiming at the hands of his own guardian father.

  Mistress Faith had schooled him in the power of prayer and the goodness of god. For three years she had shown him compassion and had spoken only kindly words, now, in one stroke, her kind words were shown to be made of ash, just lies, just words. The evil spit cat had turned on him, compelled him with majic to speak hidden truths and in doing so condemn a man and maim a man with his very own words. Less than two years ago he had been a boy like any other, carefree, innocently playing warriors and ward masters with a painted ‘tattoo’ on his bare scalp and a crude crest made from a circlet of chicken bones. As his class approached the age of cresting, Mistress Faith’s reassuring words had eased their minds, each child taking heart in her confidence that God would bless them all with crests.

  He had sought a sympathetic ear and had trusted her, naively taking for granted that she would understand and would be pleased for him. Her reaction told him he was wrong. When she had turned away from him and left the temple, he had sat and waited on the Sergeant of the Ward to come and arrest him, drag him in chains through the streets and throw him into the dungeon of the keep ………but no one came. When he heard that a Teller had been tracked down and arrested in a hide on the flats, his breath near failed him. He had waited in his room but no one came. Cloak wished they had. He had prayed for the courage to hand himself in but god did not hear his pleas. God preferred the punishment Mistress Faith had dealt him, live life knowing you broke a trust and sent a good man to his doom. These were the actions of a whey faced wretch.

  ----

  Odium Nail stood at the outer gate of the tower house. He wore his field uniform, the silver edge of his armour plate peeking from beneath his grey green and rusty brown leathers. His ceremonial sword had no doubt already been carefully laid out for Cloak to clean. The thought made Cloak wince. The maiming blade would be offered up for inspection before Cloak would be permitted to sheath the blade, his father guardian ceremoniously accepting the weapon before securing it in his dress chest. The blade out of sight, but unlike the memories of today’s public mutilation, not out of mind.

  As he approached the house Cloak felt his guardian father’s eyes burn through him. As ever, a look of brooding thunder gripped his face, no wonder his men called him ‘the odious wasp’.

  His entry was barred. ‘Do you not have something to tell me?’ demanded his guardian.

  Cloak winced as his guardian father grabbed him by the shoulder, his unforgiving iron fingers gripping like talons. Cloak instinctively shook his head and immediately regretted his lie, his unthinking denial bringing a flush to his cheeks. Cloak flinched but could not avoid the blow as the back of his father guardian’s free hand made contact with his temple, a mace like blow that snapped his head round and blurred his vision. Cloak cursed his own stupidity. He should have anticipated that news of his puking, his detention and the punishment prescribed by the Master of the Academy had spread to the keep. Keen to avoid a beating, Cloak managed a respectable apology.

  ‘Sorry sir, yes sir, I apologise..........I tried to stand my ground but my head thundered and when I became ill the prefects had to escort me back to the academy. The Master chose to discipline me..........’ his father guardians grip eased.

  ‘You’ll find quill and ink and paper in the high study, I want the first page presented within the hour. If it passes muster then I’ll consider whether you get any supper or not. For now you will take your place at table with the family. You will be permitted water and nothing else.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘The Master of the Academy made a point of advising me personally ‘lest you forget to mention it’. He took great pleasure from the act and commiserated with me about your late cresting, he ‘hoped it was not a moon curse’. I told the sweaty little bookworm that if you failed to tell me or you lied I would punish you. The slap was for lying, not the deed. I also told him that one more errant word from him about your late cresting and Master of the Academy or not, I would split his sack and give him an extra hole to piss from. Now get inside, wash and sit down. I suggest you spend your time at table wisely and compose your opening words.’

  Cloak suppressed a smile as he was bundled into the parlour. He wished his cresting would come there and now, any crest, a common crest, even a slaver crest. At least then he would be prenticed to a low guild and could leave home wearing god’s verdict on his head. Washing his hands and face at the well, Cloak casually wetted his scalp before rubbing his head roughly with the sun dried towel that his mother-guardian had left. The towel was coarse, the feeling of the rough cloth on his head bliss. His pleasure was brief and was brought to an abrupt halt when the towel was snatched smartly away by his mother guardian.

  ‘If you scratch your moon and split the skin you’ll attract suck fleas. I don’t think you want their maggots feasting on your scabs.’

  Cloak smiled to himself at the irony, remembering just two years past the shrieks and screams of his older brother when his mother-guardian quoted the same old wives tale. He too had scratched his dome and suffered the consequences, his open disobedience immediately incurring her wrath. The memory of his brother wearing a honey herb poultice to school for two days was a powerful lesson, the stinking sticky paste pointlessly rubbed over his smooth pate doing nothing to ease the itch but did cure his impulse to scratch.

  Although his stomach was empty the smell of food wafting from the kitchen turned him pale. As always, Cloak sat at one end of the bench opposite his guardian mother, his guardian father sitting in his tall chair at the table end. Ravenous as usual his sisters Jewel and Plenty stared at the food in front of them. They had just come in from the kitchen and Cloak knew that they would already have sneaked a scraped spoonful of hot turnip from the side of the pot while it bubbled on the stove. Between spoonfuls of stew and turnip the twins chatted. Each the others best friend they stuck to each other day and night. Their own school days lay ahead of them, for now, they had not a care in the world, loved and dotted on, sweet as honey-cakes and kind to a fault. Jewel’s sharp tug at his sleeve brought him back to earth. ‘Cheer up Cloak, your crest itch will pass and you’ll soon have a nice crest and be as handsome as Fortune.’

  Cloak forced a thin reassuring smile and thanked her, jealous of her innocence and her days full of play. His head had started to ache again, the same stabbing acid pain that plagued him in the cell of the Prefect’s Confines. Cloak winced as the pain struck the same three spots as before, each point on its own an agony but the one to the rear of his skull was now a torment. Like a blunt blade drawn against a nerve, the nausea brought on by the pain quickly became unbearable. Now, the very sight of food, no matter the smell made Cloak feel ill, seriously ill. Desperate to clear his head Cloak excused himself from table before rushing from the parlour out into the garden. As he slammed the privy door c
losed, the storm wave of nausea building in his gut finally overwhelmed him, a tide of acid puke erupting from his belly, the acerbic flood burning his throat, mouth and nose before puddling on the tiled floor. With each pulse of pain now aching like mace blow, Cloak retched again and again, praying for relief as his innards continued to pulse and heave. Empty, pale and shaken Cloak waited some minutes before forcing himself to his feet. Tottering to the well he washed, rinsing his mouth again and again with cool water to dilute the acid burn. By the time he re-entered the kitchen the evening meal had been cleared from the table. In his place sat paper, quill and ink, a jug of water and a glazed clay beaker.

  It was close to midnight before he climbed the steep stairs to his attic room. His script had been deemed passable and his quotations from the book of God and King had been rendered accurately. Clutching another full jug of water in one hand and a single candle in the other, Cloak made his way up to the garret. The lamps in the hall and stairway had been extinguished and despite the long candles flame Cloak had to tread carefully, avoiding the risk of a fall by counting the steps to the first and second landing. He had never been afraid of the dark, indeed his senses were always more acute and his eyesight particularly keen even on the darkest of nights. Filling his beaker Cloak extinguished his candle and opened his window full. Standing silently in the darkness, his elbows on the cill, Cloak stared out through the murky shroud that hung over the town.

  The welcome smir, more mist than rain dampened his skin and cooled his face but did little to ease his head. Cloak hoped upon hope that the illness would pass by morning, avoiding the need for his mother guardians medication, which, for all non-descript pains usually meant a hearty dose of fish and fig oil. The very thought of the fishy odour and thick oily taste made Cloak’s stomach lurch. Such a potion was one of many brews administered by his mother guardian, potions that famously eased the bowels but brought no relief from the ill. Wrapping himself in his warmest blanket Cloak closed the window and, laying down on his pallet, curled himself into a comforting ball. In the darkness of his room time slowed and sleep eluded him. The ache in his head persisted, the pain for now bearable but only with prayer. Cloak slept.