CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Needle entered. ‘What is fanning that wind?’ asked Needle.

  ‘Troll breath, and the noise like thunder that you heard earlier this morning was Lung Bone, the shaman who leads the Trolls to prayer. It is his job to beckon their stone god or more correctly ‘to call god into the stone’. The gut bellow that he makes is supposed to attract their god’s attention.’

  Needle looked up from his second plate of breakfast pudding. ‘It is hard to believe that the pulsing of the air is no more than breathing.’

  ‘It’s part of the dawn and dusk ritual, the rhythmic panting is laced with majic and the pace and rhythm trigger the charm. They repeat it until the Rock God comes, sometimes minutes sometimes for several hours. They say that when he hears their prayers, the blue worms in the stone glow as bright as sunlight. Did you know that they can converse directly with their god, that their silent thoughts and prayers are carried by majic into the worm rock and thus to their god?

  We are not allowed to witness prayers, our presence in the nest is tolerated but not welcomed. As you will have noticed, the nest is half Troll and half human. It was Torrent who had the side tunnels cut. This was the first place he used the Heart Fire Killer Charm, it clearly worked or he would be a dead man and we would not be embarking on our mission. Three score years on and those at prayer here today are the same Troll who were here in King Torrent’s time. They say that Mistress Honey cast a sleeping spell on them using deep green majic before Torrent cast the spell. When they awoke, they found the fire in their blood had been calmed, their thoughts were clear and importantly, they ruled there their own minds..........or so they tell me. However, don’t be fooled by their manners, they are the same tough, belligerent pig headed killers they ever were, if you offend one it will kill you. The calming of their battle fire does not make them human, it just stops them from being perpetually angry and killing folk out of spite.

  Another word of caution old man. When we leave today, we may encounter a Troll in the corridors or up in the rock plateau. Don’t act scared. Don’t fart, don’t belch and don’t piss yourself. If you run, they will treat you like prey, chase you down and eat you.’

  Needle raised a silencing hand. ‘Hold on Smoke. What makes you think I have changed my mind? All you want me for is my ability to walk. What makes you think I will go with you to kidnap some spawn of the old king? I could just as easily walk you straight to the inner sanctum and leave you there.’

  Smoke smiled. ‘Because old man, if King Soar is right, this spawn will be a walker.’

  NINE: Escape from Delta Crossing

  Several warriors, scouts and trackers had disembarked in the last two weeks, experienced hands, discretely attired, their weighty gait a sign to Odium that mail and weapons lay hidden from view. Arriving in ones and twos they had dispersed, an act that would pass a casual look but not the prying eyes that he had peppered across the town. Three mage scribes, elderly gentlemen who stayed silent and only talked with their hands had also been observed as had a barge master and his crew, all clan and all now lost from view somewhere in the back streets of the old town. With so many arriving to witness the maiming of the teller it was likely others had slipped through, some lying low whilst others passed themselves off as merrymakers. Odium sighed, a score plus ten would be his best bet, but how many factions would vie for the lad? Moreover, who wanted him dead, who wanted him alive and who would kill him to stop him from falling into the hands of others?

  Lying low on the roof of his tower house, Odium Nail, Sword of the Keep, High Blade and Inner Guardian to Ghost Wolf Heart, Lord of the Delta lands scanned the roads, lanes and courtyards surrounding his home. Clad all in muddy black, his leggings, soft boots and a long sleeved brigandine all carried the look of wear. He was as yet unmasked and unarmed, his swords and matched daggers lay on the table below together with his broad cross belts, each loaded with stars and darts, the soft leather dulled down, the buckles matt.

  In the street below the lamps rocked gently in the cool night breeze, there swinging motion ruffling the shadows. All appeared quiet but Odium’s senses knew this was not so, warrior’s senses, sensitive to the smell of fear and anticipation. Tonight, the faint scent of oiled steel tainted the air, a scent as familiar to the Sword as any perfume. He enjoyed a fight, close combat, blade on blade but he suspected this fight would not be so; this fight would be darts and bolts from the dark, poisoned or paralysing. He knew the field of battle well, knew his best protection would be his knowledge of the town, his honed senses and the layer of small plate hidden below his padding. He would not have the luxury of choosing his own battlefield, the North Gate Tower was his goal and to reach it all he need do was outpace the hunt and take up a vantage that would force those who pursued to cross his mark and engage with his blade. He would be alone but those who sought the boy would be spread thin, covering the other gates until the fray began. They would die. Good wife Dolly knew this night would come, now that it had, he was sure the woman could fend for herself and would if needed, sacrifice herself for Cloak. He held no fear for her. The high secret they had both held secure for so long belonged only to the king. Their orders were as clear as they were simple, ‘do not fail, the boy’s future relies on you both playing your part in full’.

  With the weight of his responsibility pressing heavily on his shoulders, Odium entered the darkened stable block and walked towards the open door. Standing well back in the darkness the Sword of the Keep masked his face and scanned the rear court of the tower one last time before leaving the tower house at a run. He had rehearsed his route many time, planned his alternates and readied his weapons. Tonight, whilst Dolly prepared to leave with Cloak, he was to act as the vanguard, draw the attack to him and ensure the planned deception worked. He knew that the tower was being watched and that the initial odds were against him. He also knew that the next few minutes were the most critical, a period that would determine his fate, a dangerous period where good luck was worth more than talent with a sword, a time when enemies exposed themselves and faction fought faction.

  He had sworn on the good book to tell no one, especially his lord and master Ghost Wolf Heart, an honest man, a fair lord but also a distant blood relative of High Lord Flight of Birdsong. Keeping his need a secret from his own loyal band of wardens had left a lump in his throat. Had they known, they would surely all have volunteered, good men and women willing to fight for his cause and in doing so potentially forfeiting their lives without knowing why...........possibly at the point of his own blade. His task seemed simple; make his way to the North Gate, open it and ensure Dolly and Cloak escaped. The Sword of the Keep smiled to himself. Tonight he was the bait, a dispensable lure, a man alone. Some would follow him and engage and some would not. Others would see a single warrior and fear a trap whilst a few would watch elsewhere, spying on the other gates as if suspecting some clever deceit. Odium sniffed the air; the night already held the scent of blood.

  At the agreed time, the Sword scaled the courtyard wall and dropped silently into the small orchard belonging to Widow Mallet. Mallet’s Tower lay no more than twenty yards away, the gentle curve of the ancient dwelling kissing the curved outer wall of her neglected kitchen garden. The gate was unlocked and ajar, an earlier precaution that allowed The Sword to quickly slip through into the overgrown garden. When a deep shadow on the far side of the yard shifted Odium instinctively flinched, ducking his head low and turning his shoulder as first one, then a second dart embedded itself in the padding of his jerkin, the hidden plate deflecting the barbs. Turning sharply left, the Sword quickly covered the remaining open ground slipping between the tower and the stable block before making for the low stone wall that abutted his neighbours wash house. Three more darts flashed past as he leaped from the head of the wall up onto the low slated roof of the wash house, and down into Squall’s Court.

  With a run and a leap the Sword grasped the top rail of the outer gate and hoisted himself up and over, pressing himself into the deep shado
w as his eyes searched the small court for any sign of a foe. With a final check of his daggers and cross belts the Sword of the Keep rose and set course for the North Gate Tower. His chosen route took him by the narrow ways, back yards, middens and tight vennels, lightless paths that only those familiar with the old town would know and a route those who hunted him would not likely watch. It was clear to Odium that the Teller was the catalyst. His inept interference had upset god’s balance and send ripples out through the majic layers that lay deep beneath the Delta lands, signals that had been felt far beyond the flanking mountains and the lands far beyond. Those bound to the boy’s fate had felt the majic ripple and tasted the invisible spirit in the air. Barebranch had turned heads and focussed eyes on the boy and in doing so had marked him.

  They had been Cloak’s guardian parents for near fifteen years if his count was right. In all that time he and Dolly had kept the lad safely hidden, both fulfilling their appointed roles, both acting their parts, both above suspicion. He was Odium Nail the Sword of the Keep, she was Dolly Chair, Royal Child, true guardian and in all matters pertaining to the boy, his superior. To those around, he was the master of the house and she his obedient she cat wife, a cold woman who clearly did not command his heart.........such a truth made this an easy part to play. Fifteen years and yet his knowledge of her was incomplete, her early years a mystery. He had questions, but was forbidden from asking, burning questions that would reveal the truth about the boy, questions that if answered would quell his desire to know the truth, but, would also make him vulnerable if put to the question.

  Odium eased his mask and pressed an eye hard up to the gap between two warped fence boards. The high fence hid him from the street, the windowless tower behind him protecting his back. To his right stood the three towers that made up Brook’s Emporium and to his left, a tall phallic tower known locally as the Beetroot Brothel. With his head pressed to the gap Odium peered down the deserted northern avenue. Ahead, some two hundred paces away the lamps lighting the great gate had been dimmed, their glow now more green than yellow as if the oil had been infused with some unguent……….or majic. Odium eyed the dark recesses; four, and if he spied four, he could be sure four more lay hidden from his sight with more still on guard within to defend the counterweights and pulleys that set the bolts and effortlessly swung the gate open. Those who guarded the approach were of little concern, this was not his chosen route and he had no intention of making a frontal attack. His route would take him directly to the upper parapet and thence the gatehouse. Those who lay within would die first, friend or foe it did not matter. Tonight, witnesses to his actions were enemies.

  The Beetroot Brothel was the tallest tower on the street, the upper levels high enough to see over the outer wall, its topmost rooms, private and not overlooked, apartments reserved for only the richest of clients. Odium had frequented the house, he was not ashamed, he had enjoyed its simple pleasures and had on occasion used one of the upper rooms. Odium eased the heavy door open and entered the rear hallway. The brothel smelt of smoke, spilled wine and sweet lavender. The hall had a low ceiling and was lit only by one small lamp, the wick turned right down. The passage was lined both sides with wooden doors, most accessing the brothels large cellar, a warren Odium had been forced to search on a number of occasions.......... on official business of course. His off duty pleasures were carried out on the upper floors, the more flush his purse, the higher in the tower he would go. The door at the end led to a junction of two other corridors, one led to the kitchens and back scullery, the other to the ground floor reception rooms, rooms known to those who frequented the brothel as the poor man’s parlours. In the Beetroot Brothel some pleasures came cheap.

  The door was latched but not locked. Odium opened and halted, his path blocked. Grasp stood guard on the other side, the giant doorman was half the size of a Troll and twice the size of Odium. His long powerful arm ended in fists like hams, his nose was crooked and flat, his neck the thickness of a bull. Grasp raised a hand to signal halt, his eyes scanning the Sword’s garb.

  ‘Business Sword…..or pleasure?’ Grasp’s nasal voice was low, just above a whisper.

  ‘Business Grasp, important enough for me to press on without regard to your high station in the Beetroot.’

  Grasp suppressed a laugh, more a snort and grunt. He was big, heavy and difficult to fell in a fist fight, employed more as a wrestler and a restrainer than a weapons warrior. ‘It’s not a client is it? I would have to summon the mistress if it was, rules are rules Sword.’

  This time it was Odium’s turn to smile ‘No Grasp, this is Sword business……………..is the White Faerie Bower occupied?’

  Grasp frowned, a sign Odium recognised as deep thought. ‘No Sword, Miss Faerie is in the dormitory on the first floor……………..you want Miss Faerie Sword?’

  ‘No Grasp……….just the use of the chamber.’

  Grasp stepped aside, Odium nodded and pressed on across the parlour through the far door and into the stairwell. He would have to be quick, Grasp was thick as a board but knew his place. He would seek out Mistress Sweetness or one of the other mistresses of the chamber and whilst they were all soft on the eyes, tonight was no time for their prying questions. On the forth landing Odium turned right and entered a short corridor, all was silent, no groans, squeals or laughter. The floor was covered with a thick woven matt to dampen any footfall, the white painted walls glowing pink under the lamplight, an effect created by adding crushed scarlet crab shell to the oil. The door to Faerie’s chamber sat at the far end, a special room that came at a cost. The door was narrow, the timbers painted with flowers and the frame flanked with ornate plaster ferns and fronds. The room smelled heavily of rose water but not enough to cover the scent of sweat and black beach weed.

  Odium bolted the door behind him. The room was unlit, but the drapes flanking the tall window had been drawn aside allowing in sufficient grey light for him to see by. Releasing the latch the Sword opened the tall glazed windows and silently stepped out onto the balcony. The window stood above the level of the outer wall, the narrow upper parapet no more than twenty feet away and eight below. He was not a gambling man but fit as he was the odds on a successful leap to the wall head were clearly low. Miss the wall, and the fall to the cobbles below would surely kill.

  Casting his small padded grapple over the wall and into the darkness Odium waited on the metal hook to land in the soft ground beyond before pulling in the slack. When the hook bit and held fast on an outer corbel Odium secured the loose end and, hand over hand, silently made his way over the void to the outer wall.

  ---

  Dolly Chair, guardian mother to Fortune, Cloak, Holly and Plenty, held the razor sharp blade lightly in her right hand as she sliced through the skin just above the base of her breastbone. The tiny black pearl charm imbedded in the bare white bone was one of three, each perfect, each imbued with majic that fed on her own blood, all three working in harmony with the others. Her voice was steady as she incanted the words of release, a phrase that she had learnt so many years ago but could never forget, four words that would release her and remove the mask that hid her true self and suppressed her talent. The pearl fell from its socket. Ignoring the fine stream of scarlet blood that ran down her torso and pooled in her exposed navel Dolly carefully placed the bloody gem into a tiny velvet purse, the cloth as black as the stone itself. The wound would bind in mere minutes leaving a hot scar on her pale flesh. The second pearl buried in the palm of her left hand fell from her grip, rolling from the table and across the floor, its resting place easy to detect by the bloody trail it left on the tiles. The blood flowed freely from her right hand as she pressed the blade through her flesh and down to the bone, the third and last of the tiny gems floating out of its socket on a scarlet stream that pooled in Dolly’s cupped hand.

  The cube of Loop Tuber she chewed on helped dull the pain, her high incantations, recited with perfect meter and weight, knit the cut flesh, closed the wounds a
nd bound the skin. Dolly Chair was no more……….a royal child was now reborn, Heavenly Ghost Cloud, low royal warrior adept and pure blood maid. The sect tattoo on her forehead would slowly melt over the next moon cycle and when it did, her crest would transform, the spines lengthen, the clan crest she had carried all these years making way for her true royal clan crown.

  The chest she kept under her bed had been stowed away since her arrival in Delta Crossing and whilst the lacquer had dulled and dust had gathered in the hollows of the carved leaves that decorated the lid, the bronze lock was untarnished, its lustre and ward maintained by majic. Dolly unlocked the chest, the tumblers turning smoothly and silently, the wooden lid lifted back to lean heavily on the hinges. Although her frame had remained athletic, she knew the armour she had worn all those years ago would not fit, her shoulders were broader, her breasts and hips fuller. Her swords and cross belts, daggers and wrist shield all lay wrapped in oiled clothes precisely as she had left them all those years ago. The leather of the cross belts and scabbards would need some wear and wax to soften them again, so to the straps of her wrist shield. Despite the years, her swords looked fresh from the forge, the honed edge blue black and flawless. The grip felt ice cold in her newly healed hand but as it warmed it drew from her a thread of majic.

  As the majic flowed into the grip, the dark stone on the pommel began to glow, first ruby red, then, slowly growing brighter and more vibrant as it fed on the tiny flow that trickled down Dolly’s arm. It was enough. In less than a minute the pommel stone had turned from ruby to blood red, the majic within pulsing slowly in time to the beat of her heart. The honed edge rippled as the majic flowed from the pommel and when it did, the weight of the blade vanished from her hand.