CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  ‘When we reach Cold Choke we will take the path that skirts the eastern wall. It’s not a route often travelled but it does eventually lead to the Clay Pit Road at thence to the canal station at Dry Shadow. The terrain for first few leagues through the mountains is steep and hard, up and down and back again, mostly over bare rock. The bad news is we will be spending a lot of time on foot leading the mules rather than riding them. The good news is that those who follow will face the same hardships.’

  Needle frowned. ‘From that can I presume that you expect we will still be tracked, even over bare rock?’

  ‘Our choice of route will not be difficult to second guess. The road east of Flick’s leads back towards the delta lands. There are only a few small villages along the way until you reach Jump Off and I suspect all of these will be watched. The road west leads to the estuary crossing at East Chap Jetty. The other side as you well know marks the border of High Lord Hinge’s fiefdom and, king’s men or not, I don’t expect we would get a hearty welcome from his lordship.’

  ‘What about just hiding up in the coastal forest?’ asked Needle.

  Smoke shook his head. ‘They would search the woods until they found us, bring in others to help, talented noses to sniff us out, no, the trail south beyond Cold Choke goes nowhere important but unless you follow the trail you will go nowhere fast. What that means for us is that whilst we might not always know how far behind our pursuers are, we will know exactly what route they follow.’

  ‘You’ve not said as much but do you think the boy is tethered to a Seeker?’

  ‘If he has, I cannot smell it and it’s not plain to see. However, you and I both know that means nothing, a Weaver with dark talents could fool even our senses. So, like it or not, I have to assume he is tethered. The one thing on our side is that by good fortune the choice of route helps us. They know where are on the path ahead of them and we know they are somewhere on the path behind us. I wait, I kill the weaver, I kill the majic………….’

  Needle laughed weakly. ‘Is that before or after you’ve killed a squad of skirmishers and a wall of bodyguards?’

  For the first league the road to Cold Choke followed the bank of a fast flowing river that cut a swath through the forested hill behind the town. After an initial steep climb the first miles proved to be relatively easy and despite the reluctance of their mules, they maintained a brisk pace. The second league proved more of a test, the road veering away from the river as it twisted west then east then west again past a bare rock escarpment. As the road meandered past the large outcrop, the broad leaf trees began to thin, eventually replaced by cedars, pines and finally clusters of spindly birch. As the ground levelled, the scale and ruggedness of the mountains that shadowed Cold Choke came into view. The huge embracing cirque with its bare slopes almost totally enwrapped the prison, at its foot lay a buttressing field of scree, the tumble of loose rock disappearing beneath the black waters of the central lake. As they crossed the last league, the trees finally gave way to open heath. Stopping to rest the mules and ease their own rears, Smoke pointed out the track they would take, the pale grey thread of a path disappearing high to the left of the cirque, the line of the narrow track barely visible against the purple and green of the heather.

  Their track parted company from the main road a mile shy of the outer gate, the path rising steeply, slowly exposing the view north and the shimmering vastness of the Inner Sea. When the trail finally became too steep to travel mounted, Smoke called another short halt. Removing a small grow eye glass from his saddlebag, the king’s assassin placed the brass tube too his eye and gazed north. Tucked hard into the shore the town itself remained hidden from view, only the far end of the pier visible to the eye.

  ‘She’s berthed, tied up and reefed at the far end of the pier. By the looks of her she’s the same cargo vessel we last saw moored up at Mangler’s Oar. We can only hope that in their haste they only brought their horses with them. If they did then they’ll have to source mules or short leg hill ponies. Given the problems I had in buying these fly blown mange bags we are riding, let’s hope those who follow fare no better.’

  Smoke carefully repacked his glass, lifted his reins and walked on, his mule encouraged to co-operate with an occasional friendly smack on the rump. Needle’s mule needed no such urging but the same could not be said for Cloak’s, the lazy beast testing his patience at every turn, his palm already aching from the need to constantly slap his flanks.

  There progress was slow, the steepness of the path far more severe than it appeared from the high plain. It was late afternoon before they finally reached the high col above the cirque, the rocky path levelling off to reveal a narrow rock strewn ridge. As they rested, Cloak and Needle shared a water skin, the pair staring back northwards for signs of pursuit. The view down over Cold Choke, the low forest and the silver sea were spectacular, the air clear of haze, the sky above a rich blue with only the odd cotton cloud floating by, their soft grey shadows moving swiftly and effortlessly over the rugged land below. No pursuit could be seen, Smoke’s grow glass failing to reveal any sign of a hunting pack, the pursuers either still hidden from view in the forest or more hopefully, still bartering for mounts in Flick’s Pier.

  From the top of the mountain the view south was less appealing, a steep rocky down slope littered with shale followed by yet another winding climb up a bare faced mountain. Beyond the next row of peaks a higher ridge appeared, their distant snow tipped tops standing proud against the blue horizon. The sheer majesty of the range should have been a joy to behold but only served to overwhelming Cloak’s tired senses, a despairing glimpse of their future challenge.

  ‘Don’t weep lad, we won’t have to scale the second ridge, yon next set of peaks is the last main challenge, after that we descend to the valley beyond and follow it round to the west until we meet the tributary of the Holdfast River that runs all the way down to the weir pool at the head of the Red Clay Canal.’

  Smoke pointed towards the last peak far over to the south west. ‘The valley floor is boggy and with the rain we have had it may even hold standing water, at best we can expect to find a mighty mire. It’s open ground and sparsely forested until you get to the end of the vale, then, it narrows to less than half a league and runs between two flanking cliffs. The cliffs only run for a mile or so before they disappear back into the land but near the end of the valley the ground between them suddenly rises up steeply. It looks from afar like a wall but when you get close up you’ll see it is actually a massive maze of a huge rocks. Unless you want to climb, the boulder field has only one path through it and even then some parts of the way are a tight squeeze for a fat mare. However, once through the land mellows and soon thereafter we’ll reach the confluence with the Holdfast River. There is a path beside the river. It runs all the way down through the Hold Wood to the Red Clay Lands…………………overall eighteen leagues maybe slightly more.’

  Cloak forced a weak smile, pointing back down towards the low plain to the north. ‘What about those who follow Master Silverfly? It’s taken us the best part of the day to reach the first ridge and there’s all but four hours of sun left until dusk. We’ll be lucky if we make half way up the far side before its pitch. By then, the mules will be well lathered and on their knees…………as will I.’

  Smoke’s smile made Cloak shiver. ‘All going well you’ll sleep soundly without fear of a sword in the night. I’m going to return down the slope and parley with them, I’ll make sure my message is understood and, if they still choose to follow us................well, let’s just say I’ll make it hard for them to say ‘no’.’

  Needle placed the stopper back into the skin and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I have great faith in your ‘persuasive’ skills and I know just how effective they can be. Even so, I would urge discretion. If you get waylaid we might as well offer ourselves up. I have little trail craft and no skill with a blade. If we are caught I can do little to protect the boy and my ability to keep us both a
live out in the wild is limited. Let’s face it Smoke, if anyone can get lost out here it’s me.’

  Smoke placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘No choice old man and you know it. The king has given us a stiff challenge. He knew what he was doing when he broke our bonds, he knew our combined talents would be needed, mine to keep him safe if yours could not. Let’s just trust our king and trust to the fate he brings.’ Smoke turned and set off back down the trail at a jog, stopping briefly to wave a final farewell before disappearing from view.

  ‘Well boy,’ said Needle. ‘Once Master Silverfly has delivered his message he’ll soon catch us up. There’s no point in us standing here staring at the clouds and scratching our arses until his return so let’s make haste. I don’t fancy our route up and over yon rocky mount any more than you do but that’s our path.’

  Cloak absently gathered up the reins and tethered the mules head to tail. As he did so, his mind wandered and wondered as he tried to imagine what Master Smoke intended to say in his parley that would in any way persuade those who followed to turn back. Master Silverfly was the king’s messenger, a sect born out of the tracking and scouting clans. The man was clearly used to delivering secret missives, indeed, royal business would by its nature require him to be discrete and secretive, but there was more to Master Silverfly than met the eye. The man was no simple messenger delivering parchments on behalf of the king, he clearly had other high talents, one of which was with a blade.

  ‘Master Needle. Why are you so confident that Master Silverfly will prevail and that he won’t be delayed or captured?’ Cloak let his question drift.

  ‘He’s a messenger lad and he’s a very, very good one. You have to trust me when I say he can be extremely persuasive and I have known him long enough to know that he’ll do what he can to slow their progress, in fact, for all we know, getting himself captured might be part of his plan. For now, staying ahead of the chasing pack is more important than worrying about whether Master Smoke catches us up. My goal is to reach the Red Clay Canal and if we reach it safely we’ll buy a berth on a barge and travel east towards Thankless Bastion.’ Cloak opened his mouth to reply. ‘No, for now the time for talking is over.................Tongue out,’ instructed Needle.

  Cloak nearly gagged on the horrid spot of medicine administered by the old man. He was right of course, they needed to outdistance their pursuers and here and now was not the time and place for any long discussion. Evading capture until Master Silverfly returned would not be easy, but what then, another long journey, more hiding, more death and new pursuers?

  ---

  By the time Needle and Cloak had crossed the ridge and had begun their slow descent, Smoke was already five hundred feet below, deftly bounding from rock to rock seeking out a high vantage that would open the track below to view. On the trail far below a line of moving dark dots could be seen. Smoke drew out his grow glass and placed it to his eye, the pursuing column coming sharply into focus. Six skirmishers, three close body warriors and the Weaver, a petite woman in her middle years, her crest shimmering with charms. Five skirmishers led the line, four men and one woman, all burdened with broad packs, a short javelin projecting above their shoulder, a quarter bow swinging at their hip. The three close guards that followed, encircling the Weaver, their eyes ever searching the hillside for any sign of danger. The lead guard was a huge man, his bulk dwarfing the petite Weaver who walked in his shadow. The other two guards were women, tall and long limbed, their easy gait almost catlike as they followed behind to the left and right of their mistress. None of the close guards carried a pack, the three only burdened by the crossed blades slung securely to their backs, their hands free to draw their weapons at the slightest sign of danger.

  Progressing slowly up the mountainside in single file the skirmishers were clearly vulnerable to attack, the steep terrain and narrow path limiting their ability to defend against a frontal attack. Only the lead soldier displayed a crest of any worth but she and her squad were not his first concern. The three close guards would be a challenge, all high crests and likely all skilled and majically talented whilst at the rear of the train, a lone soldier led three mules tied in a line, each beast plodding slowly along under their heavy burden.

  With the sky clear and the sun still casting bold black shadows, Smoke entered the shade, emptying himself into the thin film of darkness before flowing effortlessly down the mountain. Moving from cool shadowed rock to cool shadowed rock the assassin quickly closed the distance between himself and those who followed, slowing only to examine possible hides before finally selecting a long dark shadow concealed behind a small undercut ledge. The waist high outcrop stood on the edge of the trail, a perfect lair offering a view down and over a particularly twisting section of the trail, the path cutting first left and then right before returning on itself as it rose up and across a narrow exposed ridge

  The small column had wound its way to within fifty paces of Smoke’s hide before the lead skirmisher raised a hand, silently calling a halt. The woman sniffed the air, her head tilted back, her nostrils flared and twitching. Her eyes were clearly being directed by her nose as she searched the rocky path ahead, scanning the shale, pausing now and again as if to sniff every boulder capable of hiding an blade. Although her eyes dwelt twice on the area around the shadowed ledge where Smoke hid, the skirmisher’s nose failed to locate his presence.

  The Weaver appeared impatient, her whispered command sending her lead guard to the head of the line. The path ahead of him was narrow and the drop to both left and right was particularly steep and rocky. Despite the static line of soldiers in his path, the huge guard bullied his way forward, forcing the short column to part, the skirmishers stepping aside briskly to avoid being knocked over. As he approached, the lead soldier turned and saluted casually.

  ‘There’s a faint smell of wood smoke in the air Captain. It’s difficult to target the exact whereabouts on the hill but you can take it from me it was not there a minute ago. I suspect I did not sense it before now because it was thin on the wind but when the breeze died, it lingered long enough in the air for my nose to pick up the scent.’

  The huge warrior frowned. ‘Majic?’ asked the Captain gruffly.

  ‘Could be, but I can’t be sure. If it is, it’s not a pale colour which means it’s deeper and likely potent. Then again it could just be the remnants of a smoke trail from a distant charcoal pit.’

  The Captain stopped her short, looming over the woman menacingly. ‘Lady Willow does not like unexplained scents or smells in the air Sergeant particularly when she’s hunting a pair of high crests with talent. So Missy Sergeant, if you want to keep that precious nose on your pretty face, I suggest you keep sniffing until you are sure. Signal your men to rest, ten minutes, packs on, no sitting down, all alert and ready.’

  As the giant warrior turned and made his way back down the ridge, Smoke cursed silently and at length. ‘Moonless night’, cursed Smoke, the big dastard called the witch Star Light Willow, God and King the woman was the granddaughter of High Lady Gold Fern Glint, a high royal child out of wedlock to the king’s oldest brother. Unlike her high royal grandmother Mistress Willow was only a low royal but nevertheless she was a distant descendant of the royal line. This woman was not some hired talent in the employ of Flatstone Hinge, more likely the opposite was true, Hinge was serving her.

  Smoke cursed silently once more, although her royal blood was thin, she was king kin nonetheless and as such safe from his blade unless deemed forfeit by warrant. Killing the Weaver and ending the chase here and now was no longer an option. His luck had taken a sharp turn for the worse and although his options were few Smoke knew immediately that another plan was needed, and quickly. A plan that did not result in the death or wounding of the king’s half grand-niece but instead, perhaps, a plan that would slow the column and cull her pack until she and those who remained alive turned aside.

  Crippling the three mules was not a valiant action but it would serve it
s purpose. It would slow the train, forcing them to share out the provisions among the already burdened troops, adding to the agony of their climb. Smoke readied himself, reaching beneath his cloak and removing a small leather pouch and a fine steel rod with a carved horn handle. The rod, more akin to a fine bradawl had a notched end, a simple slot designed to hold a sacrificial tip. The pouch contained flints, each razor sharp shard coated with a powerful numbing toxin. Careful not to touch the flint with his bare fingers Smoke gripped it firmly with a small patch of leather and slotted it home. He was ready.

  The slim shaft with its horn grip allowed the tip to be driven deep into a joint, the numbing toxin ensuring that the entry point was near bloodless and painless. With the fine shaft removed, the flint was left to do its work, the toxin masking the animals pain as with each step the shard buried itself deeper and deeper. It would leave a tiny wound, the flint punching straight through the mule’s hide and deep into the joint, the shard thrust home until a solid contact with bone was made. With the holder removed, the mule would flinch and walk on, the wound sealing and healing over quickly, leaving the crippling stone within. Before the shadows lengthened, the three beasts would be lame and before the moon had risen, so too would the sergeant with the sensitive nose and the arrogant captain.

  The Weaver and her bodyguards had stopped to rest just below the steepest section of the climb, the skirmishers remaining on the short steep ridge that separated them from Smoke’s hide. The men stood alert, laden packs still on their backs, short quarter crossbows slung at the ready from their hips. Smoke watched and waited, studying the body language of the skirmishers and the close guards as well as that of the petite Weaver. His plan was simple, let them all pass then stretch out from the shadow and hobble the mules one by one. The brass captain and her two svelte close guards would be next, crippled but not killed............a dead body could be dumped and left to rot but valuable talents required healing. At worst, the Weaver would send them back down under escort to the gates of Cold Choke, at best, if the fates were on his side, the witch would turn her pack around and retrace her steps to Flick’s Pier.