CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Smoke held his breath as he slid from his hiding place beneath the ledge, the king’s assassin cautiously snaking his way down through the lengthening shadows that blackened the ground. With the breeze gusting from the south west, Smoke chose the lee side of the path, scentlessly passing the sergeant with the talented nose and the line of skirmishers. His new hide sat wide of the path, out over the edge of the ridge and deep down in a crevice between two slabs of rock. Had he been whole, he would have tumbled several hundred feet to his death but his dark majic form was as one with the shadow, weightless and secured by his majic against gravity’s pull. Confident that he had moved far enough downwind from the spying nose of the lead skirmisher, Smoke exhaled slowly and silently. The old air from his lungs was ripe with the distinctive scent of his majic, the smell of charred wood catching on the breeze and dissipating quickly as it flowed over the bare rock of the mountainside.

  The captain of the guard stood no more than three paces from where he hid, the elegantly clad figure of Star Light Willow seated on a large trailside boulder a further pace on, her feet casually swinging over a hundred feet of nothingness. He could have easily slid closer, tugged an ankle and dropped her to an instant death but his orders were clear, he had no warrant to cull any from a royal line without his king’s warrant.

  Smoke peered out from the shadow and carefully studied the Weaver’s close guard. The tall feline warriors boasted crests similar to his own, a touch of high scout diluting the purity of their warrior crests. From their build, Smoke guessed they were lightspeed, warriors blessed with lightning fast reactions, a similar talent to his own, but unlike his, theirs was a natural talent, his own a gift from the king, the skill grafted into his bones and fed by his blood.

  As Smoke’s shady form slipped through the shadows below Lady Willow’s feet, the Weavers head turned sharply, her green eyes scanning the shadows. Smoke froze and instinctively held his breath as Star Light Willow’s piercing gaze focussed on the exact spot where he lay. When she lowered an accusing finger, Smoke swept his shadow aside, twisting up and through the shade into a crevice between two vertical rock slabs. Just in time. The bright green tendrils of majic that snaked from her fingers raked at the barren rock and grasped at the shadows where he once hid, her weaver’s majic catching nothing but air.

  The giant captain stepped swiftly up to Lady Willow’s side. ‘Mistress?’

  Lady Willow rose and stepped back from the edge. ‘Nothing, Captain………..nothing but an irresistible urge to scratch at the shadows below. Please instruct Sergeant Ivy to move the line on.’

  Safely downwind of the Seeker and her guards Smoke seized the moment. Flowing quickly past the single soldier minding the mules, the assassin pressed his shadow into as tight a form as he could before pouring himself into the space below a flat slab balanced over a steep shale slope. Extending an arm from the shadow of the rock, Smoke stabbed the first mule behind the knee, the flint shard breaking off as the point struck bone. The mule quivered and tossed its head, Smoke’s arm returning into the shadow before the guard holding the reins turned to look. The soldier leading the mules tugged hard on the reins, a crack from his whip encouraging the reluctant mules to move forward. Unable to reload in time, the second mule had already stepped up the slope and into the sunshine before Smoke was fully ready, the beast too far forward for Smoke to reach without revealing his full form. For now, this one would have to wait. Swiftly sliding a new shard into place Smoke had barely enough time to adjust his position before the last mule stepped within reach. Hidden by the mule in front, Smoke struck, lifting his head and shoulders fully into the light before thrusting out with his left arm to punch the blade through the mule’s tough hide. The mule kicked out violently as the flint bit home, its hoof striking the flat rock directly below Smoke’s exposed torso, dislodging it from the supporting shale and nudging it over the edge of the ridge.

  Smoke fell into the sunshine, his human form tumbling uncontrollably down the shale slope, a hail cries and a dozen iron tipped bolts following his fall, the bolts all missing, their tips skipping harmlessly off the sliding stone. Disorientated, Smoke could not stop his tumbling fall, the slipping shale carrying his careening body towards the lip of the cirque. Bruised and cut to the bone in several places, Smoke tried to slow his fall, the king’s assassin pushing his bleeding hands into the river of grey shale as if trying to swim against the flow of stone. To no avail, he was too late.

  NINETEEN: Needle Cliff

  When they reached the top of the next ridge Needle stopped to rest.

  ‘The sun will set soon,’ said the old man, ‘use your young eyes and scan the trail from the top ridge down into the valley below. Take your time and be sure to miss nothing.’

  Cloak did as Needle asked, painstakingly following the faint line of the trail as it twisted its way down the steep face before passing through the loose sea of shale that blanketed the valley floor. Nothing, just as earlier that afternoon there was no sign of pursuit.

  Needle exhaled a long slow breath. ‘Not seeing them is as much of a worry as seeing them. I would feel better if I knew how far behind they were. I’d also feel better if I knew where Smoke was and better still if I could be sure the Weaver woman has not taking some quicker alternate route and we were walking into a trap.’

  Driven by the fear of capture, the pair walked on, cautiously picking their way through the early evening darkness before a full moon the size of a silver salver lit the last of their descent. Exhausted Needle and Cloak reached the valley floor just as the moon peaked in the sky. As instructed by Smoke they turned west, leading their mules silently along a trail that skirted the base of the scree before finally cutting south across the valley floor.

  ‘How are you bearing up boy, tired?’

  ‘The mucus is keeping me going and I can see almost as well in the dark as I could in the light,’ replied Cloak. ‘My new boots are however an ill fit and they’ve now raised blisters on my blisters. My shoulder also hurts like a demon. This damnable mule has fought me every step of the way and each time he halts I near pull my arm from its socket just to move him forward.’

  Needle sympathised, he had led the other two mules since leaving the first ridge and his old joints from head to heel ached interminably. ‘When we reach the far side we’ll stop, tend to your feet and rest up for the night. If we wake up with the edge of a sword pressed against our throats so be it.’

  ‘What of Master Silverfly?’ asked Cloak.

  ‘I would like to think that Master Silverfly is the likely reason we have seen nothing of those who trail us.’

  From Smoke’s brief description, the valley was no more than four furlongs wide but in the dark it felt more like double. The ground dipped gently, growing progressively softer under foot until the dry land dissolved away leaving only a boggy mire. As they walked on, a shallow mist drifted across the valley floor, covering the sodden ground and hiding what remained of the path. Treading carefully the pair walked slowly on, their passage through the waist deep mist cutting a ghostly swathe through the silvery veil. Whilst Needle could not see his feet he could feel them sink ever deeper into the boggy ground, each forward step leaving a clear print for others to follow. As nothing could be done to mask their passage, the pair plodded on in what they hoped was a south westerly line, their judgment rewarded as the ground began to rise and dry.

  Fifty paces further on the spongy ground eventually gave way to firm earth and soon the pair found themselves walking on level dry ground once more. At the foot of the next small rise Needle turned off the path and called a welcome halt. With the beasts fed and securely hobbled, Cloak sought his blanket, wrapped it tight around his body and pressed himself between two large boulders. Whilst the mucus kept him awake and gifted him with night sight it did nothing to ease his aches. Cloak closed his eyes and wished for relief, his mind drifting into slumber as his pains dissipated. Whilst Cloak slept peacefully, Needle fretted, the old wish walker staring out into the
grey darkness. Smoke should have returned to them by now, the blood on his blade long dry. That he had not caught up with them was a concern, Smoke was a hard man to injure no matter kill and had he been captured, he could easily use his talent to escape his bonds.

  Needle felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders, without his own talent he felt as naked as a moll slave. He had travelled the wilds and slept outdoors in the past but with the luxury of knowing that a soft bed and a hot bath was only a wish walk away. Surviving in the wilds alone was a challenge, doing so and protecting the boy from capture was quite another.

  Night quickly turned to day. The low mist that had clung low to the valley floor had deepened and now blanketed all the low ground, the chill damp swelling Needle's old joints and adding to his pains. The stone he rested his face against was moonlight cold, encouragement enough for him to rise, stretch his limbs and relieve his tight bladder. To his right, Cloak lay asleep, his hood and blanket pulled tight over his head and shoulders, his body pressed backwards between two standing stones. Above the mist, the dawn chorus broke the silence of the high valley, the sky over the low silver fog filling with the songs of warblers and finches, their high pitched chirrups welcoming the first blush of the new day.

  As he walked passed the boy, Needle gently kicked the sole of Cloak’s boot. ‘Time to move boy. Fold up that comfort blanket of yours and stow it in the pannier. If you need to piss go now, we’ll eat breakfast as we walk and stop for supper when we reach the boulder wall. I would recon the Weaver and her troop can be no more than four hours behind us. Let’s pray Master Smoke is also somewhere on the trail to slow their passage.’

  Damp, cold and hungry Cloak bound his sore feet with a strip cut from the long edge of his blanket, tied his boots on tightly and rose gingerly to his feet. His stomach grumbled, as much from the lack of a good hot meal as from the tension in his guts brought on by the thought of yet another day of evading capture by his pursuers.

  ‘We’ll stay as low to the valley floor as we can without bogging down and use the mist to mask our passing. We don’t have much time, the sun will burn the mist back soon enough so let’s make haste before the effects of the mucus finally wear off. If we lead the mules until then we should if conditions permit be able to mount up near midmorning.’ Cloak nodded weakly. ‘Stout heart Cloak,’ said Needle cheerily. ‘Master Silverfly covers our back and until we are captured we always have a chance. Perhaps a story will cheer you? Oh yes, I’ll tell you a story, a very pertinent story, a story about wish walking.........my story.’

  Cloak frowned. 'Your story?'

  'Yes, and it’s a story that is particularly pertinent to you lad so listen well,’ scolded Needle lightly. ‘If the tell from beyond the veil of time is to be trusted then it’s likely your crest is to be a very special one, and lucky me,’ said Needle with humour, ‘the king has blessed me with the singular honour of being your tutor.’ The old man bowed towards Cloak, a flourish embellished with twists of the wrist and a mock salute. ‘I might be old lad and for now I might not able to demonstrate my talent but I do know one thing for sure, there are few if any in the crested world who can do what I do. Having a royal crest and some raw talent is only a start, but unless you have the capacity to learn, have the right temperament and a lot of dedication, your potential will stay locked up inside. Apart from signalling where your talents lie, your crest is also a measure of your capacity to draw majic. At first it’s almost an empty vessel, perhaps capable of drawing the lighter shades but as you fill it, the colours grow richer, and darker.

  Not all royal crests can call and cast deep colours. Indeed, there are some in the king’s court with splendid crests who can barely draw yellow. A great crest is worthless if it sits on the skull of a numpsy or a sluggard...........or both.’ The old man giggled and rubbed his hands together. ‘Do you know, I’m actually looking forward to this, I never expected to have a ‘prentice’ and now that I do there’s no point in wasting time. Why wander is silence when you could be listening and learning.’

  Despite his low spirits, Cloak could not help but smile at the old man’s heart felt enthusiasm. Wish walking was a thing of faerie stories, indeed, to call it a rare gift would be an exaggeration. If the old man spoke true and he could indeed call on old majic to travel the world, what an adventure that would be.

  With their spirits lifted the pair headed west, making good early progress as they made their way towards the Holdfast River. Careful to remain hidden in the mist, the old man chose a path close to the valley floor but as the sun crested the mountains and the first beams of warm morning light sliced into the mist it melted, the gloom quickly dissolving.

  As the last wisps of mist dissipated, Needle and Cloak sought the shelter of a small ridge, hiding up briefly to spy out the valley floor and northern range. ‘There,’ Cloak pointed, ‘above the shale field on the northern ridge. A column of one, two, three, four…………...ten, and a mule.’

  Needle let out a curse. ‘They must have camped for the night on the top of the second ridge. By my judgment the hunting pack is only half day behind and you can be sure that when they catch sigh of us it will raise their spirits and make them push on ever faster.

  Needle peered back down the valley but even with Cloaks guiding finger the old man could not make out the line of dots. ‘Ten you say, the same number we counted on the harbour wall as we sailed away from Mangler’s Oar. None culled,’ said Needle shocked, ‘that’s a disappointment for sure. Worse for us, the Weaver woman and her rut pack appear not to have been slowed. This is not what I had expected and with the mist now gone we will soon being spied.’

  ‘My vote Master Needle goes to mounting up and making hay. A hooded man could follow the trail we have left and if any of them that follow knows the land, they’ll already ken where we are headed for.’

  With their meagre stores secured on the third mule, Needle and Cloak mounted up. For the next two hours the mules trotted on, their hooves leaving a clear trail the soft mossy ground. The valley ahead continued to drop gently and although they found no track, the mules kept up a good pace as they made their way along the well worn game trails. Up ahead, the boggy land at the foot of the valley gave way to a series of reedy ponds which in turn fed into a wide shallow lake. Beyond, the lake, stood a wall of massive boulders.

  ‘Smoke said nothing about a lake, only that there was a track that led to a gap in the wall and that it was important to find it. If we have to spend time searching the far bank we’ll be exposed and likely lose more than just some precious time.’

  With the Weaver and her troop only hours behind, a growing sense of vulnerability flooded over Cloak, the sensation of being espied from afar raking on his verves. Digging his heels into the mule’s flanks Cloak pressed the beast into an ungainly trot. Outpacing Needle, Cloak did not look back as he carelessly splashed through the shallow waters of the lake shore. At first the growing distance between him and Master Cliff made him feel better but as the old man back fell out of sight the feeling quickly faded as the vast loneliness of the valley and its flanking cliffs overwhelmed him. The wall was further away than it appeared, the scale of the boulders making up the barrier truly massive.

  Cloak quickly dismounted and began an urgently search for the path, frantically climbing up and over the shoreline boulders stopping only when his path ahead was blocked by a series of giant rocks. With no way over or dry route around Cloak’ spirit wilted, the lad slumping down on a small boulder, his heart low. As he gazed out over the silvery waters of the lake Cloak prayed with true passion, closing his eyes and focussing his mind. From the book of God and King he chose the Prayer of Patience, Fortitude and Inner Calm, a long prayer with a brisk cadence and no repetition, if recited perfectly, the force of the prayer was said to pour into the supplicant’s soul, refreshing their spirit. As the last word left his lips Cloak gasped as his gift from god flooded his body, his spirit lifted and a calmness of mind washed over him.

 
; Overwhelmed, Cloak wiped the welling tears from his eyes as ahead of him the path he sought revealed itself. The wind had dropped, the last ripples dissipating to leave the damned lake flat, the mirror calm revealing before him a pale line of gravel, a swath cut through the flooded grasses. It was the path. Elated, Cloak ran back along the water’s edge to retrieve his mule, hopeful that Master Cliff had caught him up and awaited him there. To his horror, he was nowhere to be seen, the old man hidden from sight perhaps by some reedy bay. Cloak’s elation soon waned, time slowed and soon the waiting itself proved an agony. By his reckoning, the sun had passed midday before Needle finally caught up, his heartily wave and hale to Cloak irking him.

  Cloak urgently scanned the lake edge, his eyes hunting eastwards along the low valley, convinced in his own mind that the pursuing pack would soon appear on the near horizon.

  ‘Been waiting long?’ drawled Needle, his question a soft scolding. ‘You won’t see them and I doubt they have gained on us. Nevertheless no time to stand and stare boy, we’ll get a better view up the valley when we reach the top of the boulder wall.’ Needle’s voice was calm and reassuring. ‘I doubt they’ll make a rash attack.’

  ‘Why so?’ replied Cloak somewhat surprised.

  Needle tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘Think about it. The lady does not know who I am or that I am without a talent to call on. But, she has likely seen Smoke’s handiwork and if I was her, I would suspect that the old man charged with keeping a prize like you safe must have a high talent of worth?’

  The waters at the foot of the boulder wall varied in depth but never rose more than waist deep. Cloak led the line of mules whilst Needle kept close to the shore, the old man only stepping deeper into the water when forced to by some obstructing rock. The huge tumble of rocks that masked the point where the path entered the wall were each as large as a small cottage. Cloak disrobed and swam around, returning some minutes later with a broad smile creasing his face.