CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

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  Less than a league upstream the silver waters of the Holdfast river flowed by, long deep pools with high undercut bank and broad shallow riffles where the canopy opened up to reveal a clear sky. Holly Moss and Ash Fret made good time as they propelled the little craft silently down the river. Although the raft had been hastily made, it was stable and sat comfortably above the surface of the water. Lady Star Light Willow sat cross legged near the front of the raft, awake, her eyes shut, her mind in silent prayer. She smiled inwardly, sensing the shortening of her thread, knowing that the old man and the boy now lay only a few miles ahead.

  Tagged quarry often revealed secrets, not knowing that their exact route could be traced, every hide hole and every house or hovel marked, collaborators could be captured or tagged for later. Those, she trailed never evaded her, she was amongst an elite, a sect of five, commissioned not just for their individual high talent but their resilience and tenacity. Soon she would be able to return home to the Sea Tears Citadel high on the cliffs above the White Sea but first she must take her quarry to her master’s lair within the Citadel of Birdsong.

  Behind the diminutive Weaver stood the giant form of Goose Beam, her Captain of the Guard, faithful to death and ever watchful. Bonded and charmed, Goose never slept, remaining ever vigilant, his life gifted to his mistress. Where Ash and Holly were lightning quick, Goose was powerful and resilient, a warrior blessed with a natural high talent with blade, axe and fist. He too was fast, quick on his feet, quick with his fists and difficult to fell.

  Goose loved his mistress. She was beautiful, talented, fearless and powerful. Her majic bore the sweet scent of autumn apples and he would gladly pluck his beating heart from his chest should she command it of him. He wished he was not blind to her majic, wished that he could see with his own eyes the threads that she tapped from the earth and let loose from her delicate fingers. Majic was her weapon, once hooked never released.

  The boy they sought would be captured soon, a great prize for which they would receive a great reward. For Goose, the end of the mission was a time of melancholy, an ending that meant an end to the time he could spend in her close company, loving her, protecting her. He did not fawn but she knew his heart. Goose did not envy Ash and Holly, the pair were more than Mistress Willow’s inner guards, the tall feline maiden warriors provided his mistress with personal comforts that he would never be permitted to partake in. He was not a mate she sought to bed.

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  Shiver Cauldron locked his thread of white to the weaver’s hair of masked green, his own majic stream quickly following her thread down into the earth and back to the source. Satisfied with his hold, Shiver Cauldron pulled effortlessly on the thread, ripping it out of the ground whilst at the same time pulling it away from the boy's foot. Caught unaware, Cloak had no time to scream as the thread pulled free, his body convulsing as seizure after seizure contorted his frame.

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  Swift though he was Goose was too slow to prevent his mistress plunging headfirst from the raft and into the river. Ignoring his heavy armour the captain of the guard jumped into the ice cold flow. Although the waters stood chest deep, the giant warrior stood fast, easily holding himself steady against the press of the current. Diving headlong below the surface, two powerful strokes pulled him to within an arm’s reach of his drowning mistress. Star Light Willow had sunk like a stone, her right arm outstretched, her hand seemingly weighted and bound to the pebbles on the river bed. Goose rose for breath before diving below the surface once more. Stretching out the giant warrior wrapped a long muscular arm around his mistress’s waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of her padded jerkin. Expecting his mistress’s body to rise with him Goose raised himself upright once more. He had had expected to lift her clear of the water as easily as a child, hold her close and carry her ashore. Goose pulled.

  When his grip resulted in nothing more than a large handful of satin and wool the captain of the guard plunged under again. Determined to succeed Goose gripped his mistress firmly around her slim waist with one arm whilst his other clutched her intimately across her chest. With his fingers gripping flesh and jerkin alike and carless of the bruising he might cause the giant warrior hauled with all his might.

  Gasping for breath Goose tumbled backwards as Star Light Willow’s body tore free, a release so sudden that it felt as if some hidden restraints had been cut. Cradling his mistress in his arms the giant warrior carried her ashore, unmoving, fresh blood flowing freely from her hand. The flesh on the index finger of her right hand was gone, torn off up to the second joint, the white of the bare bone left sticking out like a scribe’s quill, her blood flowing from the tip of the bone like scarlet ink.

  As Ash and Holly tended to Star Willow’s wound, Goose stepped aside and knelt in prayer near the river bank. He had saved her and maimed her. An alien majic had played a part in this for sure, someone had cast a hex on his lady’s majic and that someone would pay for this felony. The part crest boy and the wrinkled old man had played some a part in this misdeed, of that he was sure. The pair would be tracked down, hunted without mercy and maimed. High prize or not, they would suffer searing wounds, retribution tenfold and more, their pain unfolding over a full moon cycle.

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  Cloak awoke to daylight, a day of warm sunshine and flickering shadows, the scent of trees and the sound of bird song. His throat was parched, his right foot was on fire and his head felt as if it had been split open, cloven in two and doused with belly bile. His arms flopped loosely over the side of a mule, his body secured with cross straps to the mule’s girth. Bound as he was, the memory of his last such journey and the beatings he received at the fist and foot of Echo Grave filled his mind, the memories filing him with anxiety. Cloak swallowed hard as a wave of nausea coursed through his body from gut to gullet but could not hold back the second swell, letting loose a flood of sticky yellow puke that clung tenaciously to the mule’s hide.

  ‘Awake boy? Bless and give thanks to our God and King.’ Needle’s voice was soft and full of relief. ‘I thought that damned Troll had done for you…………..nearly two days limp as a corpse, I thought you were doomed. I had nearly convinced myself that you’d die or at best end up spending your days drooling like a dockside loon. You worried me sick son.’ Needle turned the mules off the trail, hitched them loosely to the branch of a small oak and hurried back round to loosen Cloak’s straps. ‘Here, let me help you down.’

  Still barely conscious, the boy slid awkwardly from the mule. Unable to bear Cloak’s weight, Needle’s legs collapsed beneath him, the old man dropping the boy unceremoniously to the ground. Cloak fell awkwardly, his left leg twisting un-naturally under his body, the pain causing him to cry out. Apologising profusely Needle cradled Cloak in his arms, cursing himself and his own physical weakness.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, so sorry. Forgive me. I’ve nearly burst my heart ten times over lifting you and lowering you on and off that damned mule and never dropped you once. Are you hurt?’

  ‘If I was not hurt before, I am now,’ said Cloak. ‘I think the fall tore my ankle.’

  Needle proffered Cloak a thin skin of water. ‘Sip first, don’t gulp. You’ve had naught for over two days, too much too quick and it’ll likely be back up quicker than it went down.’

  Cloak nodded weakly, swilling and spitting the first two mouthfuls in an effort to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. His throat hurt as he swallowed but the warm water was both soothing and sweet and brought relief enough for him to talk.

  ‘Master Needle, my head’s splitting with pain, my foot is throbbing, my guts are mince and my ankle has already started to swell. Do you have any poppy or white willow, one or both.’

  ‘I’m sure Master Smoke’s saddlebag will hold some cure.’ said Needle rummaging through Smoke’s panniers. ‘Here we are, you have a choice; a tincture of white willow bark, bitter as your bile but effective none the less Spank Beetle…………’

  ‘Willow Bark,’ sa
id Cloak quickly. ‘Spank brings back bad memories. It’s what Grave gave me to keep me from resisting.’ Needle gave Cloak an understanding nod.

  Removing the stopper from the clear bottle, the old man sniffed the contents before pouring a few drops into a small beaker and filling it with water. Needle had been right, the medicine was indeed bitter, its passing scorching his already raw throat as it went down. As the tincture reached his stomach, Cloak felt his belly heave but hold. After another few mouthfuls of water his innards settled down as slowly, too slowly, the willow dulled his pain. Relieved of his aches, Cloak closed his eyes and fell asleep, awaking many hours later to find himself wrapped tight in a blanket staring up into a clear night sky. High above, the stars that made up the Spears of the Three Knights twinkled brightly just as they had nearly half a moon ago. Memories of the Trolls Midden, his beatings and the violation of his mother guardian flooded his mind twisting tears from Cloak’s rheumy eyes.

  ‘Master Needle?’ said Cloak.

  A soft shuffling footfall approached. ‘Here I am lad. Sorry to leave you out in the open but I did not want to wake you from your slumber. I’ve stowed the mules and the packs up yonder under a young star tree, its canopy softens the wind but not much more. At times like this I wish I was a common clan woodsman or trapper, at least then I’d be able to provide better for you out here in the woods. Are you well enough to rise.’

  ‘Better, yes. Hungry and thirsty and of course, curious. What happened and where are we?’

  Needle sighed. ‘Where to start,’ said the old man. ‘Do you recall Shiver Cauldron pulling the thread?’ Cloak nodded. ‘You fell unconscious, your body twitching like a sting puppet. He told me your stench had almost prevented him from completing his task but that the thread was razed and that the witch bitch posed no threat to us now. Then he said that you were correct, that neither the cycle of the moon nor the far horizon was a barrier to his sight. That you are unique, a lodestone that you would attract and repel in equal measure and that ultimately you would prevail over the fate of kings.’

  Cloak’s weak smile cracked his lip ‘He sounds like Barebranch. Words that mean something and nothing. False gold and as cryptic as they are unfathomable.’

  ‘Indeed, how true,’ said Needle. ‘However, that’s not what nips my head. What I want to know is how he managed to find us in the first place? We’re more than fifteen leagues south of Flick’s Pier, yet, he found us out here in the wilds. He either used majic and far travelled, in which case there is an undiscovered midden nearby or, presuming he did not swim or take a ferry, he ran, spied us out and tracked us!’

  ‘There is another answer,’ said Cloak. ‘He knew exactly where we would be because he looked beyond the veil of time.’

  ‘Possibly, telling is a powerful weapon and if he has, he probably knows our next steps better than we do.’

  ‘Do you think he knows where Master Smoke is?’ asked Cloak, concern in his voice.

  ‘It’s possible. Unfortunately it’s a question I did not think to ask him. However, trust me when I say that Master Smoke is the ultimate survivor.’

  Smoke’s fate was a worry, killing Needle’s appetite for further talk. The old man and the boy sat in silence for some time before the hush of the forest eventually lulled them both to sleep. When Cloak next awoke, night had barely given way to dawn, the dew of daybreak beading on grass and blanket alike. Cloak felt as weak as a baby but otherwise hale, his only pain, a steady hot throb from his now swollen ankle. As Cloak sat helplessly on his blanket, Needle gathered kindling, struck a fire, and fetched water, filing the empty skins at a nearby stream. With a pan on the boil the old man stirred in the last of the porridge and peas, seasoning it heavily with salt and pepper before stirring in a handful of wild mint. Cloak scraped his bowl clean and laid it aside accepting a fortifying cup of Scout Tea, the last of the pungent leaves filched from Smoke’s saddlebag.

  ‘Well young Cloak,’ said Needle. ‘Our Troll has turned us from our chosen path and sent us east. I’ve stuck to the main way and where the choice was not clear I’ve chosen the high path. I can only guess how far we’ve travelled, I walked and rode through the first night and the next morning until the frog mucus wore off then slept until mid afternoon. After that, I pressed on well into the dark, stopping only to rest and graze the mules. If I was to guess, I’d say we stand two thirds of the way between the Holdfast and the Delta.’

  Cloak interrupted his voice full of boyish enthusiasm. ‘If your right, this bearing will bring us out somewhere on the southern marshes of the Delta. If we’re lucky we could end up near to the ferry station at Jump Off.’

  Needle raised a silencing hand. ‘I know lad and I can here in your voice how keen you are to stand on familiar ground but unfortunately the southern Delta is too close to your home for comfort. I’d be amazed if the Delta was not still being watched and it just needs one person to spy you and we’d soon find a new pack on our tail. That’s why I think we should cut south and head for the Rains. If we can’t pick up a barge there then at least we could make good progress on the tow path. There’s a string of hamlets along the route of the Great East Canal where we could find an inn, maybe even buy a pair of cobs and get shy of these damned mules.’

  Deeply disappointed at the old man’s decision Cloak frowned. ‘Master Needle, I apologise for any disrespect but I don’t agree. This may sound odd but I trust Shiver Cauldron. He has his own reasons to keep me safe and no doubt his master has some veiled scheme, but,’ Cloak paused. ‘I truly believe he sent us east because he wants to keep me out of the hands of those who would imprison me or who wish to barter me for selfish power. The mud flats and the channels of the delta are my home, there’s food, shelter and hides a plenty all along the shore.....…you said yourself that you’re no trapper and can’t provide in the wilds. In the delta, you won’t need to, I can do that. I say we should press on until fate steps from the shadows again.’

  Needle pondered the boy’s logic knowing that either choice concealed potential dangers. The great game had been disrupted, new ambitions would stretch old alliances, hidden factions would seek to manipulate and influence from the shadows, conspiracy and trickery would replace trust and honour. He was not a man to second guess fate, the boy had used logic and deserved a hand in choosing his own path, that, and chance to survive. ‘East it is.’

  He had made his choice and in doing so had placed their fate and possibly that of the crested folk into the hands of a part crowned boy who until a moon ago had never travelled beyond the delta flats. In that short time he had been chased, abducted, beaten and imprisoned, his childhood lost and his world turned upside down. His guardian mother had revealed herself to be his sworn defender and a child of the royal line, then kidnapped and taken south against her will and as for Cloak, his link to the royal line has been all but confirmed, and now, surprise on surprise a Troll has hailed him kin.

  Musing on what the next moon had in store for them the old wish walker sighed deeply. Robbed of his walking talent, he was just a scribe, a defenceless old man without any craft for trailing or hunting. God and King, he was a poor excuse for a guardian. If fate had removed his ability to wish walk, surely it was for a reason, he could not believe that his role was solely to bumble along. The journey east to Thankless Bastion would take close to two moons and more. From the time he left his cell deep in the heart of the No Marrow Smoke had taken the lead, the king’s assassin had driven him on, trailed the dastard Echo Grave and slit a dozen throats to rescue the boy. Now he was on his own. Was his journey to Thankless Bastion what it appeared, a journey to restore his own majic or had it a hidden purpose, a goal linked directly to the boy?

  With the mules packed and strapped, Needle helped Cloak up into his saddle, the boy wincing noticeably as he place weight on his injured leg. The pair continued on their way east, stopping for a brief rest just past midday. As they rode, niggling thoughts formed the back of Needle’s mind and murmured in his ear. How many more mu
st suffer and die, foes and friends perishing as they sought to grasp or protect the boy? The Troll of No Marrow, the guard’s at Hinge’s Keep, dead, all dead. The Teller, maimed and the boy’s own mother guardian Dolly Chair, raped and kidnapped. Would all who played out their role meet such a fate? And what of Smoke, the king’s own assassin, what of him? Where was the king’s assassin, the man of shadow? Slain? Needle prayed not. Who would be next to perish? The Troll was a puzzle, he was clearly skilled in old majic, his hide was a testament to that, tattooed and near black with blood glyphs. He had majics to call on at will, he was a far walker and a teller, each on their own a rare and powerful talent. Indeed, in the lands of the Crested Folk, such a combination would make him a high royal, perhaps even a king.

  As they walked on, Needle considered his own fate, pondering in particular on what meaningful contribution he could now make? Stripped of his talent it was clearly not the one his king had originally planned. So, if he could not wish walk the boy to safety then perhaps the this journey was indeed the boy’s true path. Reluctant though he had been at first, he was now committed to following the directions given by the Troll. Shiver Cauldron had turned them east, a route that would not only take the boy close to his own childhood home but would also point them towards his own loadstone, east beyond the great plains to the Bastion of Thankless. He could not help but see his destination as both selfish and self-serving, an opportunity for him to return to the temple deep below the ground and make his own talent latent once more. Nevertheless, such a journey would lead them out across sparsely populated lands, would hide them from prying eyes and would allow him to school the boy.

  As mid afternoon approached the sky above the canopy darkened, the rising westerly wind dragging with it long low clouds and the threat of rain. As they crested the next rise it was clear that the forest was beginning to thin, the occasional signs of felled lumber soon giving way to patches of open ground. Before the next mile was out, the forest had given way completely, the trees replaced by open heath and scrubby grazing. From the heath edge the pair gazed northeast, there, no more than three miles away and some five hundred feet below lay the broad delta, its surface pox marked with numerous isles and islets whilst in the distance, barely discernible on the far shore, sat the smoky shadow of Delta Crossing.