CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  ‘Possibly,’ said Willow, ‘either way, I have new orders for you. Ash and Holly will accompany me to Red Clay Basin. We will continue down river on the raft and seek out a physician to better tend my wound. You will wait here until Sergeant Ivy and her squad arrive then pursue on foot. She can use her delicate nose and Nailhead her Corporal can scout ahead, the man has boundless energy, use his talent to spy ahead for you if you can. When you catch them, kill the old man and ham string the boy.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure mistress.’

  Star Willow’s expression hardened. ‘No Goose, it will not be your ‘pleasure’, I do not send you to take revenge. We have been engaged to capture the boy and take him to the Flight at Birdsong. This remains our mission Goose not an excuse for an act of reprisal. Best you remember who our master is and what he expects of us, spoil his hand and you will forfeit your life. Never forget that my captain.’

  Within the hour Ash and Holly had readied the raft. Star Willow had changed out of her wet and bloody clothes, her Weaver's green replaced with sombre hunting browns embroidered with a twining ivy motif, her short hooded cloak a rich amber colour edged with gold. Two hours shy of high sun Holly cast off, the warrior maiden pushing the raft out into the middle of the silver flow before pulling herself aboard. As the raft drifted southwards, Goose paced the bank, the captain frustrated by his mistress’s order to wait. His temper had turned foul again, his wrath focussed on the slow pace of Sergeant Ivy’s troop. By mid afternoon, Goose’s patience erupted, the captain of the guard knowingly disobeying his mistresses orders as he turned and loped down the trail. Five hours was too long to stand and wait and curse and spit. Waiting served no purpose other than to waste good daylight, time when he could be pursuing the little shit and the old prune. The sooner he caught them, the sooner he could skin the old man alive and cripple the boy, slice his crotch, knees and ankles, leave the brat to drag his useless legs behind him. Goose smiled to himself at the mental image, his mind dwelling on the pleasure it would bring him. The thought of dispensing such punishment cheered him, it was not his warrior way but on occasions he could not resist indulging in such small pleasures.

  The tracks he found at the ford were confused, some had been wiped clean whilst the ones heading east had been left in clear view. Suspecting a rouse, Goose cut himself a thick staff and waded across to the south bank, checking the trail for half a mile or more before returning to the east bank. More time had been lost. Why the old man and the boy had chosen to head east he did not know or care, perhaps they feared the flow or perhaps the mules baulked when their hooves sank into the bank side mud. It did not mater. Goose turned away from the river and set off down the eastward trail, the warrior captain pressing on at pace, his energy and stamina fuelled in part by his anger and hatred.

  The tracks left by the mules proved easy to follow, the old man and the boy choosing a route that hugged the edge of the high ground. When he came upon their first camp Goose stopped only briefly to sift the cold embers. It was clear from the easy gait of the mules that the pair travelled at a leisurely pace. Heartened, Goose continued on through the night and the next day without a break, stopping late in the afternoon, exhausted and footsore. Rising before dawn the warrior captain pressed on, his loping stride eating up the miles, stopping only when it became too dark to continue. He had passed a second camp site that day, the pit thoroughly doused but the embers below warm to the touch. He was closer, much closer, four hours or less, a time gap he would quickly close.

  By the time Goose reached the tree line and gazed down towards the edge of the delta it was raining hard, a sudden shower blurring the air and fogging his sight of the path ahead. Goose knew he was close, he had pressed hard all morning, jogging the last two leagues in an endeavour to close the distance. The land beyond was farmed, flocks of sheep and goats wandering aimlessly across rough open grazing and beyond that on the lower slopes close to the village, new sown fields of oats, greens and roots.

  The old man and the boy stood no more than six furlongs ahead. They had paused momentarily at a crossing of paths just outside the village, the pair deep in conversation before finally walking down the track that led to Jump Off. It was his first clear view of his quarry and with it came a rush of excitement, a pleasure at the thought of inflicting pain, a pleasure that his mistress had endeavoured to deny him. God and King be praised, the old man would soon be dead, his carcass skinned, the boy sliced, crippled and abused. Deep joy, deep joy indeed. It was clear that neither man or boy was capable of running, the boy appearing to limp heavily, whilst the old one fared little better, his gait stiff and his back bent. He cared little that both would be easy prey, the level of the challenge they offered mattered little............this day, all that mattered was revenge.

  Goose watched as the pair entered the village before cutting diagonally downhill over the open grazing, his long loping stride eating up the remaining distance. The sight of his prey had invigorated his blood, his mind now fully focussed on the task ahead. When the old man and the boy left the village in the company of another man Goosed followed at a discrete distance, cautiously stocking his prey, careful to keep his footfalls soft and silent. Less than half a mile from the village, the three finally stopped at a narrow jetty projecting out into a sea of black ebb tide mud. The boy inspected a small skiff moored close to the shore, bartering with the third man before finally shaking hands. The deal done the villager left, mules in tow and a small purse of coin in his pocket. The time to kill had come..................

  ---

  Needle stood aside as Cloak haggled, the fisherman finally grunting his agreement before spitting on his hand to seal the deal. The man swore profusely as he walked back to the village, the deal had been fair but he had expected more, Cloak’s hard bargaining skills coaxing a hand shake at just over half the original asking price. The deal had barely lightened Needle’s purse, the two mules plus two half silvers for the skiff plus a further half silver for a new sail, a coil of rope and two pair of oars. A pittance. Needle would have gladly avoided the wrangling and paid the full asking price but he did not say so to Cloak. The lad was pleased with his bargain, a small success that he would not spoil.

  Whilst the boy made ready the skiff, Needle walked the high tide line, gathering driftwood and dried rushes for a fire. The tide was nearing the end of the ebb, the water’s edge still some ten yards beyond the spindly jetty. Out on the newly exposed mud flocks of web footed waders and long shanked shore birds searched for buried worms, shrimps and crawlers, taking to the air in unison as if in response to some invisible threat. The skiff was aground in the black mud and would be for a few more hours. High tide would arrive at ten o’clock and the end of the next ebb two hours before dawn. They had decided to make camp for the night, sleeping in the skiff and protected from the weather by the sail rather than risk a crossing in the dark, the low cloud shielding the stars whilst the mizzle masked their way. They planned to rise early and leave the south shore as soon as the skiff rose from its bed of mud, using the pull of the tide and the westerly wind to push them high to the east before the waters of the delta turned again and drew them back west towards their chosen mark.

  Needle walked back along the upper shore, his arms full of sodden driftwood. As he walked, his eyes were drawn across the isle strewn delta to the far north shore. He did not relish such a long journey in such a small craft, relying on the skill of the boy to trim the sail and set a course, not to mention their need for a moderate west wind to push them forward and a healthy dose of luck with the timing of the tide. His young companion on the other hand relished the challenge.

  When Goose Beam stepped out from the shadow of the flanking copse, Needle froze. The huge warrior moved with frightening speed, grasping Needle’s arm in a vice like grip and forcing him to drop his driftwood bundle. With no time to protect himself, the captain’s first blow struck home, catching Needle square on the temple, stunning him and turning his legs to jelly. As Goose rele
ased his grip Needle fell in a heap, the captain of the guard dispensing brutal kicks to the old man’s head, ribs and groin as he lay helpless on the ground. Too stunned to cry a warning, Needle crawled on all fours towards the jetty, Goose following, the giant warrior sneering down at the old man before finally flipping him over onto back, bending down and lifting him clear of the ground. Gripped by the throat, Needle’s small limp frame looked more akin to a raggedy doll than a man, his legs and arms hanging limp, his body showing no signs of resistance. Satisfied, the giant warrior swung back his arm and threw the old man aside, his frail body flying through the air to land with a splash in a muddy pool near the edge of the wooden pier.

  Goose strode onto the jetty, his muscled shoulders as wide as the little structure. ‘I don’t propose to kill you boy but don’t let that fill you with hope. After I’ve finished with the old man I’ve a mind to inflict some pain on you. First you’ll watch as I peel the skin from his bony carcass then I’ll listen to you scream and beg as I blind you and cut off your fingers.’

  Cloak did not think to flee, his twisted ankle made it hard enough for him to walk no matter run, easy prey for the giant warrior. Although fighting appeared futile Cloak pulled the tiller free of the rudder stock and stepped cautiously up onto the jetty, waving the spar menacingly in front of him.

  Goose walked on slowly, his derisory laugh angering Cloak. ‘I’ll tell you what boy, I’ll give you one free shot. Take your spar and do your worst.’

  Cloak wished he had a sword, his guardian father’s sword, the imbued blade with the blue black honed edge. Draw the blade from its ruddy sheath, and slice the shit’s throat with a single blow, a stroke so fast it would appear only a blur, so fast that the dastards blood would not have time to stick to the blade then kick his corpse into the mud for the crabs to feed on. But he had no sword……………..all he had be given was a chance to strike the giant warrior with the tiller, a thin spar not much longer than his own arm, more likely to jar his arm or break in two than chip the warrior’s rock hard crest. Nevertheless, it was an opportunity he would take.

  Cloak stopped two paces away from Goose, the tiller firmly gripped in both hands. He had intended to strike for the neck but the width of the warrior’s shoulders and his height made such a strike a risky blow, easily deflected by his shoulder guards or bouncing high off his hardened crest. A blow to the smug dastards face, the chance to break his jaw or at least a bloody his nose would be his best option. Twisting his shoulders back, Cloak extended his right arm and swung the stock forward with all his might, his over vigorous effort forcing him to move his weight onto his front foot, his swollen ankle screaming with pain and causing him to wince.

  Goose stood unflinching as the tiller caught him a glancing blow across the upper arm and chest, guffawing loudly at Cloak’s pathetic attempt. Fuming with rage, Cloak felt his new crest crackle and flush hot. Regaining his balance, he prepared to swing again, hating the giant man’s power and fearing the fate that awaited him.

  As he aimed his second blow Cloak wished for a blade. His guardian father’s sword had been handed down from Sword to Sword, the Master of the Keep presenting the ceremonial blade to his chosen warrior champion. Odium Nail was the twenty third Sword of the Keep and from what he had been told, the best for several generations. Cloak had been charged with the care of the leather belt, buckles and sheath, he had drawn the blade several times, swinging the sword back and forward in mock battle. Had he been caught doing so he would have been beaten black and blue but despite the risk the temptation had been too much to resist. He knew the wards and words of power engraved on both faces of the blade by heart, he had even pronounced the words, his vain attempt to further empower the blade coming to naught.

  Cloak aimed a second blow, Goose raising an arm to block the stock. ‘One blow only boy.’

  His sentence was cut short as the flashing blade in Cloak’s hand sliced clean through the giant warriors forearm, parting his chest plate and opening his ribs, his heart exploding as the blade passed effortlessly through his body. Goose fell in a heap, silent and unmoving, a look of absolute shock on his dead eyes. Stunned, Cloak froze, Goose’s hot blood running freely down his own bloodless face. He had killed him, sliced open plate, chain, flesh and heart and had ended his life. Shocked, Cloak’s began to shake, his grip loosening as he spread his fingers wide, his weapon falling onto the timbers of the pier. The wooden tiller landed with a dull thud………the blade summoned by his heartfelt wish was gone.

  The felled warrior faced the sky, his blood and vital fluids oozing between the boards, his massive corpse, too heavy to move and too large to step over blocking access to the tiny pier. Cloak wept as he half carried, half dragged Needle’s limp body across the shoreline and through the knee deep mud, wrestling his body over the jetty edge before unceremoniously rolling the old man into the bottom of the skiff. As the tide turned and the sea began to weep grey water over the mudflats, Cloak unhitched the skiff and readied to sail. Slowly ever slowly, water flooded the hollows and filled the channels, reed clad knolls became islands once again and the barnacle clad timbers of the jetty began to disappear below the surface. As the mud released its viscous grip on the hull Cloak poled the skiff clear of the jetty and out into the darkness. Once into deeper water Cloak raised a reefed sail. He could see little ahead but he knew the risk; barging into a reed walled islet, getting stuck on a sandbank or running into a narrowing channel none fatal and mostly cured by the flood of the tide.

  Far off to the north west he could just see the lights of Delta Crossing, faint flickering dots, familiar but no longer compelling. He could not go home, he knew this now. Delta Crossing was his home no more, t hat home belonged to his past, to his childhood and to a boy called Cloak. He would choose a new name for himself, his crest name.................his half crest name. He would choose a name with more than one meaning, a name from the sea perhaps, a name both purposeful and relentless.

  TWENTY THREE: Return to Delta Crossing

  Armed with a single torch Ember led the way. The air in the tunnel was stale, the atmosphere dank. The sloping floor was slippery, its smooth surface coated with a film of green slime and the walls were laced with trailing webs that burnt with a fizz when the flickering flame of Ember’s torch touched them.

  The mile felt like two but as they exited the far end of the tunnel, it was clear from the sky above that the moon still remained high in the sky and that dawn was still some hours away. The main road stood less than a quarter of a mile to the east, a smooth ribbon of grey clearly illuminated by the moon. They passed no one on their walk, easily reaching the outskirts of Flick’s Pier before the first cock had crowed.

  The tide was nearing its height as the dawn ferry to Delta Crossing weighed anchor and set sail for the delta port. Ember had remained out of sight as Smoke purchased passage, the Questor remaining hooded until safely within his cramped cabin. The crossing was expected to be swift, the brisk south westerly filling the sails and pushing the craft along at a brisk rate of knots. After a breakfast of hot porridge with dried berries and a kettle of tea, Ember settled down to sleep, the soft roll of the ship causing his hammock to sway gently.

  ‘A moment,’ said Smoke ‘Your bond fouls my blood and your motives are questionable but much as it irks me, I have a plan that will help us both. However,’ stressed Smoke, ‘bond holder or not, when we reach Delta Crossing you will have to obey me if you want to stay alive.’

  Ember lay silent for a moment, his eyes closed. ‘I can read your mind assassin. You want to save the boy and are working on a plan to circumvent the strictures of time travel. All I will say is that if it was that easy to do it would have been done.’

  Smoke bristled. ‘Do you deny me the opportunity to try?’

  ‘……………….No,’ replied Ember hesitantly. ‘Like you I have a few things I wish to achieve before our ways part. There’s no rush, by my reckoning we’ll have a few days to spare before we need to press on west.�
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  ‘West’ said Smoke frowning, ‘why west?’

  ‘Surely you’re not that dim Smoke?’ replied Ember with a wan smile. ‘To rendezvous with Shiver Cauldron of course.’

  Pulling his rag blanket high over his head, Ember rolled onto his side and feigned sleep. His talent as a Questor was not unique, or so he had always led others to believe. He had a pure inquisitors crown and was a master of his art but so too were many others across the land, men and women with equally well formed high crests and opinions of themselves to match. He cared little that his kind were viewed as relentless and pitiless, indeed, such traits were a source of pride, a virtue assiduously cultivated by his guild. Outwardly he appeared to conform to these norms, but in reality he was an exception. A master at extracting secrets, he was also skilled at keeping secrets; his own secrets. He had told no one of the hidden talents he possessed, not ever under examination by the Inner Council, the august body taken in by his consummate act. He had searched the great libraries and archives, read the definitive texts and scoured the sacred tomes, all agreed; concealing the scent of majic and masking its colour was impossible......but it was not.

  All Questors knew of Cold Choke yet despite the high office, few submitted themselves for consideration as Master of his majesty’s most reviled prison. Appointed by the King’s Inner Council, Ember had been fully aware that the position would condemn him, incarcerate him within the black walls of the institution and damn him to a sentence without resort to parole. The Inner Council trusted him and his willingness to volunteer when others shied away was roundly applauded, their favour and good opinion of him bolstered by his scentless and colourless talent. His appointment was of course no accident, his placement in Cold Choke carefully planned. Where better to serve his true master than from within the king's own asylum, home to traitors and other enemies of the crown and sanctuary of their deepest secrets.