CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy)

by Russell Thomson

  Smoke once more meticulously ran his hands across the floor and walls, checking for carved glyphs and lines of power. There were none, and yet, for some unknown reason, they kept him in this room, milked his mind and then left him surrounded by darkness. Lying in the dark, his unanswered questions kept him awake............why hold the king’s messenger and why take the risk of interrogating him knowing that the king’s wrath would be merciless?

  Staff or no staff he could easily have killed the Questor, disarmed the sergeant and her two guards and escaped into the corridor, but he had not. The very thought had never entered his mind. His will had been neutered by the Questor’s honey and the power to resist it lay in his own hands, the power of High Prayer. Prayer was a powerful tool, majic yet not majic, a power that drew on god’s own vigour. Smoke prayed, prayed and prayed, his fingers cutting glyphs in the air as he silently chanted. Very few folk knew such prayers existed and fewer still had committed them to memory, ancient pleas, prayers that invoked the power to breach even the deepest majic. Such was god’s intent, prayer belonged to god and only god, the coloured majics wielded by folk was a product of the earth and would never dominate the sun, moon and stars where god’s colourless light lived forever.

  Despite its continuing seduction Smoke fought sleep, concentrating on prayer, repeating, perfecting his inflections and timing. He could do no more; it was the only weapon he had to hand. His hours of devotion invigorated his blood and sharpened his mind, banishing sleep and leaving him feeling alert. He had no idea how long it would be until his next interrogation. The fat turd and his lackeys had always entered whilst he slept, awoken him suddenly and blinded him with the light of the lamp. Smoke was determined that the next time they arrived he would not be asleep, the next time he would break the lamp, tear free of the majic and escape. He had to; lives more important than his were now at risk.

  Time passed slowly testing his resolution to the limit. Forgoing his pallet, Smoke chose to sleep with his back pressed against the door. At the faint sound of footfalls in the corridor beyond he rose quickly, crossed the blackness of cell and lay down on his pallet his eyes shaded. Just as before four folk entered, the last closing the cell door silently behind them. As the lead guard raised his arm to set the lamp in its holder Smoke rose lithely to his feet and with all his strength, drove the guard backwards, the man’s shoulder smashing the lamp and killing the light. Comfortable in the complete darkness Smoke ducked low and stepped sideways before stretching wide to grasp the steel tipped staff from the sergeant’s grip. In the blackness Smoke struck out, he needed no light, he had rehearsed and rehearsed, memorised every phase of his attack. The steel head of the staff moved through the air with impossible speed, his precise blow striking home. Steel struck bone; first the fat talent, then the two guards and finally the sergeant. Guided by their stumbling steps and moans Smoke’s second sequence of blows slammed home, the weighted tip splitting heads and cracking bones before the king’s assassin finally closed in to deliver a final silencing blow.

  The three guards lay in silence, all dead, the fat man unconscious but otherwise hale. Pressing his ear to the door Smoke waited some seconds before finally easing it open and letting the light from the corridor spill in. Free to flee Smoke chose instead to stay, the king’s assassin removing a lamp from the corridor wall before returning to the cell and closing the door. Now, it was his turn to ask some questions.

  ---

  Smoke stood over the inquisitor, the staff end pressed against his heart. ‘One whiff, do you understand me fat man, just one whiff of honey and the point of this shaft will appear out of your back. If you fart you better hope it smells of turd.’

  Ember Squall held his battered head with one hand and wiped away the blood streaming from his nose with the other, the soft fur decorating the sleeve of his robe already matted. ‘Kill me and this will be your grave master messenger.’ The portly inquisitor’s voice was calm and smooth. ‘The way to the surface is warded, a clever device designed to allow only me, the Master of Cold Choke to use the shaft.’ Ember wiped his face, inadvertently smearing blood across both cheeks. ‘We are deep, deep underground, the tower above the lake is merely the tip of the iceberg, the hidden levels that lie below plunge deep into the earth, caverns cut into the solid stone eons ago.

  Cold Choke, is not a name given to this cursed place by the crested folk, it’s Troll.’

  ‘Cold Choke was a nest!’

  ‘Not a nest, a prison, a prison from which no one leaves. Even those who now man the walls forfeit their live although they are unaware of it. Our king, his father and his father’s father have all used this place to hold and hide those out of favour. They knew what it was and they also knew what it could do to a man. Smoke sniffed the air. ‘The place stinks of old majic, some do not have the nose to sense it, but you do, I can see it on your face, the way you subconsciously frown each time you draw the scent into your lungs.

  Cold Choke is old beyond reckoning. It existed before the crested folk walked this land but was abandoned by the Troll shortly after they all went mad and lost control of their minds. This was a place they took their enemies, their traitors and their hostages, a place where time meant nothing because time was irrelevant. Speed it up, slow it down, turn it back. The only thing they could not do was go forward through the veil. It aged them, old majic does that to you, it takes a toll on your life to feed itself but most still give willingly. Our king gave willingly, he knew how to use time to his advantage.’ Ember Squall let his last the words hang.

  ‘Pish,’ replied Smoke ‘If that were true where’s the worm rock?’

  Ember made a dismissive gesture. ‘This is a chamber within a chamber. It was made by man and clad to mask its true form. The hidden surface below is indeed worm rock, its surface etched with glyphs. Whoever clad the rooms mapped the walls before they covered them over...............I keep the drawings in my study but can make nothing of the Troll script.’ The inquisitor tipped his head back and nipped his nose to stop the flow. ‘Time is a wonderful thing is it not Master Silverfly, it is both a gift and a curse. It can make you forget, it gives you time to remember, time to contemplate and time to turn you mad.’ The Questor rose to his feet and dusted down his robe. ‘How long do you think you were in this chamber? A year, six moons, four moons?’

  ‘Four moons,’ replied Smoke impatiently.

  ‘No Master Smoke, not four moons, not two or even one, you were in this cell for just over half a cycle.’ The Questor paused to let the impact of his words sink in. ‘As you slept, the time within the cell was manipulated. You healed as you did because time was slowed, not as you may have thought because of the petty power of prayer. Inside you may have aged half a year Master Silverfly but on the outside of this cell time only progressed half a moon’s cycle’. Ember Squall pointed over towards the heavy door. ‘During interrogations we slow time down, for each hour spent on the inside, only a handful of minutes pass on the outside. It makes good use of my valuable time and leaves the remainder of my day free to engage in other matters. When the door to the cell opens, time returns to its normal speed.’

  Smoke interjected impatiently. ‘You said you can turn back time?’

  The portly inquisitor tilted his head and smiled. ‘Yeeees…………’ the word was stretched, each letter lingering in the air, ‘but there are limits. Time cannot be turned back further than a moon cycle and you cannot change what has passed. If you have plans to step back in time, avoid your fall to the tarns edge or to save yourself, kill me and stop the message birds taking flight……….you cannot. What has happened has happened. The majic intervenes to stop such manipulations, deflect you and slow you down. Try too hard and it will kill you. This is the way the Troll designed it.’

  ‘But you could send me back in time…………a moon.’

  ‘I could. But why should I? You need me to turn back time and escort you to the gate, but at the same time you are also determined to steal back your secrets at any
cost and to achieve that you will have to silence me. Not surprisingly I want to stay alive...........but not in this place, not in this hateful trap of a place.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ said Smoke

  ‘You accept a lesser bond………….’

  Smoke’s clenched fist moved faster than light, smashing into the Questor’s jaw, jerking his head around and splitting open his lip. As he lay senseless on the floor, blood and spit ran from his mouth, staining his fine silk robe. Grabbing Ember under the chin, Smoke hauled the fat man into a sitting position. ‘Listen to me you blood fly, I’m a king’s man, I am no common man’s slave. As far as I’m concerned you can go pole your own hole till the moon falls from the sky you fat ball of shit…………….’

  Ember raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hear me out Master Smoke,’ he croaked. ‘A lesser bond does not challenge your freedom but it does offer me the protection I need from your blade…………and your fist. If you do not, it ends here. Me dead, you trapped, deep underground without the majic needed to lift the counterweight and no shadow to lurk in. How long do you think it will take until someone comes down to these depths again? Accept my offer and I’ll turn back time for a full moon. After that, we escape and both head our own ways. Do we have a bargain?’

  Smoke released his grip, wiping the bloody spit from his hand on Ember’s rich robe. His mind raced, time had been his enemy, now, it could quickly become his ally, a unique opportunity, a chance to right some wrongs and take up the chase to recover his stolen thoughts. ‘Yes,’ said Smoke reluctantly, ‘but I tell you this, the bond will not be pure, it will be conditional. If I get one whiff of honey you’re a dead man. If I find you have opened your mouth to tell a tale, you’re a dead man and if you cross me, you’ll wish you were a dead man.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ember wiping his bloody nose. ‘My blood still runs fresh so the sooner we start the better.’

  Smoke reluctantly offered up his bare left arm. Ember removed a short quill from the breast pocket of his jerkin and using his own blood as ink, scratched out the bonding glyphs on Smoke’s pale skin. His recitation of the bonding charm was clear and unhurried, the conditions demanded by Smoke precise and unambiguously phrased. When he was finished the king’s assassin hesitated momentarily before reluctantly accepting the obligations, the glyphs immediately burning into his skin as the commitment took hold.

  ‘Don’t look so despondent Master Silverfly, you’re not the first nor are you likely to be the last to suffer a bond. Much as it may sound odd, we have no time to waste so let’s be getting on with this. Time travel is not instant you know, it’s tiresome but not unpleasant, indeed, you’ll likely not sense anything other than boredom. It will take an hour to travel a moon but we will wait a time longer to be sure. When we leave the chamber your sight will be blurred, so will mine and we will have to wait in the corridor until it passes.’

  Ember walked out of the cell, opened the small door opposite and entered the room, Smoke close behind, the sergeant’s staff in his hand. Unlike his black clad cell this room was bare, its worm rock surface carved all over with fine glyphs. Ember selected three crossing lines, smearing the glyphs with his bloody finger before ushering Smoke back into the cell and closing the door.

  ‘We will not be disturbed, no one is permitted to enter the lower passage without my permission so we will be alone. Once we leave I will release the counterbalance and unlock the doors, then, we will take the platform up to the central hall on the ground floor and go into my office.’

  ‘What if you are there, or guards?’

  ‘The guard is posted beyond the hall and I can assure you I will not be there.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Replied Smoke gruffly

  ‘Because when time turns and we step out from the cell it will be midnight…………..it always is. Which Master Silverfly is fortunate for us as it means we will have five or more hours to make good our escape.’

  ‘Our escape?’ said Smoke. ‘Why you need to escape when you could just as easily walk out of the front gate?’

  Ember gave him an exasperated look. ‘What age do you think I am Master Smoke?’

  ‘I would place you somewhere beyond your sixtieth year.’

  ‘True, but not true. By the cycle of the moon I am only forty five years old. If I told you I have only been Master of Cold Choke for five years and in that time I have aged fifteen years,’ said Ember spitting out the last words, his voice full of bitterness. ‘Questors do not ‘volunteer’ to become master of this prison, we are prisoners, prisoners for life. I am a bonded man Master Smoke, bonded to the veined rock and until now, there has been no hope of reprieve. You see, if I stepped beyond Flick’s Pier or crossed the south cirque ridge, Cold Choke would hunt me out and draw me back and the further I travel, the more it exerts its pull. Now however, with your help, I can finally escape.’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ said Smoke.

  ‘On the contrary, it makes perfect sense. You see, the bond that holds me is a Troll bond and you my friend seem to have a knack for finding Troll.’

  Smoke shook his head. ‘You expect me to travel with you until we find a salient Troll to un-bond you? That’s madness.’

  ‘Not so, and whether you like it or not, you will comply.’

  At Ember’s words Smoke felt the glyphs on his arm flush as the power of the bond infused his blood. ‘You are a dead man inquisitor. Enjoy your hold over me while you can because God and King I’m going to make you wish you’d stayed here and died.’

  Ember released his pull on Smoke’s bond, his broad smile an ugly red toothed smirk. ‘I don’t fear death Master Silverfly. On the other hand, I do want to live a long life, one where I am free of this place, one where I do not have to spend each and every day questioning, torturing and interrogating. Believe me when I say Master Silverfly that my talent is more often a curse than a blessing.’

  ‘I feel for you,’ said Smoke sarcastically, ‘but I’d rather you stopped your whining before I make you stop.’

  The remainder of the hour passed in silence, as did the next quarter as their blurring sight eased. Smoke stripped the sergeant of her uniform, donning her trews, jacket and boots, all a better fit for Smoke light frame than those worn by the lumbering guards. The lift to the surface rose smoothly, the counterbalance and pulleys well oiled and silent. When they reached the surface Ember led the way down the last of the long hallway to an ornate glazed door. After changing his clothes and gathering a few desirables from his desk drawer, the Questor walked to the back of the room and drew aside the heavy twill wall hanging. The bare granite wall behind the drape appeared featureless but as the Inquisitor ran his finger up and along the narrow mortar joints, a small warded pass door appeared.

  ‘This passage leads to freedom. It runs north for over a mile and is a tight squeeze in some places………. at least for me it is. Time however is no longer our friend and unless we leave now we will not make the coastal ferry to Delta Crossing.’

  Smoke scowled, his hatred of the Questor and his bond causing him to grind his teeth.

  ‘Cheer up Master Assassin. Once we are safely aboard and plying east, and as a sign of good faith, I’ll tell you where your secrets now lie.’

  TWENTY TWO: GOOSE BEAM

  Star Light Willow lay on the bank of the river, her deathly grey complexion contrasting vivid with the scarlet blood that flowed freely from her missing finger. Her sodden clothes were spotted with dark blossoming stains as fresh blood pulsed from her ruined hand and ran down her arm. She had stopped breathing. Holly bent close, her mistress’s head on her lap, lips to her lips in an effort to kiss life back into her body. Minutes passed before she stirred, coughing, retching and screaming in pain. Fret had managed to staunch the flow and had bound the wound, tightly tying a thin leather lace above the third joint, the makeshift tourniquet twisted so tight it bit a groove deep into her mistress’s soft flesh.

  Goose stood guard as Ash and Holly numbed th
eir mistress’s pain and comforted her, drawing the Weaver into a tight embrace whilst wiping the blood from her skin and the tears from her eyes. As he stood helplessly by, Goose ground his teeth and fumed, his urge to kill and maim barely suppressed. The sergeant and her squad were still several hours behind, the boy and the old man possibly several hours ahead. So much time would be lost if pursuit was not maintained.

  ‘Goose?’ Star Light’s voice was surprisingly steady but contained an acid passionless edge. Goose stepped forward and lowered his head. ‘Stand tall soldier, I did not call you over to regale you, I need you.’ Goose raised his head, his expression unsmiling, his jaw clenched. ‘The thread of majic linking me to the boy has been wrenched from my body.’ The Weaver spat her words. ‘I don’t know how, but I suspect a rival majic bonded itself to my thread and dragged me down. When I tried to release my hold I found I could not as whoever cast that majic prevented me from letting go. The power was immense. It felt as if my finger would bore a hole through the very bed of the river all the way to the core of the earth. If you had not done what you did I would have died. Thank you Goose, I know you would have died trying if you could not have pulled me free.’ Star Willow gave her giant captain a weak smile, a rare and much cherished reward that helped eased his angst. As her smile faded, a frown furrowed her brow. ‘I have studied majic nearly all my life Goose, read every volume, script and scroll I could lay my hands on. Never have I heard of such a feat before, not even in legend. To pull a thread of majic through the earth and to wrench it from the body of the wielder is an awesome display of power. Only a colour tapped from near the core could achieve this.’

  Goose pondered a moment before responding. ‘The wrinkled old scribe is clearly not capable of such an act, he is only the king’s map maker and has no such power over majic. That leaves only two possibilities, either the boy has the ability to draw power or they have a new steward?’

  ‘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.’