In the depth of the crowd, One Button wept silently, the only outward sign of grief the lines of streaming tears. Barebranch had given himself to the tell, a sacrifice that he knew would ensure Cloak’s fate was given a fair wind. As the Sword climbed the steps, One Button walked head bowed away from the plinth, pressing un-noticed through the crush, out past the last of the baying crowd and out of the square. The avenue that led down towards the Academy Gate was deserted, so to the narrow lane they called the Prefect’s Glebe. Flanked by the ivy clad outer wall of the academy to the left and the rear wall of the Masters Lodge to the right, the Glebe was no more than six feet wide, well worn and in perpetual shadow. Access to the lane was restricted, a privileged shortcut for master's and prefects that bypassed the common school yard.
At the end of the Prefect's Glebe the lane curved sharply left before coming to an abrupt halt at the base of the Low Masters Tower. The tower was ancient, the rough stone walls with its arrow slit windows choked with dense black green ivy. Built on the site of the original keep, the academy had several such towers but unlike the others, the tower that had once guarded the northern approach lay derelict, its large fortified doors replaced many years ago with a smaller pass gate.
The lock on the tower gate proved no test, the levers rising and falling easily to Button’s probe. Swiftly moving around the side of the tower, Button entered the detention area known as the Prefect’s Confine. The ill lit corridor that led to the cells was spotlessly clean, it smelt like a bleaching field but despite the powerful cleanser, the confined space still smelt of pipe smoke and piss. The short corridor held five braced and bolted doors, all but one ajar. Button stopped outside the only closed door and with both hands, drew back the large iron bolt of the cell.
‘Cloak, come, you are in terrible danger.’ Button’s voice trembled. ‘Grave is looking for you. We have to leave now. Follow me.’
Button turned and hastily left the tiny cell not waiting to see if Cloak followed. The air outside smelled sweet, the light breeze blowing away the overpowering smell of the cell and the bleached corridor. Behind, Cloak cautiously left the cell, halting at the end of the open corridor.
‘Follow you? Why would I follow you……….your nothing but trouble. Why did you not just leave on the good ship Spray Horse and use your talent to fleece the innocent folk of Goosey? As for me, I’m staying here. If I abscond from detention without the Master's leave I’ll be expelled............anyway, my guardian father will protect me from Grave, he will lay him out and arrest him, take him to the keep and place him in a guarded cell.’
Button turned and spat, dismissing Cloak’s comments with a vulgar hand gesture. ‘You’re a mule’s hole Cloak. Even if your father guardian detained Grave, what grounds would he cite to the Lord of the Keep that would support his confinement? It’s not likely it will be on the grounds that a Teller and his Shill told you off his obsession or intent. I think not. Such an admission would shame your father guardian and likely get you the stocks and the birch for an act against the teachings of the temple. Oh, and did I mention the long term in prison and the banishment likely to be handed down to me.’ Cloak held his ground. ‘Suit yourself you stupid sack of sour stour,’ snapped One Button, ‘you’ve been warned. This will likely be the last time you’ll see me, once I’ve picked up my belongings from the lodgings I’ll make myself scarce, lie low and buy passage on the next a coaster west’. Button strode off angrily towards the Low Masters Gate, scowling, brows furrowed and fists clenched. ‘Last chance mule hole, tomorrow, at the end of the low harbour, two hours before high water.’
Retracting the latch on the Low Tower gate, Button cautiously scanned the Prefect’s Glebe before quickly following the short route back along to the main Academy Gate. There was no more to be done, the die had been cast and Barebranch was the first player to fall. His tell had given him sight of the boy’s future but for reasons unknown he had not told all, holding back and revealing little. Whether this telling was a vision of the true path, a life viewed in parable or just a prophecy of consequence, only Barebranch knew. For now, the boy’s full fate had yet to be spoken aloud and therefore still lay very much in God’s hands.
---
Cloak returned to the Prefect’s Confine and re-entered his cell. As he pulled the door shut behind him, the dark embraced him. It did not worry him that he could not engage the iron bolt on the outer face of his cell door, the wood of the door was warped and swollen and the leading edge dragged hard against the frame, binding the old door firmly in place. Finding the tower gate closed fast and there intern still within his cell, the prefects would likely suspect the error with the bolt was their own, their rush to see the tellers fate making them careless, an error which by mutual consent they would silently agree to forget.
The toll of the school bell heralded the sound of the students return to the academy but to his dismay it was some time before the door to his cell finally opened. Flanked once more by two prefects, Cloak was quickly marched to the Master of the Academy’s plush chamber. Lectured and soundly berated, Cloak cursed silently as he left the master’s room. He had hoped to receive a birching at assembly, a quick harsh punishment that would be over before prayers. What awaited him was much worse, the composition of an essay on ‘self control from acts of vulgar behaviour’, an essay of a thousand words to be recited before the assembly the following morn. Cloak sighed aloud, his decision to stay in the Prefect’s Confines had seemed a sound choice at the time but now, he was not so sure. Perhaps One Button was right, perhaps he was indeed a stupid sack of stour.
SIX: First Brother, Younger Brother
Their close guards and courtiers dismissed, Sharp Thunder Moon, Lord of the Northern Lands and Soar Hot Hawk, King of the Crested Lands re-entered the Chamber of the Elders. As the doors of the chamber closed behind them, king and prince stepped forward into the column of lacy light and faced Boulder Spine. Sharp spoke first, his Troll fluid and gritty, the Lord of the Northern Lands clearly articulating the throat crushing vowels and wet guttural barks. When he had finished, a long uncomfortable silence filled the chamber. A minute passed and then another, two that felt like ten, tension dampening the old king’s brow and palms, a cold clammy sweat that beaded on the skin despite the warmth of the deep nest. When Boulder Spine finally broke the silence his expression turned grave.
‘King dog, you suggest that this pup is a portent, a weapon fed and forged by core majic.'
'I do,' replied King Soar, his Troll passable. 'The lad bears three small scars on his head and one other that extends for the full length of his spine. He is a child of high royal blood, and like his forefathers, he was destined to not only grow a high royal crest but also foster a talent for drawing dark shades. I do not know what corrupt sorcery they have carved on his bones but I believe they have imbued him for a singular purpose. What this purpose is we do not know as his future has been masked, his presence hidden in the mist beyond the veil. I believe the witchery used on the lad’s skull has changed his crest and the spell carved on his spine, his ability to delve. If I am right, the south have created a unique, a being beyond the power of kings who can delve to the core.’
'If you are right old dog and the boy was bathed in core majic for three score and ten years, it will have saturated his very soul,’ replied Boulder Spine.
The old king nodded. 'Yes, but he remains for now an innocent child, a moonhead without talent and unable to tap majic at will. However, when the lad crests, that will change, the world will tremble, others will sense his presence and when they do, men of power will reach out and try to grasp him,’ said King Soar sadly. ‘It grieves me to say it but wherever he goes, war rides before him.’
Boulder Spine grunted and gave a curt nod. ‘…………'War rides before him, pestilence and famine follow in his steps and all who oppose him will be wiped from the face of the earth until none remain. Death will be a mercy’…………...’ Spittle dripped from Boulder Spine’s tusks, thoughts of war and
bloodied flesh heating his blood.
‘Those words sound ominously like a quotation?’ said Sharp
‘They are words of scripture pet dog, the words of the stone god. It is from a passage called Troll Doom, the final prayer of the last Troll…………………..may the god of the rock protect us.’
Boulder Spine raised his head and roared, a tribute to his god, his council responding one by one, the cacophony echoing around the walls for what felt like several minutes. When the roars died Boulder Spine spoke once more his attention now focussed on Soar. ‘This is the deepest chamber in my nest, it sits many levels below the main warren, close to the heart of the rock. It is a very special place, a place blessed by our god. It is set on a fault in the stone where the cracks in the rock allow white to freely wash the chamber. In this room the rock god permits my shaman to call on the power of the core. Chambers such as this only exist in the deepest most ancient nests................but there are others, deeper chambers, ancient places where the rock is hot and white majic flows in streams. The Troll of ancient times were powerful and sane, walking the land from ice to ice and sea to sea in a time before the blood madness devoured our senses. Powerful as these fathers of fathers were, even they could not master such flows,’ Boulder Spine turned his head and stared at a movement in the shadows. ‘What say you first brother?’
From the darkness close to the doors of the chamber a huge Troll stepped from the shadows, his dappled form appearing to detach itself from the illuminating flora of the wall. The Troll was blind in one eye, his face heavily scarred. Tattoos covered his muscled form, wards, spells and charms inked onto every inch of his hide their pattern enhancing his mottled appearance. Around his neck hung a ring of iron, a crude necklace from which hung a dagger, the long slim blade blue with imbued majic
‘Younger brother.........’ replied the one eyed Troll, ‘summoning the white is as deadly to a Southlander as it is to the crested folk. None who have ever attempted to draw on it lived to pass on their knowledge, all died, turned to dust as the power devoured them. Deep red, blue and purple are the highest majics of the crested dogs as it is of the southlanders. It is the deepest their high talents can master but the darker the colour the more static the majic, the colours drawn up from deep locked fast into lines of power. To draw white in a broad stream requires a chamber near the earth’s very heart. Had such a room lain within this nest it would sit a thousand steps and more closer to the core.’
‘What is it you suspect first brother?’ replied Boulder Spine.
‘Younger brother, it has been many, many generations since the Troll nested south of the Blue Cut. This we know. The Southland fortress called Thunderous Spires was never a nest, the rock there is dead and cannot hear. The old dog king mistakes this tale for truth. Such a chamber cannot exist...............’
The old king held the Troll’s icy gaze. ‘No Master Troll, you just hesitate to say the words out loud,’ said Soar. ‘We both know it matters little if the wards are set near the core or on the surface. All that is required is the power to master core majic. The Troll have long thought their ability to tap the core was unique,’ said the old king. ‘On the surface of the earth your folk can summon fine threads of white majic but to wield your most powerful majics you need to be deep below ground where you can call on the broad seams that flow through the worm rock.’
The scar faced Troll paused momentarily as if awaiting a sign to continue from his brother bull. ‘You are correct old dog. The mastery of time used to hold the boy required more than the use of a mere thread, it requires a constant stream. In the dark depth of the earth, such streams course through the fissures in the rock but close to the surface, the majic frays into threads as it seeks its freedom in the air. It is true that on the surface of the earth no Troll however powerful could capture and hold enough writhing threads to wield such a spell. It is also truth that neither your folk nor those of the south can command white majic’ said the Troll firmly.
Soar smiled. ‘It has long been assumed that the dogs from the south are incapable of capturing and casting core majic............... this however is not true,’ said the old king loudly, his deep voice echoing around the chamber.
‘A deceit,’ replied Sharp impatiently. ‘The folk of the southlands cannot channel the ancient white core like the Troll. They merely trap the colours as they move beneath the earth, lure them into vials then force them to obey their will...........that is truth. White majic, the majic of the Troll does not allow itself to be captured..........that is also truth.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Soar, the old king leaning heavily on his staff, 'but then again..........'
Boulder Spine stepped forward menacingly. ‘What are you suggesting old dog?’
King Soar stood his ground ‘...........Is it not obvious?' Soar let his question hang for some seconds before continuing. ‘The south do not need white to master the world, why would they when they already command black.’
Time slowed.
Stepping forward into the column of light the one eyed Troll stood beside his brother. Around them, the chamber stood silent, all within stock-still, all except Boulder Spine and his one eyed brother.
'You cast a skilled spell brother,' said Boulder Spine, 'and none too soon.'
'Indeed brother,' said the Troll, a bright red smear of blood staining his forearm, the tattoo beneath still glowing with power. 'I sensed the heat growing in your blood and paused time for us to confer and let it cool.'
Boulder Spine slowly circled the king, the old man standing motionless, his last word frozen on his lips.
‘The old dog kindled a fire in my heart. I could not suppress my feelings,' said the first bull of the nest. ‘Tell me, were the Troll words used by this old dog bent? Did he use the wrong words or does he seriously imply that the dogs from the hot lands have a mastery of black, a mastery that could challenge the Troll?’
The one eyed Troll shook his head. ‘I sense his words are straight brother but I suspect as yet he hides the true purpose of the telling.’
Boulder Spine clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I am no feral beast brother but the mere suggestion that the southland dogs mine the soul of the earth raises my lust for blood and war..........'
'..........and I suspect that is exactly the effect the old dog wished,' said the Troll. 'He is a cunning dog. He blows his foul breath on the flame and if I am not mistaken he will also try to oil the fire.'
Boulder Spine returned to his original position. 'Let us observe brother,' said the bull of the nest, 'dispel your spell.’'
The one eyed Troll stepped back from the light, time returning instantly and seamlessly once more. Around the chamber a deafening roar of tore the air, the tumult catching both Soar and Sharp by surprise, forcing the pair to press their palms hard to their ears. Boulder Spine raised a silencing hand before curtly nodding to the old king, a clear instruction to continue.
Soar gathered himself. ‘They sought to forge a singular weapon, a weapon they could use against both the crested folk and the Troll. That is truth nephew.’
‘A singular weapon?’ replied Boulder Spine raising his brows in surprise.
'So,' said Sharp dismissively, 'they altered the boy, they carved wards onto his spine and his crown then they bathed him in core majic for more than three score years. Why?...........’
Soar stared Sharp straight in the eye. ‘..........Because they seek to fulfil a prophecy and to do so they must create the being foretold in their prophecy. We all have such creatures, some are demons and some are saviours. In the land of the Troll you have ‘Troll Doom’, in the book of God and King the crested folk have ‘The Peerless Crown’ and in the south, he is called ‘The Shade Wielder’. There are others, each a creatures of myth with godlike powers, creatures of creation, salvation, doom and death.’
‘If what you say is true king dog,’ said Boulder Spine, ‘then the south will not want their creation to be lost to their enemies,’
‘And i
f the south cannot secure him,' said Sharp, 'then they will surely seek him out and kill him.’
‘Kill him, no,’ replied King Soar. ‘Seek him out, cultivate and fashion him to suit their needs, oh yes indeed. They would cut off their own balls if it helped them re-capture him. However, he remains for now well masked and has been so for fifteen years. But, should they capture him again you can be sure that they will fashion him, cultivate his power and then wield him.’ Soar paused, contemplating his next words.
‘Why do you pause uncle, speak?’
‘I hesitate to speak the words,’ said Soar. ‘I hesitate because I anticipate that with such a power at their command the south could render all who walk our world in one stroke.’
Sharp broke the heavy silence. ‘Render all who walk our world? Uncle, just how awry are matters south of the Blue Cut?’ he asked.
The old king shook his head slowly. ‘Up until the last quarter moon matters had progressed as told,’ said Soar, ‘but on the day before I crossed the boundary into Boulder Spine’s fief I received news by bird from No Marrow that the two high crests I had charged with seeking out and securing the boy will not reach the appointed meeting place by the due time.’
Sharp snorted. ‘What kind of cretins did you leave such a task too?’ asked Sharp gruffly. ‘Did you fail to convey to your officers the importance of their mission?’
CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk Page 9
