Needle rose from his chair, lifted a tin plate and long pronged fork from the table and loaded his plate.
‘Beer?’ asked Smoke.
Needle nodded, his cheeks stuffed full of roots. ‘You eat old man. I’ll talk.’ Needle nodded again. ‘I’m not quite sure where to start so I’ll go right back to this time last year. Do you remember the visit the king made to the Sharps Cough?’
Needle nodded again, concentrating chasing the dripping on his plate with a crust of bread.
‘It was me who walked him………and you. I remember.’
‘Sharp's Cough itself is a beautiful place, a green capped island, surrounded by cliffs and set five leagues out to sea. Rich and fertile, the vines that grow on the hillside behind the bay make a rare spicy wine, heady and blood red. It is a royal retreat, our king’s special place, a place he visited when he had a lot on his mind. Or so he had us believe. Did you ever visit the cave above the bay?’ another nod. ‘It is an ancient place, but it is not an ordinary cave’. Needle looked up from his new plateful of greasy roots. ‘We call the cave God's Deep Sunset because of the way the maw captures the last light of the evening, but its original name was Hateful Jaw. It was a tomb, a Troll tomb, an ancient burial ground and the final resting place of a Troll high bull called Spear Spine’.
Needle laid his plate aside and lifted his tankard. ‘What shit,’ he spat, ‘no one was buried in the cave, it goes back about a three hundred paces and then stops, beyond is just a wall of solid rock.’
‘No, it is a not solid rock, but it is a wall. The cave beyond extends for several miles and drops several more, Spear Spine was buried in the final chamber at the far end, moreover, he was alive when he entered. His kin knew he was dying, they carried him there after they had been humiliated in battle by a Troll called Blood Scythe……………..’ Needle looked up at the mention of the name. Smoke continued. ‘His whole clan entered the cave with him, four hundred warrior bulls, shamans, his wives and three score or more of his Troll brats. They walled themselves in, a wall that to our human eyes looks as natural as life. They were not cowards but they knew that if they chose to fight they would lose, the clan scattered, hunted down, killed and skinned. They chose a different way.
All Troll that are faithful to their Rock God are permitted to enter heaven. They call it The High Land of Cold Sun. But to enter the Rock God's own nest, a place called The Great Snow High, they must die without risk of their remains being desecrated, a rare thing for a Troll. It will come as no surprise that few Troll die of old age and after death fewer still stay in one piece. Most get skinned to preserve their majic. Spear Spine did not wish to give up his or his clan’s majic, he did what no other Troll clan managed to do, he escaped to what he regarded as the hot south, a place Trolls would not bide willingly. He eluded those who followed, killed their trackers and their sniffing bears, and after many years of travel found the island with the cave they called Hateful Jaw, a safe place to die.’
Needle rose, bent over to ease the tap on the cask and loosed a fart. ‘Roots do that to me. You want more ale?’ Needle helped himself to another tankard, filling Smoke’s half empty flask at the same time. ‘Go on.’
‘As they prepared to die, they wrote, dressed the walls smooth and scribed them top to bottom, everything from a history of their tribe to six ways to kill a bear with a sharp rock. When they were done, when all the walls were covered with the history of their people, they drank a beer made from ghost root and star leaves. The root would send them into a dreamless sleep, the leaf would close their throats and keep them sleeping forever. These were not the actions you would expect of a blood fired Troll, rational thought, written scripture, history and majics......white majic. These were the records of sane Troll, a tribe escaping a curse, a blight that would rob them of their civility, boil their blood and turn them into the beasts we know today. Smoke sipped lightly from his tankard. ‘It appears that amongst Troll there are tribal hierarchies, casts and factions. The further south, the less respected they become and allegedly, the less ferocious they become……….. tell that to the troops who guard the northern mines. But it’s true. Far, far to the north, well beyond where any man has trod is a land the Troll call the Land of The Iron Wolf Troll. It’s their true home, a place all Troll aspire to live but its heavily guarded and warded. Any young bull Troll who wants to make his mark and steal a wife heads north, never to return………….succeed or die. Have you never wondered why there are so many Troll Middens north of the inner sea? It’s their southern line, the Trolls who seek a mate in these parts are the runt bulls, the ones who fight over the lowest females. There are few about, so when they’re in hot rut, they get a might frustrated. That’s when they’re blood really boils and they go tearing through the forest killing everything they can lay their hands on. Many of the southern Troll die, the heat of the rut pushes them over the edge, but that’s another story.’ Needle paused to sip from his tankard again. ‘The big bulls from the mountains head north, but just like here, those who cannot steal a bride from north of the range come here to steal the best mates………….and so on and so on. As far as Troll are concerned, the bigger, meaner and smarter you are, the further north you live and the more chance you have to breed. Spear Spine was First Bull of the clan, he was effectively the High Lord of the Iron Wolves. His clan had many nests, each the fief of a brother or an uncle. One of his uncles was a bull called Blood Scythe and from the script on the wall of the tomb it was he and his nest that were the first to be infected. As the hot blood curse spread, Spear Spine’s powers weakened so to save his stock he did the unthinkable, he headed south and west, his clan intent on recording their history, culture and worship of the white majic that flows through the worm rock.’ Smoke laid his tankard on the mantle and turned his back to the fire, his hands behind his back. ‘Needle, the blood curse was a punishment, a deliberate act of retribution. Hard as it is to believe, a thousand years ago, the Troll were allied to the crested folk. We fought side by side with them in battle against the emperors of the far south. Our folk lost and as punishment our own numbers were heavily culled, but, as the Troll lived in a land beyond the reach of their swords, they chose instead to blight them, cast a spell over their nests, a curse that has lasted a thousand years without losing any of its potency.
Blood Scythe pursued his brother to the shore of the Inner Sea but no further. Fortunately for us he never found the Spear Spine’s resting place, or should I say, fortunate for the king’s line. It was not our master who discover the cave’s secret, that honour goes to King Torrent Shine Moon and his then consort and future wife Honey Glow Rose...........’
Needle interjected. ‘I met her once, very sweet.’
‘Indeed. At that time she was just one of many ‘close friends' of the king and by all accounts, an exceptional woman and a very high talent, able to wield deep blue and ruby majics. But I digress.
Torrent was a young man, perhaps thirty years old and Sharp’s Cough quickly became his refuge from the capital. The third war with the Southlanders had just finished, his father good King Gale was only recently dead and the crown on his young head weighed him down. He was under great pressure to marry and sire but it appears he found formal courting a trial, he preferred to ……….’
‘Taste a fruit before he bought it,’ said Needle with a knowing smile.
‘Anyway,’ continued Smoke, ‘it was whilst Honey Glow Rose and the king were on the retreat that she found the door. More exactly, she discovered the last stone to be placed in the Troll wall. What appeared to be random cracking and crazing on the rock was in fact a tracery lock, blood fed of course, not difficult to unlock if you could illuminate it properly………….which is where her skill in wielding the ruby comes into it. So, when the lock was opened, the last rock withdrew and a prize beyond all worth was revealed.’ Smoke sipped lightly on his beer. ‘It is fortunate that unlike his father who was a pure bred High Royal Warrior, Torrent was High Royal Divine, a warrior of
the temple and a very studious man, despite his liking for the ladies. He was also a talented linguist and an intellectual. Did you never wonder why so little was recorded about the king’s brother and why he eventually abdicated and exiled himself to the Northern Lands?’
'As I understand,' said Needle, 'it was because the High Lords of the Inner Court did not support his marriage to Mistress Rose. They threatened to revolt unless he made a 'more suitable' match.......presumably with one of their own kin.
Smoke shook his head. ‘Only in part. It is true that High Lords of the Inner Court forced his hand but not because of Mistress Rose. They were scarred from years of warring and wanted a strong king and strong government. Torrent however was a broken man, he avoided staying in the King's Capital, choosing instead to concentrate on his study of the cave. So, whilst Torrent lost himself in the words of the Troll he was happy to devolve crucial matters of state to his younger brother.
Soar loved Torrent but he knew that unless he intervened soon, the Inner Council might court raise a challenge. But, when he spoke to Torrent, instead of him buckling down and returning to the capital, he choose instead to hand the crown and the reins of power to Soar. He had one condition; that he and his line be granted sovereignty over the lands north of the Blue Cut. Not surprisingly, both Soar and the Inner Council thought him mad but as the lands were thought worthless, they happily granted his wish.
King Soar was duly crowned and with border disputes with the Southlanders threatening to flare up again, the Inner Council’s attention focussed once again on the south. Torrent and Honey stayed on Sharp's Cough for five years, Honey warded the cliff edge and the shoreline so they had few uninvited visitors, then, without telling anyone, they sailed north.’ Smoke pointed a long slim finger at Needle. ‘Do you remember when our king tested you, when he sent you walking to the isle?’ His mouth full, Needle nodded. ‘Well, when he did that he had another purpose in mind.’
Needle shifted in his chair, his eyes half closed. ‘He sent me to test the residual majic left by Honey.’
Smoke made an action like an arrow being released from a bow, the mark had been found. ‘Correct, you were younger then and you were still expendable. You see, all the markers he sent you to pick up were not placed by him, they were placed by Torrent. The three points form a pointer, an arrowhead showing good King Soar where they went after they left the island’.
‘Here?’ asked Needle.
‘Exactly,’ replied Smoke. ‘No Marrow is by Troll standards a very small nest, indeed, it’s actually more of a temple, a place of prayer than a home for their brooding and breeding. It’s not a significant religious site, but when he finally located it, Soar had the proof he needed that his older brother had indeed passed this way…………….I think I’ve told you enough for one day, I’ll try to complete the picture for you as we travel.’
Needle pushed himself up from his chair and stood opposite Smoke. ‘Oh no you don’t Smoke, you don’t get to slither away quite yet. You’ve chattered like a sparrow for nearly an hour but all you’ve done is told me a tall tale that sounds far too much like a faerie story to be believed. Do you think my senses melt just because I have a full belly and a supply of buttery beer? You’ve still not given me one scrap of evidence to prove that you are nothing but a dastard kidnapper, nothing to prove that you do this on the king's warrant and nothing to explain why in the name of our good god the king would want to follow in the footsteps of his brother who, history records as being as mad as worm cheese.’
Smoke sat back down, the king's assassin lazily hooking a leg over the arm of his chair. ‘I understand that amongst the written treasures the Troll left behind in Hateful jaw was an ancient spell they called 'The Heart Fire Feeder'. It stood out from the rest because it was not written in Troll but in an ancient dead language once used by the south. It was a spell designed to be wielded against Troll not by Troll.' Smoke paused for a long sup. 'Spear Spine clearly knew that the spell was the one that induced the mindless red haze that was destroying his people's sanity but skilled as his shaman were, they had no cure for it.'
'Are you suggesting that somewhere back in the mists of time someone cast a spell over all the Troll?'
'Yes, and whoever made the first cast made sure that once one nest was infected they would then infect other nests. Within a year it turned the whole race from rational beings into the mindless animals we know now.' Smoke emptied his flask.
Needle suppressed a smile, the old wish walker keeping a straight face. 'Tell me Smoke, is that a faerie story or have you just been supping mushroom tea.'
'Laugh all you like old man. I know it’s difficult to believe of a Troll but it’s true. What's more is that before he abdicated and therefore before he was given sovereignty over the Northern Lands, Torrent and Honey had already translated the spell and had created a counter-spell that they called the 'Heart Fire Killer'. How they knew it would work I do not know, what I do know is that they did not tell King Soar.'
'How can you be sure?'
'Because I was sent to No Marrow to spy on them and it was I who told the king about the spell,' replied Smoke. 'King Soar flew into a Trollish rage and had me taken out and dropped into a shadowless well. I drank piss water and ate brick bread for a full moon before his mind cooled and he had me hauled out.'
'Smoke, I do not want to question your honesty but correct me if I'm wrong............that was over sixty years ago. Yet, you are barely middle aged, sixty at best.'
Smoke's smile sent a shiver down Needle's spine. 'There are some stones best left unturned old man.’
Several silent minutes passed before the chill dissipated, Smoke needlessly topping up both men’s already full tankards.
‘Torrent left Sharp’s Cough with almost nothing, those who followed him including his personal guard and warrior elite went willingly into the cold north and over the years he has attracted many more talents; scholars, mages, artisans, trappers, masons, miners and smelters. Over the past three generations his folk have multiplied six fold, sickness is almost unknown, they have dozens of talents who can delve to near black and they say their farmers can grow crops in plains of rock.’
‘Are you suggesting that our master grows jealous of him.......or wary?’
‘Soar is wise and wily. He does not covet the Northern Lands and he does not fear them. As to why he choose to go north,’ said Smoke shrugging his shoulders, ‘I do not know. For now all you need to know old man is that our king has given us a mission of great importance and that it was on his direct order that your bond with him was broken...........as was mine.’
‘Did he explain why?’
‘He is the king and as such he does not need to explain himself. But, if you were to ask me to speculate I would suggest three reasons. Firstly bonds may be invisible to us but they can be seen by Troll. Out here in the Bear’s Maw, a hungry Troll whether wild or tame would likely track us for miles just to sup on our sweet meat. Secondly, as you know the bond lets us know where the king is. We are loyal and would not tell, however, if put to the question by a quartet of high inquisitors..........who knows. It may be a risk he does not wish to take. And lastly, he may also have broken the bond so that he does not know where we are. If he has embarked on a dangerous mission and if it goes awry he may want to make sure we are still free to fulfil our mission.’
‘Ahhh, of course, I had forgotten.’
‘Then let me remind you of the special bond we have with our king. We are bone carved bondsmen, if the king dies whilst the link is still intact then we die also.’
A quizzical frown creased Needle’s already wrinkled face. ‘You think he wants to leave us free us to complete our mission even if he dies?’
‘It is only a guess but it would appear so,’ replied Smoke, thin worry lines creasing his own forehead. ‘One final thing. Although no one discusses it out with the inner sanctum we both know that the high and mighty all use Tellers. We also know that some they rely on are no better than fayr
e day charlatans. Anyway, that aside, I was recently sent on an unrelated mission by the king, the details of which are not important. Whilst I was away, I came across a Teller, one of the best I have encountered, high crest and scribe sect. He was being drawn towards a convergence of fates and when I made mention of the man and suggested to the king that he might be of service, he went into a rage. It would appear that over the last fifteen years our king has been hiding a secret, a boy. For now, the lad is still a moonhead but the king is certain that this Teller is being drawn to him and he frets over what might happen.'
‘Why? What threat could a single teller be to the king?’ asked the old wish walker. ‘Our lord has played the game of thrones for years and knows how to twist fate to suit his cause.’
‘It's not the Teller he fears, just his tell,’ said the king’s assassin. ‘Our king wants the Teller to read the boy's future, but, he wants the tell to remain a secret.’
‘Have you been asked to deliver a ‘message’ to this Teller?’ asked Needle.
‘No. For now the Teller remains valuable. Our mission is on the surface an easy one; find the boy and take him to safety.’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence Smoke, there must be more to this than just rescuing some snot nosed moonie, spit it out.’
Smoke paused, the king’s assassin breathing deeply in readiness for his next words. ‘We are being trusted with this mission because the king believes that when he crests, the boy will have the ability to wield old majics.’
---
The following morning Needle awoke with a start, a thunderous bellow filling his chamber and breaking his slumber. His head aching from too much drink, Needle sleepily entered the kitchen parlour, the three elderly servants ceasing their tasks and making their ritual dawn bow. Needle gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement before taking his seat at table. Only one place was set, a bowl of breakfast pudding made with second day bread, eggs and cream lay steaming in a dish, beside it a plate of crushed oil nuts and dried berries. As Needle sat at table and ate the steaming pud he felt the same pulsing of the air he had the previous night, this time stronger, causing the fire in the hearth to flare as if pumped by a blacksmiths bellow.
CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk Page 13
