CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Needle stood with his back to the fire, the king’s assassin warming his hands on a steaming mug of scout tea, its distinctive smell drifting on the air. Handed his own mug, Needle carefully sipped the hot bitter liquor. The invigorating blend of leaves was not one of his favourites but the warmth was most welcome and the blend of leaves warmed his innards. Despite the fire, his body warmed slowly but not enough to ease the nagging pain in his swollen joints. His long hooded travel cloak lay neatly folded on a flat rock as did his fleece lined boots. Desperate for warmth, Needle lay his cup aside, quickly donning both, the familiar clothing and snug boots providing both comfort as well as welcome warmth. With his tea warming his hand, Needle scanned the shelter. The room had no windows, lit only by the glow of the fire and the last seams of blue red daylight that leaked round the hide cover that acted as a door. The rear of the room tapered into a shallow cave, the far wall stacked high with provisions. Needle nodded to himself. He recognised the interlocking antler crest and the gilt seals the crates bore, he knew what this meant. These were provisions from the kings own personal pantry, as guarded a room in the palace as any high lords vault.

  Smoke opened a pannier and withdrew a rolled parchment, offering it to Needle. ‘The king said you were to read this as soon as you arrived on the surface. He said you alone would understand and that you were not to tell me your orders……….an instruction I am sure you can guess I did not appreciate. Once you fully understood the king’s instructions, you are to throw the parchment on the fire.’

  The old wish walker sat down close the fire, broke the seal and unrolled the small parchment. Needle winced and tried hard to conceal a shocked look. The parchment was a map, more correctly it was a piece of map, one of his maps, a portion cut from a much larger work that hung in the High Scribes Library. The fact that the king had destroyed a thing of such value and beauty was a message in itself, a validation that this was indeed his master’s wish and not just another of Smoke’s shady missions. The map contained no place names and little detail, just a few lines and a crossroads, nevertheless, Needle recognised the place immediately. The lower line was the northern shore of the Inner Sea, the second line the Halfpenny River and third, the High Cliff Road. The cross was not his mark, it sat at a location well away from the road but close to the river, a place Needle knew well. The place where the mark lay was as he recalled a place of special meaning, a feature that generally did not appear on maps in common view. It lay in deep forest, hidden and in some ways forbidden but he knew he could find it. This part of his talent at least had not been stolen from him.

  Along the bottom of the map, ran several lines of tiny script, the writing clearly in the king’s hand. Needle read.

  ‘My loyal walker, this is your last assignment and the most important I have ever asked of you. Teach the boy all you can. My shadow will aid you and keep you both safe. You are now both free men, free of any bond or tie. This will help keep you both safe from any tracing spell or talented nose. Avoid known marks particularly the capital and trust no one at court, the inner council or the high temple. Finally, no matter what happens, do not try to seek me out. Your grateful sovereign, King Soar’

  Gripping the stiff parchment by a corner Needle extended his arm and held it out over the flames only dropping the map fragment with its vital message when the fire ate hungrily at the sheet. Whilst he could not forgive Smoke for what he had done, the niggling doubts that had remained at the back of his mind were gone, they were indeed on a mission from the king.

  ‘Old man, we have known each other for many years. Trust me when I say I followed the king’s orders to the letter. I am his most faithful servant and the breaking of my own bond cut me to the bone and still brings me to tears. The king has not done such a thing lightly and I trust his reasons. Talent or no talent, time is our enemy and we must travel immediately.’

  ‘I know,’ said Needle, a tone of resignation in his voice. ‘I’m old enough to ken that a bucket of secrets has no bottom. He is our king and free man or not, my talent is still his to command................if I had one.’ Needle drained his cup and stood staring at the flames for some moments. ‘If we are to leave tomorrow, I need to know where we are. I might not be able to wish walk but I haven’t lost my mental maps or sense of distance and direction?’

  ‘No Marrow lies a league to the east of the confluence of The Pure and The Fast rivers. In all, we are about a hundred and fifty leagues above the Blue Cut boundary………..’

  ‘God and King Smoke, over this rough country that’s, a month by horse if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Not by horse old man, we don’t have any. Raft. We’ll have to run the Old Prey all the way to the Long Lake. Our three servile friends Speck, Otter and Brander will accompany us as far as the portage around the Blue Falls then we’re on our own for the next fifty miles to the whaling town of Carcass. After that we’ll sail for the King’s Capital.’

  Needle looked thoughtfully at the fire. The king was old and had no direct heir. His alliances and allegiances had been carefully developed over decades and now the old fox was out in the north wilds of the Bear’s Maw with a guard barely over five score in number. He was not and never had been a man to take chances, his moves were always thoughtful and deliberate.……….to Needle, this meant one of two things; that either the king had some hidden strong hand or he knew something of value that gave him a royal chance of playing a winning game.

  As he lay down to sleep Needle mulled over what Smoke had told him. He now accepted that he was indeed on a mission for the king and that for his own reasons his sovereign had decided to break his bond with him. The old wish walker rolled over and buried his head deep below his blankets. On the surface the mission seemed simple, go to the location on the map, find the boy and take him to safety. But this was no ordinary boy and something about this mission left him with an itch he could not scratch.

  THIRTEEN: Echo Grave

  Deep into the night Cloak awoke slowly, dozy, disorientated. He lay on his back, half asleep, half awake, and cocooned in a thick coarse blanket. His mouth was sticky, his spit thick and his chest ached with every breath but these were naught in comparison to the stabbing pain coming from the back of his skull. The blanket he lay in was wrapped tightly around his frame and head, his nose and chin masked by the swaddling. The edge of the cover was rough, the crudely stitched hem irritating his nose and making it itch. Cloak tried to raise his hand, wriggling to pull it free but he could not, his hands were bound, indeed he was tied hand and foot. He was a prisoner.

  Confused, Cloak tried to piece together the events that lead up to his capture but to no avail, his memories drifting out of reach and beyond his mental grasp. He remembered entering the maw, the blackness and his relief at seeing the light at the end of the tunnel but all other memories eluded him. Again and again the same questions tripped through his dulled mind; what has happened to me? where am I? and, where is mother Dolly? Cloak fought to swallow, ‘thirsty’, he thought as he licked his lips, his tongue dwelling on grains of bitter dust that clung to the corners of his mouth. The metallic taste was unfamiliar, the fragments of tart dust dissolving on its tongue almost instantly.

  Cloak’s knowledge of cures and remedies was limited, his lessons at the academy in Matter and Substance were not his favourite and he showed no early talent for the subject. His guardian father’s lessons on the other hand had been far more useful. He had tutored him on soldiers cures, lessons on where to find striped fungus root, or marbled chew leaves, the warrior’s ways to prepare a black blood lick and the grubs, worms and beetles to squeeze, crush or boil as medicine or poultices. As his mind cleared, recognition flickered, Spank Beetle Pip, the soldier’s saviour. Crushed and boiled in tea water to induce a rested mind and ease aches, Spank was used to ease pains on long forced marches. Dried and crushed, the mind deadening beetle would suppress all but the most piercing hurt and would mellow the mind without sending him to sleep. Highly addictive, his father guardian
had called beetle pip the wounded soldier’s last resort.

  A new stab of pain from his neck made Cloak wince. Spank may be a strong pain killer but it clearly did not last forever and the pain in his neck was fast returning. For now, the only self administered relief that Cloak knew was through the power of prayer. He could recall the words, but as with so many of his lessons at the academy it was not a skill he had perfected. Concentrating hard, Cloak began reciting from the book of God and King. The Recipe for Clarity of Mind was only five lines long but to work, the prayer required not only perfect phrasing and cadence but focus, mentally projecting the power of the words to the area of his skull that ached.

  Barely able to cite more than the first three lines, Cloak scolded himself, closed his eyes and tried again. After a further dozen failed recitations and many more silent curses, his rhythm and focus began to spark, the power of the spell rapidly clearing his muddled mind. After three perfectly projected incantations Cloak moved on to recite The Recipe for Relief, a more complex and potent charm which within a minute of the first incant, abated the pain in his head and chest.

  Eyes shut, his breathing now steady, Cloak lay silent and still. As he did, his missing memories came tumbling back, each small piece filling a mental gap. Bit by bit the events coalesced, the poisonous grass, the clawing thorns, the death of the mule, the pain and the darkness. He was sure now he had been knocked senseless by the mule, he was also sure he was now a prisoner, tracked down, captured and bound hand and foot………….but what of Dolly, dead or captured? And, what would his captors do with him now?

  After a few deep silent breaths and yet another prayer Cloak cleared his mind once more. Not yet ready to open his eyes and desert his sham sleep, he explored with his other senses. His nose told him he was still in the midden, the air carrying the tang of green sap and the unmistakable stench of mule bowels and blood. From the flatness of his bed it was clear that he lay away from the mound and close to the trees and his ears told him that morning approached, the distant twitter of birdsong in the treetops heralding the coming of dawn. Risking a peek, Cloak half opened one eye and gazed upwards. The pre-dawn sky was clear and still sparkled with stars, the constellation known as the Spears of the Three Knights still twinkling brightly. The alignment of the three spears lay perfectly north south and from the angle of the five stars in each spear Cloak new he must be lying somewhere close to north west. The vile hedge lay to his left, the topmost branches swaying in and out of his view but his brief scan to his right revealed nothing, his view of the mound blocked by the edge of his hood.

  A whispering voice startled him, a man. ‘Stay you still boy, stay you silent too. If you cry out I’ll have to smack you one and gag you.’

  Cloak recognised the voice instantly, it was Echo Grave. He stood out of sight but his smell was enough to tell Cloak that he stood no more than a pace away. Cloak resisted the urge to turn and look, choosing instead to stare up at the distant constellation.

  The unseen voice spoke again. ‘Best you lay still. If you pull on the bindings they’ll only tighten and if that happens you’ll cut the blood to your hands and feet………..you have a choice, stay you still and quiet and I’ll give you some more Spank. You squeal or struggle and I’ll punch your face until your knocked senseless and just drag you behind my horse.’ Cloak remained silent, acknowledging the question with the barest of nods. ‘Clever boy.’

  From his prone position, Cloak watched as the hem of a long oiled coat and two short doe boots stepped into view. Grave squatted down beside him and roughly pulled the blanket around Cloak’s head aside. The fingernail he pressed into the tender flesh around the edge of his new crown made Cloak flinch and put his teeth on edge.

  ‘No poison………….but mighty sore I think. You want Beetle Pip?’ Cloak nodded. ‘You give me your word to stay silent and obedient?’ Cloak gave another silent nod. ‘Clever choice………..’ Grave’s dirty knurled hand appeared, a tiny leather pouch in his palm. Wetting a dirty finger the trapper dipped it into the pouch, coating the tip with the potent blue dust. ‘Moisten your lips.’

  Cloak obeyed reluctantly, trying not to flinch as Grave rubbed a gritty calloused finger along his top and bottom lip and across his front teeth. Licking his lips again, the initial bitterness of the crushed beetle made Cloak twist his face and draw his cheeks inwards before the dust exploded into life and quickly released its pain relieving powers.

  Grave looked down on him and sneered. ‘You have no idea who you are or why you have been captured do you boy? The fact is I do not know either nor do I care. To me, you are just gold. If you have a burning question keep it to yourself, I am not your friend, I do not want your company any more than you want mine……………. If you behave you will get more Spank, if not, you will be left to suffer the pain. Two days slung over a mule with your head flopping from side to side against its rump will teach you a lesson………understand?’

  Cloak nodded meekly. ‘What about my guardian mother?’ The words came out of his mouth in more of a croaked whisper than he had expected.

  The heat of Grave’s angry response caught him by surprise, the trapper’s face coming within inches of his own, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth. ‘That bitch is not is not your concern, one word more, one more mention, one glance in her direction and you’ll spend the rest of the night next to the thorns lying face down in the remains of your mule.’

  Cloak glared defiantly back at Grave’s. ‘My guardian mot…………….’ The last part word remained incomplete, the back of Grave’s hand smashing into Cloak’s cheekbone before first one then another boot to the ribs rolled him onto his side and then onto his face.

  ‘I do not give a steaming pile if you end up supping the mad sap or drinking the blood from the mule’s corpse. A piece of advice boy, you stay silent until I say so and never you mention her again………….last warning.’ Cloak remained silent, his face failing to conceal his contempt and hatred, his silent angry glare taunting Grave. ‘Make a face and think the thought boy, but open your mouth and I’ll put my boot in it.’

  From where he lay, Cloak now had a clear view across the starlit midden. Grave’s horse and his mother’s mule stood some yards off at the opposite end of the grove, hobbled, nose bags fixed securely over their muzzles to stop them feeding on the poisoned grass. There was no sign of his mother guardian. As he watched, Grave climbed the central mound, laid out his blanket and sat himself down crossed legged. He faced away from Cloak, concentrating his gaze down over the far side of the hillock. Cloak’s mind raced, did Grave stare down on where his mother guardian lay? Was she alive or dead? Indeed, was she in the circle at all or did she lie somewhere beyond? Cloak’s head lolled to the side, startling him back into wakefulness. Each time he jerked back into the waking world, the same jumbling thoughts and unanswered questions floated through his mind, each thought turning, twisting and repeating itself over and over again.

  Awoken by a boot to the belly Cloak was surprised to find he had slept. It was first light, perhaps an hour past dawn, the clear sky gone, replaced now with low brooding clouds that mixed and mingled with the low grey mist of morning. Grave was busy preparing for travel, the tracker throwing a blanket over the mule’s back before hoisting and binding a swaddled body with a girth strap. Cloak gasped, It was Dolly, her skin as grey as the sky above, her face was bruised and bloodied. Cloak bit his lip, still conscious of Grave’s threat, a threat he was reminded of as he was hauled backwards across the glade before being unceremoniously slung over the mule’s rump. Bound tight and with his head on the opposite flank to that of his mother Cloak could see nothing.

  As Grave recited the Troll charm and slowly led the horse and mule side by side into the maw Cloak’s heart pounded. As the wall of thorns closed behind him, Cloak awaited the coming of the majical dark but to his great relief, the blackness was gone, replaced by the weak light of morning, the grey light of the sky above forcing itself reluctantly down between the bran
ches and into the heart of the great hedge.

  ‘Impressive isn’t it boy. Troll majic a thousand years old and still as potent now as it ever was. Does the blackening majic frighten you boy?’

  Cloak cautiously turned his head and faced forward. Grave stood no more than three paces ahead, the reins held firmly in one hand, his other arm extended, his hand searching the air, his face tense, eyes staring forward........unseeing. Cloak remained silent for a moment, content to watch the trapper walk blindly forward.

  Grave half turned and looked back towards the mule, his blind eyes scanning left and right, searching but unable to pierce the majic. ‘I asked you a question boy?’ He asked gruffly

  Cloak stuck out his tongue. Grave’s stare did not waver. He was indeed still sightless, blinded by the majic. Suppressing a smile, Cloak feigned fear and replied in a suitably wavering voice.

  ‘Yes sir……………the dark in this passage is un-naturally black. Blacker than any night.’

  Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Grave sneered, turned his gaze forward and with his arm outstretched once more, cautiously continued his blind walk. Cloak held his breath, swearing to himself silently, excited at his find. It was clear the Troll majic still infused the air around them but for some reason, he could now see through the glamour. Cloak pondered on why the Troll charm still blinded Grave but not himself? The answer clearly lay in his inward journey, either his heartfelt plea to god had been answered, or he had unknowingly called forth majic, nullifying the Troll spell. Both seemed unlikely, divine intervention was rare and according to the good book, reserved for greater needs than his. As for using majic, that too seemed absurd, he knew no words of power or charm capable of such an act, all he had done was panic and plea, begging blindly for help as he stood stricken with terror. Nevertheless, absurd as it seemed his crest had crackled, his new spines sparking into life as if in response to his wish. Was it that simple? Had his heartfelt wish dispelled the blinding darkness? The thought that a thousand years of Troll majic could be dispelled with a wish made him feel foolish. Perhaps one day someone older and wiser would give him the answer.