CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Needle gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Are you two going to compare the size of each other’s cockerels all day or is there a purpose to this encounter?’ Needle calmed himself and stared up at giant bull. ‘I suspect if you wished us dead Troll you would have ambushed us in hot blood. Since that is not the case then what is so important that your brother sends you to meet with us here, a hundred leagues or more from the summer snow line, deep into the territory of another nest?’

  ‘Master Cliff is correct Troll,’ said Smoke. ‘You stand in the fief of another bull and your stink travels swiftly on the wind. It is a fair bet that the bulls of No Marrow are already on their way. When they catch you, they will kill you and strip your hide. You will be consumed and you will never enter the snow nest.’

  Shiver Cauldron raised his face to the sky and laughed. ‘I think not. The traitorous kin who bide in the shit pit called No Marrow are already dead. Their hides already stretched out on top of the mountain to honour god and shame them. I brought them to their knees not long after you departed. The stone worms glowed bright and the stone god drank their blood and was pleased. The two old men who served you sought shelter in the nest, hiding themselves in a narrow hole. I roared, I summoned the Rock God and he brought his stone down on them…………their blood also fed the rocks.’

  Needle glanced over to Speck’s crumpled body. With no more effort than a child swatting a fly the Troll had ended Speck’s life, the swiftness of the blow was a warning to be heeded, this was no lumbering oaf, no dim-witted heavyweight that could be danced around and speared, this was a Troll evolved, a being in control of its emotions, obedient to a master, aware of its mission and confident that it could succeed without support.

  For all his life Needle had been taught that Trolls were slow, clumsy and mindless, creatures to be quelled from distance by spear and fletched arrows, this Troll was clearly not slow witted, his movements were fluid, his posture as disciplined as any trained warrior. If this Troll was on a mission and had indeed been told what he would face at No Marrow, his lack of concern at facing Smoke was a concern.

  From below his cloak Smoke had drawn two long handled daggers, weapons Needle had never seen him wield before, the three sided blades long and narrow, more akin to spitting skewers, blades designed to stab rather than slash. The honed edges of the blades glowed blue, the tips black as night, cleverly charmed weapons and like all his steel, held as if an extension of his own body, hand and hilt appearing to melt together. Smoke faced the Troll, his stance casual and his voice calm.

  ‘Troll, I think your father mounted a cow with a cock. I could dance round you like a cleg round a bear shit. My blades are like spear-light before thunder. You will perish and your skin will be stripped from your warm body and sold to a merchant of slaves. You will be shamed before your god.’

  ‘An old Troll taunt but poorly translated shadow dog. I think you would be better to put your shiny thorns away before you stab your own eye. The old dog sees what is clear, I am not here to kill you, if I had, you would be as dead as dog meat. Today I bring you the regards of your dog King Soar, today black dog I am here to aid you.’

  Needle saw Smoke’s jaw visibly twitch. ‘For a Troll you are a poor liar. I expected better from a devious carrion eater………’

  ‘Do not test me dog,’ snapped the Troll. ‘I would like to kill you and drink your blood. I would like to break your back and stick your head up your own shit hole. But today is not that day.’

  Smoke stepped lightly between the boulders, searching for the best attack path. ‘Is that a prediction from beyond the veil? If it is then your god blinded you to the own death Troll.’

  Shiver Cauldron turned slowly to keep Smoke in his line of sight, his laughter sounding like a rumbling rock fall. ‘I have seen my own death Master Assassin and it is not at your hand.’

  Smoke continued to circle, pointing a dagger towards the corpse of the dead slave. ‘Why kill him?’

  ‘He was a witness. The other serviles died for the same reason but the hollow boned Troll within the nest died for reasons that belong to my god alone.’

  ‘Why no witnesses Troll?’ asked Needle, forcing his voice to remain steady.

  ‘Your king dog wished that only you Black Dog of Shadow and you Old Walking Dog observe me here. I say again, I am not here to kill you, I am here to aid you.’

  ‘I trust you as much as I trust your shit not to smell,’ replied Smoke. ‘We asked for no help.’

  Needle’s exasperation grew. ‘Smoke............stop circling like a street dancer and listen to what he has to say. If you don’t like it then you can fight, agreed?’

  ‘Reluctantly..............’ said Smoke.

  ‘Fine,’ replied Needle emphatically. ‘Troll, I suggest you take your chance and speak quickly before he changes his mind.’

  The Troll lifted his long blade and pointed it towards Needle. ‘You know where to go wrinkled dog and you know how far you need to travel.’ The Troll turned his blade towards Smoke. ‘You shadow dog have been told by your dog king the day you need to arrive but not where to go………….I know both these things. I have been tasked with this and I will take you to the time and place, I am Shiver Cauldron, I am like the old dog, a Far Traveller ……….. a wish walker.’

  Needle stepped forward, his urge to scratch his crotch and armpits gone. ‘Troll?’ said Needle ‘that’s an easy thing to boast but hard to prove.’

  ‘The proof is inked on my very flesh.’ Shiver raised his sword arm and pointed with his left to a line of tattooed script on his right shoulder. Needle recognised the ancient characters immediately. He had seen them before and knew the line for what it was. The same glyphs had been carved on the altar in the ancient ruined temple below Thankless Bastion. It was a long, long time since he had visited the buried temple, but he remembered them well. This was a true sign, this was a sign fate was at work, Shiver Cauldron was indeed a wish walker.

  ‘Is that enough for you to believe me old dog?’

  ‘Yes Troll, it is enough,’ said Needle calmly turning to Smoke. ‘Sheath your blades Master Silverfly, I think he is speaking the truth.’

  Smoke shook his head. ‘That’s a risk I’m not taking old man. I’ll lower them, but not sheath them. If this bull with tits farts and I do not like the smell I’ll stick him.’

  Needle could not explain why he stepped forward but from the loose feeling around his bowels it was certainly not bravado. Staring up at the Troll from his closer vantage, the giant bull appeared to double in size, the old man having to tilt his head back to look up Shiver’s face. ‘Shiver Cauldron, tell me, why has my king sent you to aid us and why did you agree?’

  ‘Why, is it not obvious?’ Needle shook his head. ‘Because should your mission fail, the consequences are dire and may result in the rendering of both Troll and folk. For now, the mists beyond the veil are being stirred, all futures are uncertain, but be sure of this, many now seek the boy. Your destination is known to me but not the journey beyond. My task for now is to far travel you and the shadow dog to the midden of the Southern Troll known as Throat Bark.’

  Needle frowned. ‘That is a lie, you cannot walk into a midden Troll, the bounds are warded………..’

  ‘True, but we can travel to Throat Bark’s spirit tree. It lies several paces to the south of the midden and shades it from the high sun. Throat Bark’s prayers lie within the trees heart, it is a shrine and it is your destination.’

  ‘Then what?’ demanded Smoke.

  ‘I return here to feast on the dead then travel north to my brother’s nest.’

  ‘Are you satisfied Smoke?’ said Needle.

  ‘No I’m not. Questions remain............’

  Smoke raised one blade and pointed the finely sharpened tip towards Shiver. He had had enough of hearing Shiver Cauldron speaking in the common tongue, he needed to hear the words spoken in Troll, make sure that there was nothing hidden or lost in the translation. ‘You are a devious dastard Troll and
a liar, I sense it…………..’ Speaking Troll raked Smoke’s throat. ‘You are no wish walker, when we last met I was dispatched to kill you because you were a teller, next you will be telling me you are a physician and a weaver.’

  ‘Let me tell you a secret Shadow Dog. You speak our tongue but you have learnt little but the scant knowledge given to you by Head Stone and his rotten seed. My people did not think it possible for a dog to learn such a thing. You are only one of few that I know. Dog folk are no more than children of majic. You are born with a single talent and are pre-ordained to follow the path of your clan crest. The Troll folk have no such limits, our abilities to use and wield are bound only by our capacity to tap the white.’

  Shiver pointed at the lines of script on his chest. ‘Do you see these Master Shadow dog? Troll folk do not hide their talents, my hide is inked and displays to my folk the depth to which I can tap into the white. A century of years ago when our blood was hot and our minds knew only death and revenge and war, our skins bore only those glyphs needed for killing and carnage. Head Stone was such a Troll but his generation has passed. My sisters, brothers and cousin kin are of a new generation. We are a generation that hold our own minds and our skins are a testament to our growing power. Your king knows this and the thought makes him soil himself.

  For you to curse me ‘devious’ pleases me, it denotes deliberation, thought and premeditation. These are only possible with cool blood. If I had been as my father’s father, the red blood behind my eyes would have coloured my world, I would have stalked and killed you, drank your blood and then dragged your limp carcass to my nest to feed my pups.’ Shiver eased his stance and placed both hands on the hilt of his sword, leaning on the great antler. ‘I stand before you and can converse with you in your own tongue and yet it is not my sword that frightens you Master Murder, it is my lucid thought and the conduit of white that I call on command.’ Shiver Cauldron returned to the common tongue, addressing Needle directly. ‘Time is your enemy old dog and it is now time to decide; believe me and travel with me to the midden or stay and spend the best part of the next moon crossing the Bear’s Maw. As for you Shadow Dog, when the sun shines you can follow the shadows south to the warm lands but if the old dog travels with you he will slow your journey and his bones will suffer. I do not need to be a teller to know that you will arrive late, the boy will be lost and you will have failed your king. So, what say you?’

  Needle turned to Smoke and spoke. ‘It has to be together Smoke, I alone will not be able to achieve the king’s goal. What say you? Will you sheath your blades and risk travel with the Troll?’

  Smoke grit his teeth and remained silent, the king’s assassin cautiously easing his blades back into their concealed sheathes.

  ‘Now what Troll?’ asked Needle.

  ‘Blood,’ said Shiver. ‘Yours or his, it does not matter.’

  Needle cautiously extended a skinny arm. ‘Since I doubt Smoke will extend an arm and since it’s my bad idea to do this,’ said Needle, ‘it had best be mine I suppose.’

  Needle knew the old ways, the ways of ancient majic. This was the majic the first peoples of Thankless Bastion had used, black and white majics from the deepest parts of the earth. Challenging and deadly, majics abandoned by the crested folk millennia ago in favour of the shallower more forgiving colours.

  The cut across the forearm stung and bled profusely but Needle did not flinch. Shiver Cauldron pressed his huge finger down onto the red stream, then, taking his blood soaked finger, dragged it slowly across the line of script on his right shoulder. As the blooded glyphs on the Troll’s shoulder flushed white hot, Shiver gripped Needle and Smoke firmly by the arm and, barking a short prayer, stepped into the white majic void.

  As Smoke fell into unconsciousness, a single thought ran through his mind…………….never trust a dastard Troll.

  FIFTEEN: Mangler's Oar

  When Smoke slowly regained consciousness he could not tell if it was dusk or dawn. He had travelled with Needle many time before and vividly recalled the pain and nausea of unsynchronised wish walking. The agonies he now felt were beyond description. The raging nausea, the splitting head ache and the cramp in his bowels were worse than the after-effects of a keg of sour brandy and a bowl of bright lava peppers.

  Gripping his senses and pulling himself into the conscious world was beyond him. His limbs would not obey his will, his head swam and each tiny movement of his body filled him with pain. He could not care less that he had been sick or that his clothes stuck to his body and he smelled of his own filth, his whole body felt as if it had been beaten with a stick and try as he might he could not move. As he fell back into darkness, the same thought tumbled again and again through Smoke’s mind. Never trust a dastard Troll.

  It was night by the time Smoke finally opened his eyes. Whether his journey had lost him only some hours or some days he could not tell, all he knew was his skull still thumped, his mouth tasted of acid puke and his guts were ripe to burst. As he rolled onto his face and pushed himself on to his knees he puked again, a painful empty retching that took several minutes to subside. Needle lay on the ground to his left, the old man just beyond his arms reach, curled up in a foetal ball, his complexion pale grey and his breathing shallow. As the minutes passed, Smoke’s mind cleared sufficiently to allow him to pull his senses together. His chanting of the Soldiers Prayer was no more than a mumble and his whispered Prayer of Small Healing no better. His first attempts to heal himself did little to relieve his aches and pains and it took several more patient recitals and much deep breathing before the ministering prayers relieved his pains sufficiently for him to sit up. The air around him was mild and slightly damp and the light mist now drifting over the ground was rich with the smell of moist leaf mould. He had no idea where he was, not simply because the canopy above blocked his view of the night sky but more a result of a persistent forgetfulness that continually floated across his consciousness and prevented him focussing his thoughts.

  With his pains eased, the urge to sleep became overwhelming, a persuasive and seductive lullaby he felt compelled to obey and could see no reason to resist. When he awoke again, the sun was high overhead and the movement of the swaying branches made the dappled shadows dance across his closed eyelids. His body had stopped aching and his mind was clear, the only reminder left of the wish-walk his own pungent body odour and a bitter puke parched taste in mouth.

  Needle still lay unmoving at his side, his foetal posture exactly as it had been when he last glanced over. His complexion had improved, but unlike Smoke, he clearly had not been able to drag himself out of his deep stupor, a relief in some ways given the nausea and pain of Smoke’s own first awakening.

  Smoke retrieved their packs, collected some tinder and struck a fire. The water from the nearby stream was tinged with peat but still pure and sweet enough not to spoil his brew of scout tea. As his small kettle boiled, he stripped and washed, rinsing his mouth with water and chewing on a fistful of wild crow garlic to sweeten his foul breath. Thoroughly rinsing out his stained leathers and undergarments Smoke hung them up to dry, the king’s assassin wrapping himself in his blanket before sitting down in front of the fire. With his appetite returning, Smoke made breakfast pudding, soaking a thick slice of brick bread in hot water until it turned to a smooth brown paste before stirring in some dried plums and crushed pine nuts. He had no honey to sweeten the mix but it mattered little, his appetite had returned and soon nothing remained in his bowl.

  Needle stirred, rolled slowly onto his back and, raising a wrinkled hand to his temple moaned. His voice was barely a croak and although his breathing had steadied, his complexion was not as pale as before. ‘God and King, that walk near killed me. I’m so sore that I’m scared to open my eyes just in case the pain gets worse. I think that dastard Troll held me by my heels and slapped me off of a tree a few times just for the hell of it.’ Needle wrinkled his nose. ‘............Please tell me that smell is not me?’

  ‘Lie still ol
d man, don’t try to rise. Just breathe deep and call on prayer for a few minutes. I’ve already lit a fire and have some tea on the brew. If you feel up to it, wash yourself at the stream whilst I make you some breakfast pudding.’

  Needle nodded, obediently breathing deep and forcing his mind to concentrate on the act of prayer. After several silent minutes, the old man finally opened his eyes, shading them from the dappled sunlight with his arm. ‘Smoke? Sit me up if you please, my bones appear to have gone soft and my limbs will not obey the commands from my mind.’

  Smoke eased Needle up into a sitting position, propping his pack against his back for support before handing him a small tin of stewed tea. The bitter brew was potent, and its reviving powers quickly helped clear his mind and strengthen his blood. As he drank his tea, Needle scanned the woodlands around him and the canopy above. ‘Do you know where we are?’

  ‘South of the Blue Cut judging by the mixed forest, but other than that……….no.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you?’ said Needle with a roguish smile.

  ‘For a man who was near death, I see your sarcasm has recovered before your good manners.’

  Needle’s faint smile cracked his lips. ‘However, in answer to your question, yes you old shit I would indeed like to know where we are?’

  ‘We’re exactly where Shiver Cauldron said he would take us. We’re below the canopy of Throat Bark’s faith tree.’

  ‘Which is where exactly?’

  ‘We are exactly thirty miles north of the inner sea and about half way between Delta Crossing and High Cliff Haven. It’s one of the most southerly Troll middens ever discovered and a powerful way point for those who use the far travelling majics.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? Not that I doubt you old man, but one star tree looks much like another.’