CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Needle shook his head slowly, the simple action causing him to wince. ‘You see the three marks on the lower trunk, the ones that look like a tree bears claw mark. It’s one of my glyphs,’ Smoke nodded. ‘………………and do you see, the large moss covered boulder on the other side of that open space, the one the size of a Troll?’

  ‘The one up near the wall of thorn pines? I see it.’

  ‘If you look closely, you will see what appear to be three circular lichens growing on the south face. Those lichens mask three glyphs. If you draw a line between them and bisect it north south, the line will cut through a flat stone on the edge of the stream over there. The glyph looks like the imprint of a small star leaf.’

  ’Yes, I saw it when I bathed. It looked as if the stone has been stained with the image of the dying leaf.’

  ‘I never knew this place as Throat Bark’s Midden, I only ever called it the south midden but it’s definately the same place. When you walk into the forest you have to make sure you do not end up inside a tree so aligning marks to converge in a clear space like the canopy of a giant tree is a safe option.’

  Refreshed by his tea, Needle cautiously rose to his feet and gently stretched before shuffling off down to the stream. Undressing was slow and painful and despite the warmth of the sun, the cool water made him shiver. Washing his clothes exhausted him, the water laden cloth to heavy for him to squeeze dry. Smoke wrung the water from the heavy cloth and passed Needle his blanket.

  ‘So, we are in the right place. However my dear prick, my sense of time passing fails me. By my estimate, we far travelled no more than an hour after high sun. When I first awoke yesterday it was dusk. I can only presume it was dusk of the day we travelled which means we are a full day early……………’

  ‘I think not Master Smoke, I think we are a day late, maybe more. I think we have been asleep for more than two days and I think our friend Shiver Cauldron sent us on a long sleep as well as taking us on a long walk.’

  ‘You are confused, you slept like a log. Every time I glanced over at you I feared you were dead, you barely moved.’

  Needle dried himself with his blanket. ‘I am not confused Master Silverfly, do you recall my agonies on the boulder plain below No Marrow? Tell me, how long does it take for those bitch spider bites to disappear or the cut Shiver made on my hand to heal? Not a day that’s for sure………….look.’

  Smoke made a theatrical face of disgust as he stared at Needle’s crotch. The old man was right, the scarlet bites on his upper thighs and around his parts were all but gone, the skin pitted but pink.

  ‘Dastard………….I knew that dastard Troll was lying. I sensed his connivance. I should have trusted my senses. But why? Why bring us here then send us into a slumber, why help us and hinder us at the same time?’ Smoke paced angrily around the fire. ‘My list of questions is growing by the minute, not the least being if the Troll knew the urgency of our mission, why did he leave us here for the last two days?’

  Smoke stoked the fire, spearing it with a long branch to encourage the flames. The heat had already dried their under cottons but did little to draw the wetness from their jerkins, cloaks or boots. For the next hour or more Smoke sat cross legged on the ground honing the tools of his trade, his repetitive drawing of the blade edge across his worn sharpening stone as much a meditative ritual as it was functional. Many of his blades were enchanted, the charms fuelled by large white pearls built into the crossing of blade and guard. The array of weapons was extensive and Needle wondered at the sheer weight of steel the king’s assassin carried. As Smoke perfected the edges of his blades Needle wandered down the stream, cutting across the slope and then back up and over a small rise towards the midden. Despite the high sun, the deep shadow of the forest remained cool. Barefoot, Needle treaded carefully, the remnants of last year’s leaf fall damp and soft below his feet.

  The midden of Throat Bark was well known to travellers. The crested folk knew it only as High Cliff Midden and even then, knew only the outer circle of thorny blood pines that shielded the true midden mound. Approaching from the west, Needle stared up at the giant faith tree, a star tree some two hundred feet high, the canopy spanning some forty paces at the base. Set back from the encircling wall of thorns, the branches stopped short of the narrow circling path, the tree appearing reluctant to spread over the intervening space. In the late spring sun, the shadow of the giant tree barely touched the midden edge. The midden itself had not been used for centuries but had it been, the smell would have trumpeted its presence long before it came in sight, the stink of death and decay filling the air.

  Needle walked on, picking his way through the long grass and up to the path that encircled the midden. ‘Smoke, come look,’ haled Needle.

  Smoke jogged up to the forest edge, slowing as he entered the open space that separated the trees from the thorn wall. The grasses flanking the narrow path were bent and broken, the soft surface of the path itself a pitted with footfalls and hoof prints. Smoke knelt, stroked the bent and bruised grasses and pressed the soft mud between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Yesterday at the earliest…………a confusion of prints, hurried but ordered, no sign of struggle or battle. If these are indeed the signs of passage from our ward and his guardians then he is not alone.’ Smoke pointed at the tracks. ‘A horse was tethered here, and these,’ said Smoke pointing at a single line of prints, ‘have been made by the doe skinned boots of a tracker. Two mules entered from the north and two people dismounted. One set of prints probably belongs to the boy and judging by the size, the other is a woman. From what I can see, two mules and all three folk entered the midden but only one mule left lead by the tracker which all leads me to conclude that either the other two are still inside, or, they left strapped to the mule.’

  ‘You suspect the tracker has captured them,’ asked Needle.

  ‘I cannot be sure but given that the delta folk and those from Cliff Haven would have no reason to travel this way and given that most trappers and hunters familiar with these lands would avoid the midden, the tracker is likely a foe. ’

  ‘Needle’s head slumped. ‘A day ahead, mounted and us left on foot, what chance do we have?’

  ‘Slim, but the good news is it could be worse, it has not rained since the tracks were formed, they should be easy to follow and from what I can see, no attempt has been made to mask their passage.’

  Returning to the fire, Smoke and Needle donned their now dry underclothes and pulled on their damp jerkins. Their blankets folded and packed, the pair doused the fire and set off. The trail was indeed easy to follow Smoke pausing every now and then to read the signs.

  ‘Two laden beasts; a horse and possibly a mule. The horse is led by our doe boot man and judging by the depth of the prints and the bruised and broken leaves, the mule is both heavily laden and carrying a wide load, possibly panniers but more likely bodies slung over the saddle. Fortunately for us, the way is seldom travelled and the laden beasts travel at an unhurried pace.’

  Needle tightened the straps on his pack. For a man who prided himself on his attention to detail, he could barely make out the tiny trail signs that Smoke followed, nevertheless, the assassin step never faltered when he came to a branching in the path.

  ‘Smoke, we are presuming the man who leads has captured them, but perhaps he too is also part of the plan. He may indeed have been sent to capture the lad, but is there not also a small chance that he serves the inner court or like us, was commissioned by the king?’

  ‘When you only have speculation to satisfy our curiosity it is sometimes best not to pose too many questions old man. First, we follow at pace, then we espy and then we form a strategy to rescue the boy. I do not care if the tracker is working for the king, our orders are clear...........’

  Drawing his travel pack from his back Smoke carefully sifted through his belongings before removing a small leather box filled with vials. The tiny bottle he sought contained Green Frog Mucus, the potent slime smell
ed foul and had the colour and consistency of runny snotters but one tiny drop on the tongue would lift spirits, banish dulled senses and aid vigour for a week. Like many potent potions it was highly addictive, the short term boon it gave balanced by some nasty long term side effects. But, in times of great need, it had been his life savoir.

  ‘We need to catch up fast old man. That means no stopping for the rest of the day and the whole of the night. Stick your tongue out old prick…………’

  ‘Green Frog Mucus, God and King Smoke do you know what that snotty shit does to you. I can’t believe you use the stuff. The king made me take it once when we were travelling north from the Witches Fingers towards Bare Glass Lake. I stayed awake for four days, pissed blood for more than a week and suffered leg cramps for the next half a moon.’

  ‘I’ll admit it has its down side,’ said Smoke, ‘but you don’t take the stuff because you want too, you take it because you need too. If you take it too often you risk your life but apart from keeping us awake, it will fortify our endurance and let you see through the dark.’ Smoke offered up the tiny bottle to the old wish walker. ‘Needle, please, if we do not catch up quickly the lad could evade us. Secondly, if this trapper fellow has a high talent, he will sense he is being followed. When that happens, I suspect some nasty obstacles might be placed in our way…………tongue out.’

  Needle extended his tongue, pulling a face as Smoke placed a single small drop of the vivid green oil on his tongue. Having done his own, Smoke slung his pack over his shoulder and walked on. ‘It will take a good hour to work, when it does you’ll feel as if every tree has eyes, you’ll see every blade of glass wave in the wind but, you’ll also be able to run and jump like you did when you were a moon headed lad.’

  ---

  The old wish walker and the assassin walked for the rest of the day and through the night, passing no one, seeing no one. At each branch in the track, their quarry had turned north, the track eventually emerging onto the High Cliff Road.

  ‘He knows he is being followed,’ said Smoke. ‘He probably senses we are catching him and so made for the road in the hope that mounted up he could outdistance us.’

  Their progress fuelled by the potent mucus Smoke and Needle pressed on, trotting until the light faded. As the road dried, the signs of passage became harder to follow and had it not been for Smoke’s heightened senses, the place the horse and mule left the road would have been missed. The mounts had been led off the road twice before, the short diversions into the woods possibly brief rest break or perhaps to hide from other travellers. However, the third turn from the road proved to be different, the trail diving deep into the forest, a narrow way, seldom travelled but clearly showing the signs of recent passage. As they pressed onwards the heavens opened up once more, the ferocious downpour flooding the trail and covering many of the small signs of passage. The trapper headed south west, then true west, his route now straight and true. Although it was full dark, Smoke feared trickery and continued to examine the muddy tracks, the king's assassin studying the depth of water in the prints as well as the gait of both man and beasts. The patch on the road where the mule had dropped its dung had been carefully cleared, the warm droppings carried into the forest and buried but with his senses heightened by snot, Smoke easily located the last of the warm scent as it drifted in the sodden air. They were getting closer.

  The torrential rain had now abated, replaced by a persistent drizzle. Without warning they reached the forest edge, the path emerging onto a broad well travelled road. The deep ruts formed by the passing of carts and drays were full, the muddy waters flowing down the road like twin streams, the rainwater overflowing and merging to form knee deep puddles in the dips and hollows. Smoke scouted the track left and right, searching for any small detail but the track was lost.

  ‘Any idea as yet where we are and where they are going old man?’

  ‘This road my dear Smoke is new, it’s not on any of my maps which means that it is less than four years old but I know exactly where it goes.’ Needle pointed left. ‘The line of the road south would take us to the port of Mangler’s Oar.’ Needle turned and pointed right. ‘To the north lies the high cliff road, perhaps eight miles away and beyond that, north, west and east nothing but the occasional small hamlet. The only feature I recall are the silver mines around a village called Low Mound.................other than that, there’s nothing north but wilderness. I suspect therefore this is a new trade road formed to allow the transport of oar from the mines down to the port, which, at a guess, is about twelve miles to the south and.........’

  Smoke raised a hand to silence Needle. ‘I know Mangler’s Oar, it’s one of the old free towns on the coast, it has a deep harbour but is wedged between two cliffs so it cannot expand and take advantage of its tax raising powers. I was on a coaster that berthed there for a few hours to pick up passengers bound for the south shore. It was years ago, but from memory, it was a well ordered and prosperous little place. If there’s nothing to the north and nothing but more forest on our current bearing then what’s your guess? The coast, inland to Low Mound or straight on east through the forest?’

  Needle shook the rain from his hood and wiped away the drips hanging from his nose and chin. The frog mucus kept him focussed and fuelled, his head was clear and the chill of the wind and rain did not dampen his spirits.

  ‘Logic says south to the coast……….’

  ‘I agree,’ said Smoke. ‘He can’t chance the pay ferry with two bound passengers so my guess is a small private lugger awaits him. He’ll either travel on it or hand over his prize at the berth. If he turned north towards Low Mound, we could always pick up his trail, but if it was his purpose to go there all along, why did he not just stick to the high road. As for east through the forest, that takes him nowhere for the next fifty miles or more until he comes to High Cliff Haven. My dice is with you, I say south as well. It will be a gamble but if he gets a private berth on a lugger and sets sail, then the boy is as good as lost.

  Needle turned left and set off. ‘Mangler’s Oar it is………….’

  ---

  From the dark shadows on the opposite side of the road Echo Grave’s stood and watched as the pair set off at a brisk pace. He stood no more than fifty paces from them, heard every word and had smiled at how easily he had fooled them, how easy it had been to mask his true path. He had stayed ahead of them, made sure his trail was not too easy to follow, made sure they gained on him and then, when the time was right, and at a point of his choosing, disappeared from view and left them to ponder.

  He had cleverly covered his tracks, leading the horse and mule north and south for a full quarter mile before backtracking through the deep rivulets to a point not far from the place they had first stepped onto the road. For the two who followed, either direction was a gamble, both north and south sending them miles off track. Mangler’s Oar was a good four hour walk, mostly downhill, the journey there would take them close to mid day, the journey back up to Low Mound would take them half a day, more than enough time for him to deliver his cargo, collect his payment and make off.

  Grave turned to Cloak, a broad smile of satisfaction on his face. ‘I am sure you will be glad to hear that our time together is coming to an end. The two men who pursued us lost our scent, they gambled and I won. They chose to travel south to Mangler’s Oar.’ The tracker’s smile disappeared. ‘If you were not so valuable I would have put a snare around your neck and dragged you behind my horse until your head was pulled from your spine. I was sorely tempted but I suspect the fates would have killed me before I killed you.’ Grave cleared his throat and spat. ‘When I am rid of you I will spend my gold and savour my reward………..every day. Remember that boy, every night you shut your eyes to sleep, every morning you wake to see the dawn, I will be enjoying my reward.’

  ---

  Needle had not slept for the last two nights, the single drop of snotty mucus still coursing through his veins keeping him fully awake and his sens
es sharp. Five miles on and signs of tree felling began to appear, acres clear felled, the timbers stacked in ordered rows lining the verge. The condition of the road worsened, the heavy horse used to tow the logs churning the surface into a muddy soup. It was not until they were in sight of the Low Coast Road that the first clusters of small tower houses appeared, their whitewashed walls and turfed roofs typical of the delta coast. Smoke and Needle strode on through the rain, passing the odd laden cart before finally reaching the outskirts of town.

  The warden of the gatehouse straightened his uniform before shambling out from his booth. After asking after the purpose of their visit and taking their dues he welcomed them to Mangler’s Oar. He had been on duty since dawn, his eldest son on the gate before him………… they were the first to pass that day.

  ‘Well,’ said Needle, ‘he might have entered by another way or had someone here who helped sneak him in.'

  'With two laden mounts, I think not,’ replied Smoke, kicking the ground in frustration. 'My gut tells me we've been played, we gambled and we've been trumped. I hold out little hope but since we are here, we might as well check.'

  The pair split up, Needle tasked with searching the waterside ale houses and inns whilst Smoke headed for the town square and market. The folk tending the stalls answered Smoke’s questions with a polite ‘no’ and a shake of the head, none had seen another traveller that day, with or without with two mounts in tow. Convinced that Mangler’s Oar was not the trackers true destination, Smoke wandered back up to the gatehouse, the old warden happy to give him directions to the blacksmiths yard and stables.

  Needle’s quick scan of the harbour had revealed nothing more than a few small crabbers and clinker built hand liners, all sound vessels but none built to cope with the open waters of the Inner Sea. Having indulged in one small refreshing jug of ale he pressed on, entering several inns without success until finally a half silver bought him the answer he needed.