CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Cloak looked un-phased, happy to skip lightly from one craft to the other but the thought of stepping off the narrow rocking gunwale made Needle’s bowls wince and his grip on the thwart tighten once more. As the crafts converged and the dreaded time grew closer the colour drained from Needle's face. Sensing the old man’s growing anxiety Smoke offer of a tether round his waist brought a weak nod and a thin smile but no more than if he had been offered a hangman’s noose to wear.

  ‘Hold tight and make ready gents. Good luck to you young master. Come back some day.’

  Her hail and wave to the ferry brought a hearty hail and wave in return. With the boarding net lowered Oyster tightened her line, closed the distance between the two vessels and made her run. The bulky ferry adjusted her line only marginally but did not slow as it slid slowly past Oyster's long liner. The vessels bumped and scraped for only a few seconds, long enough for Smoke and Cloak to easily transfer between the vessels, Needle barely making it over before Oyster bore away, the young fisher girl standing on the stern of her boat waving as the ferry’s sails filled and ploughed off south.

  ‘That wave was for you young man.’ said Needle, elbowing Cloak playfully in the ribs. ‘I’m sure if we’d had to sail the whole way to Flick’s Pier you would have earned a kiss by the end of the journey. She could not keep her eyes of that growing crest of yours…………which is good if you wanted to impress a girly when you go a courting but bad if you want to stay hidden.’

  Suddenly self conscious Cloak hooded his head with his blanket and held it tightly beneath his chin. He was happy to have caught the eye of the tall fisher girl and yes, perhaps one day he would return for that kiss.

  As Needle sought out the purser to pay their passage, Smoke moved to the transom rail and stared back towards the dock. They had escaped, surely now those who pursued had no way to catch them.

  ---

  Mistress Willow waved adieu, turned her horse and trotted back towards the town. She did not look back, the Weaver's expression barely hiding the depth of her anger. She had underestimated the level of talent sent to steal the boy from her and whilst the slaughter of young Lord Hinge’s guards was unfortunate, their deaths had further masked her true intent. She had left young Lord Hinge weeping at his own failure, the smug fool shamed and discredited, all hope of recall to court lost. Indeed, such was his fear of retribution she doubted the nights events would ever be spoken of again.

  The assassin who helped the boy escape was clearly a special talent but even he would not have the skill to detect the thread of shielded green attached to the boy's foot. Blademaster or not, his efforts to elude her would fail. She would prevail, she must prevail, her master expected nothing less. As the ferry pressed south, Willow felt the reassuring tug of the unbreakable thread. Her majic link remained secure, true, her quarry had not evaded her but not for long.

  -----

  With Smoke still staring back from the stern towards Mangler’s Oar and Needle haggling over the fare, Cloak walked forward and stood near the prow. As he gazed out towards the southern horizon, Cloak shivered in the stiff sea breeze. He was free, he had no shoes on his feet and apart from the clothes he had escaped in and Needle’s spare blanket to hood his head he had nothing to his name……….. but he was free.

  The blue seas and light swell of the inner shore soon disappeared, replaced now by the grey chop of the deep offshore waters. As the breeze increased in force Cloak fought to hold down his makeshift hood. For years his moon head had made him invisible, one of many children, a person of no consequence. His new crest made him self-conscious. It was not what he had expected, its incomplete form marking him out as a freak, making him easy to recognise and trail.

  Smoke and Needle joined Cloak near the prow of the ferry, the old man and the king’s messenger standing side by side with the boy. ‘We have a cabin. It’s in the very bowels of the ferry near the stern but it has four berths and I’m assured it doesn’t smell of the bilges. We can eat in the galley, the next meal is at noon and the purser says there’s good chance that we will be at anchor outside of Flick’s Pier by dawn tomorrow.’

  Clearly pleased and relieved Needle and Smoke gripped the forward rail and stared southwards. Standing between the two high crest strangers Cloak turned his head left then right, staring at the two old men who had rescued him. They had clearly gone to some great effort yet unlike Mistress Willow, their relaxed demeanour put him at his ease.

  ‘Master Silverfly, Master Cliff, please don’t think me rude, I am grateful for being rescued but why, what am I to you and where are we going ?’

  ‘The short answer to your first question is........because we were commanded to do so by the king. As for your second question, you could say that for now, we are your guardians and you are our ward and as for your third question,' Smoke exchanged glances with Needle, 'Ah, well, we don't yet know. Each of your questions has a long answer lad but unfortunately for you nether Master Cliff nor I can offer any sound explanation.'

  'We have time,' replied Cloak, 'Flick's Pier is a full days sail with a fair wind. Perhaps if you started at the beginning..........'

  Smoke grinned at the boy's cheek. 'Apologies young Cloak, I am Smoke Silverfly, the king's personal messenger, this aged gentleman is Master Needle Cliff, the king's personal map maker. We have been commissioned by the king to rescue you and keep you safe until he returns from his affairs in the north................’

  Leaving Cloak to listen to Smoke’s tale, Needle sauntered off to the galley, the old man soon returning with three tin mugs of sweet stewed tea. Sitting in the lee of the forward mast Cloak listened intently, his hot mug burning his palms as he clutched it tightly between his hands.

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Cloak. ‘The king is nearly a hundred years old and has journeyed for some secret purpose to the far, far north to parley with his nephew who is nearly seventy five years young and lives with the Troll……………that is a good faerie tale in my opinion.’

  Smoke and Needle shook their heads in concert. ‘It’s the truth boy,’ said Smoke, ‘our king is without a close heir but this nephew is the son of his older brother and would no doubt make a claim. His northern nephew calls himself the Lord of the Northern Lands, his father used old majic to temper the blood of the Troll and hard as it is to believe, they are now an ally to his folk.’ Smoke sipped at his tea before completing his answer. ‘Master Needle and I have no idea whose sire you are. If you are royal line then judging by your age you’d have to be his grandson. We do not know if you are the only grandchild or one of many and we do not know where you stand on the ladder to the crown or why you were brought up in the delta. Indeed, we do not know if it is your father or your mother who carries the royal line.'

  'Indeed,' interjected Needle, 'for all we know you might just be a low son out of wedlock.’

  Cloak made a face, a mixture of exasperation and annoyance. ‘So, his secret journey has come into the light and the good and the mighty who had been licking his boots all these years see the possibility of their ascension to the throne threatened?’

  Smoke nodded again. ‘It was not just his boots they were licking lad. Many of the inner circle high lords and low royal crests had invested a lot of time effort and money in the hope of achieving succession when the old king dies. There’s many a forced marriage been consummated in the hope of spawning a good high royal crest. I suspect these very same low licking high lords are the ones who now seek you out. The only good thing for you is that for now they appear to see you only as a game piece, something to hold and barter should they need.........'

  'Too much of that is speculation Smoke. All we know for sure Cloak is that the king does not want you falling into the hands of either his pack of royals or his northern kin.’

  Cloak cast his eyes down towards his boots. ‘What you’ve not made clear Master Silverfly is whether I am his prize, or his pawn? Perhaps the king sees me as no more than a game piece, someone to be kept safe until some futu
re events unfold at which point he can either sacrifice me or barter me?'

  ‘Sorry lad, those are questions I suspect even the king will not answer straight for you. Master Needle and I have been in his service for many years, the king is a master tactician, unequalled, but, when it comes to the great game of royal houses you are right, some folk loose, some get hurt and some get sacrificed. All I can say is we have both learned to trust our king's judgement in these matters. I suggest you do so as well.’

  Cloak rubbed his palms over his forehead. ‘I do not have much choice do I. Be honest?’

  ‘No lad,’ said Smoke in sympathy, ‘if you were to dive off this boat and seek refuge with Master Hinge or travel to the far north and throw yourself on the mercy of some well mannered Troll all we would do is follow you and steal you back, even if it meant risking our own lives.’

  Cloak pondered on this for a moment. If the king valued him so much why had he sent only his messenger and an old map maker to guard him and what role did One Button have in all of this? As if reading his thoughts, Smoke continued.

  ‘Fate is dragging you in the direction it wants boy and there is nothing you I or even our king can do about it. Those who now tinker and play with your fate appear to have placed some of their game pieces many years ago. Your guardian mother, the teller, and Echo Grave all had their part to play and what future role if any they might have I cannot tell.’

  ‘What of One Button?’ asked Cloak.

  ‘One Button? I don’t know, the name was on my tongue but it means nothing to me. We could pass on the street and I would not turn my head or hail.’

  Cloak fell silent, turning his gaze towards the far horizon, his stomach suddenly queasy, not from the rolling and pitching of the ferry as it cut its path south across the deep grey waters of the Inner Sea but from the growing anxiety he felt at the thought his fate not being his own. Cloak filled his lungs with the cool sea air, tasting the salt in the spray from the bow. With the wind now hardening from the south west their progress to Flick’s Pier would slow, the ferry forced to tack again and again, each gust forcing the boat to heel over before the crewman on the tiller adjusted their bearing.

  As the day passed, patches of blue sky began to appear between the billowing clouds, the wind grew in strength and as it did, the ferry pitched and rolled as its snub prow ploughed through the heightening swell. With spray now being thrown up and over the forecastle and with the roll progressively worsening the three sought shelter below deck. The cabin was no more than a windowless space separated from the rear hold by a rough wooden partition. The cramped space contained four narrow hammocks each with a rag blanket, a small table screwed securely to the wall, a three legged stool and a stained puke bucket that stuttered back and across the floor with each queasy roll of the ship. Secure in his hammock and protected from the worst of the ferry’s rolling gait Needle soon fell into a deep sleep. The effects of the potent frog mucus had now past leaving the old man looking frail, his face a frown as if awaiting some night terror to prey on him.

  ‘Your awfully quite lad, got something on your mind you want to talk about?’

  ‘My head is too full. So many things have happened in the last half moon that I don’t know where to start,’ said Cloak.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about this One Button?’ said Smoke sympathetically. ‘I’m a good listener and we have plenty of time.’

  Cloak talked for over an hour before he finally lay down on his hammock, wrapped himself in his rag blanket and fell asleep. The brightly coloured cover was dry but smelt of salt, smoke and seaweed. It did not matter. It reminded him of his hide far out on the tiny reedy isle in the delta, a place from his so, so recent past, a place he now wished he could return to yet again as a moon headed boy. Cresting had brought him more sorrow than he could imagine, his decision not to travel with One Button was clearly a twist in his fate, the offer was there in his hand and he let it slip away. His choice had led to his mother guardian being kidnapped and a half score and more good clan warriors dead, victims of the ‘king’s messenger’, Smoke Silverfly, a man who clearly knew how to slide a blade between a man’s ribs.

  They reached Flick’s Pier just before sunrise, the worst of the heavy chop dissipating as the Billowing Sheet passed the head of the promontory. As they approached land, the confused peaks and troughs of the open sea were soon replaced by a dawn calm, the near perfect surface flawed only by patches of ripples stirred up by errant gusts.

  Flick’s Pier was no more than a small village, its white painted cottages strung out east and west along a narrow strip of rocky ground above the high water mark. Behind the cottages lay the South Coast Road and beyond that, hillsides dense with oak and beech forests that stretched beyond the eye. Pressed hard to the shore Flick’s Pier was a busy port for its size, however Flick in itself was not the reason so many souls journeyed to the Pier.

  Four leagues inland, sat the bleak prison fortress of Cold Choke, its garrison charged with guarding two hundred of the king’s most penitent souls; traitors, hostages and workers of evil to whom death would be a blessed relief. The prison sat in the centre of a massive mountain cirque, the windowless structure surrounded on all sides by a lake of ice cold water. The high walls of the surrounding corrie were bare and steep, it’s stone unforgiving and razor sharp, a fortress wall better by far than any outer wall made by man.

  ---

  The new wooden pier at Flick’s still smelt strongly of tar and resin, the slender structure of braced timbers stretching out to sea some hundred yards, well beyond the line of the lowest tide. It had been commissioned by the king himself and had been designed to allow deep keeled vessels to berth at all phases of the tide. The days of anchoring offshore and relying on small craft to transport good from their holds to shore were gone, now, laden vessels were able to arrive and depart on the very next tide. For those who delivered ‘live cargo’ such as the unfortunates who had offended the king, their task too was made much easier, the heavy pulley and counterbalance mounted on the pier easily lifting their foul cages directly from the depths of the ship’s hold onto an awaiting wagon.

  Smoke, Needle and Cloak disembarked as soon as the ferry berthed. Smoke heading for the wagon masters yard while Needle, glad to have his feet on solid ground once more led Cloak towards the market square. The market turned out to be a poor affair and what meagre supplies they had were of a low grade and overpriced. So too the single store, a general provisioner where Needle haggled long and hard but without success to reduce the cost of Cloak’s new boots, coat and cloak.

  When they met up again Smoke led three mules in his wake. ‘Bad news old man, there’s a sail on the far horizon. Likely that coaster we saw loading lumber in Mangler’s. She’s fighting tide and wind but clearly still making good time for the pier. Our weaver friend from Mangler’s Oar does not need majic to find where we berthed, just another vessel. Let’s not make her task any easier, we leave now.’

  Needle stared in disgust at the mules, pointing at them one by one. ‘They have no saddles, that one looks like it’s got mange, that one has flies crawling out its arse and the other has only one ear…………….nice. Clearly you got your pick of the bunch. I suspect you already have a favourite but do I have first choice of the remaining two?’

  ‘There are three new blankets and a girth strap each in the sack, said Smoke as he lifted a sack from the back of one of the mules. ‘As for the mounts, the choice was indeed a hard one old man but I thought the one with the fly blown arse would suit you best. I reckoned the flies might appreciate two blowholes to buzz around. The one eared one reminded me of the boy, a part crest and the mangy one is mine because he’s the only one with any sense and does not try to bite when you mount up………..unlike the other two.’

  The mules stood head down and sullen as the Needle and Smoke cast their new blankets over their backs and securely tightened the girth straps. As they did so Cloak stood in silence, frozen to the spot, a look of horror on his f
ace .

  ‘Bad memories lad……….’ Needle’s voice was reassuring.

  ‘Three days slung over a mules arse, two kickings, four bruised ribs, a burst nose and blood in my piss………. yes Master Cliff, bad memories but nothing compared to the loss of my mother to that shit eating dastard Grave. All I can think of is what he is putting her through and that I should find him and kill him.’ Cloak sighed. ‘…………..but I cannot return to the north shore, I do not know where he has gone, I cannot track and I there is more chance he will kill me than I him. All I can hope is that she frees herself and kills him, preferably slowly and painfully.’

  Needle patted Cloak on the shoulder. ‘Cloak my boy, you might not have asked for or expected any of this, you might have wished for a good clan crest and a talent to match but I suspect this is just the start of a long hard journey. If you can accept that your fate for now is tied to Master Silverfly and me you can be sure we will protect you and teach you what we know.’

  Cloak responded with a weak smile. ‘There was of course one small blessing on my journey from the midden to Lord Hinge’s Keep.’

  ‘And what was that lad?’

  ‘The mule I was slung over had a clean arse, two ears and did not bite.’

  EIGHTEEN: Cold Choke

  The three travellers headed south up the steep incline of the Cold Choke Road. Despite the warm spring sun Cloak kept his cloak on and his hood up, the chord at his neck tied sufficiently loose to allow his hood to slip back over his forehead and crestless dome but not enough to expose his new spines. To those who passed him on the road he was just another shy moonhead, a late crester no doubt embarrassed at his lack of a crown, a lad who likely prayed each night for god’s blessed touch and lived in fear of forever being cursed.

  The road to Cold Choke was well kept, the broad green verges neatly trimmed, the flanking woods thinned to lessen the risk of ambush. The road was not busy but neither was it quiet, a regular flow of handcarts and horse drawn drays making their way to and fro, mostly carrying supplies, some carrying uniformed guards.