CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  It was the Shill’s job to comb the town, search the back streets, the low inns and the markets for suitable marks. Barebranch had been unaware of the special talent needed to find such folk, the Teller always happy that the selected mark was the best candidate. At first the telling of the marks had brought scant reward, possibly a vague location but nothing more. Of the four score tells that Barebranch had undertaken in the last year only one had proven of any worth, a gate keeper in Mangler’s Oar finally drawing them towards the delta lands.

  They were however still lacking a face and a name.

  Delta Crossing was a much larger town than any of the others they had previously visited, well ordered, the riff raff kept in order by the zealous town ward. Wary of being spied out they had kept their heads low, searching first the wharf side and then the low town. That was when the fatal mistake was made, that was when the stupid godless little shitfoot Shill decided to meddle. Teeth clenched tight shut One Button continued to curse silently................

  Echo Grave’s was a drunk and somewhat reluctant vagrant who urgently needed the services of an engraver. It was a skilled task, and happy to accept his coin, the crest charm was taken apart, repaired and rebuilt.........but not exactly as it was. The adding of the new spell was rash, an act born out of frustration, an interference whose consequences had not been foreseen. No, thought One Button, not unforeseen, seen clearly but kept secret. When Barebranch had completed his tell of Grave he had blanched, the teller remaining silent, withdrawn and fretful for several hours before finally speaking. When he spoke, only one word escaped his lips, a name, but it was all that was needed............‘Cloak’.

  It was clear now that Barebranch’s tell had revealed much, much more, not only knowledge of the false compulsion concealed in the charm but the dreadful consequences. He knew it was too late to change anything, that there was no undoing and that his deceitful and squalid little shill had not only unshackled a sick mind, but had also exposed the boy to danger.

  ---

  In the suffocating darkness of the coffin the passage of time slowed, a minute an hour, an hour an eternity. By the time the lid slid clear once more, One Button’s once calm and well ordered mind had dissolved, rational thought replaced with utter panic.

  ‘I am but a pawn,’ blurted One Button. The feeble excuse reeked of fear. ‘Barebranch was the one with the mission, it was he who was to find the boy and when he did, he paid the price. I followed him willingly at first but then grew impatient, it was me that induced him to read your future and now you make me pay the price.' One Button paused, gasping for breath. 'And now you Master Grave are drawn into the same sticky web. You feel a compulsion but cannot explain it, you suspect some slyness but cannot see it so you quiz me and punish me, but, I am not the key to unlock this puzzle, my part is done.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Grave, the tracker gripping One Button’s chin and twisting hard. ‘I think you lie to save yourself. I think the Teller told you what he saw and I think I will make you suffer until you reveal what your really know.’

  ‘I swear,’ said Button, ‘I have scant knowledge of Barebranch’s tell, all I know for sure is that when the boy crests he will leave this town, if you wish to follow then I suggest you ready yourself for a long journey. The more time you spend with me the greater the boy’s chance of leaving town unopposed and when he does your obsession will eat at your brain and drive you to madness. That is Barebranch’s tell. Tell me Master Grave, do you sense any lie?’

  Grave’s patience snapped, the trapper raining blow after blow down onto Button’s face, chest and guts. ‘You do not ‘lie’ but you shelter the full truth,’ yelled Grave. ‘Perhaps your tongue will loosen with a dusting of quicklime.’ Grave forced open Button’s mouth, dusting the lips of the Teller’s Shill with lime, the caustic powder immediately burning and blistering the skin. Button’s lung tearing screams and cries for help and mercy made Grave smile. ‘Well?’

  The truth came out instantly, the words tearing at Button’s throat. ‘The crest charm you have worn all these years masks your true self. It was placed there as a cure for a mind sickness and you cannot remove it willingly because the majic is bone carved and compels you to keep it and it wear it at all times. It is an addictive majic, as addictive as pure poppy. That is why when you remove the charm you feel ill.’

  ‘Lies,’ screamed Grave, punching down hard on Button again and again.

  ‘No, no, it’s the truth. The tell, the charm, the search for the boy and our arrival in Delta Crossing all true.............the boy is worth his weight in gold.’ Button’s voice faltered as the regrettable truth slipped out, the slight hesitation encouraging Grave to landing two further painful blows. ‘...........The boy has been concealed here for many years, brought up as any other boy but well guarded by The Sword. It is only now that he approaches his cresting his presence in the land is felt, a presence that will focus many eyes on Delta Crossing. That is why he and his guardian must flee...................that is all I know, that is all Barebranch revealed, there is no more, please,’ begged One Button.

  Grave leaned close, the tracker digging his fingernails deep into the Shill’s cheeks. ‘Valuable eh, and where will the Sword take this valuable lad?’

  ‘I do not know....’

  ‘Tell me,’ yelled Grave, his voice almost a scream. ‘Perhaps some lime in the eyes would loosen you tongue.’

  ‘NO, no, please...............Barebranch said the Sword’s fate lies elsewhere, it is Cloak’s guardian mother who will travel with him.’

  Grave released his grip, he had the final truth, and what a truth thought Grave. The mother will wet nurse the cresting boy, the wife of the Sword, a spirited and most handsome woman, a woman he had lusted over and desired for years.

  His anger fuelled by lust and greed Grave lifted his boot over the coffin edge and pressed his heel hard down on Buttons split cheek. ‘Where does she take the boy?’ Button had no answer and Graves boot no sympathy, the tracker screaming the same question again and again as he stamped down on the young engravers face.

  By the time Grave slid the top of the coffin back into place, Button’s screams had ceased. The pull was indeed growing, it caused him to grind his teeth, and pull on his crest. High majic was at work and the boy left a stinking trail of it. One thing for sure, the answer to his last question lay somewhere close.

  Grave stripped the engraved silver charm form his crest, stamping it flat before kicking it into the corner of the morthouse. The yoke had been lifted, he was no longer a slave to the charm, he was a bloodless hunter again.

  ---

  Smoke stood outside the morthouse door, silent, scentless, hidden from view in the darkness of the graveyard. For his sins he had been a torturer, he knew how the hunger for truth could drive a man to inflict unspeakable pain on a defenceless man or woman. Even so, the king’s assassin could not help but flinch at Button’s every scream and plea.

  Button lay in silence, the young engraver barely conscious. the Teller’s Shill whimpered as Grave slid the coffin lid back into place. In the impenetrable darkness the sound of the outer door closing and the bolts slamming home vibrated through the stone. The dastard was gone and would not return. Entombed in the morthouse coffin, Button wept. Barebranch had played his part and now so to had his Shill. He had not lied, but he had kept secrets, the Teller knowing that when put to the test by Grave, his Shill would reveal all. Without hope of rescue One Button recalled Barebranch’s final haunting words.....’Precious secrets once revealed can never be taken back.’

  ---

  Smoke sat in the front bar of the Troopers Cuss and waited. The future he knew would pass would pass and like it or not, there was no way to change it. Should he try to kill Grave he would fail, should he try to kill Lady Willow he would fail no matter how much he willed it he would fail, Cloak and Dolly would be captured by Grave and the whole sorry escapade would repeat itself. He came to Delta Crossing for one reason only; to take Ember to th
e South Troll’s Midden in time to meet with the one eyed Troll. Once this had been done, his link with Master Lardy would be undone and free of the bond, he would commence his search for the king’s lost secrets. It was a simple plan but a plan awry as fate sought to embroil him in Cloak’s past.

  Smoke hated all tellers and cursed such folk whether north or south who stirred the mists with a view to manipulating the fate of others. He felt as if he had been manipulated, his free will stolen and now, here tonight, he too was about to interfere, throw a pebble into the pond and hope the ripples did no lasting damage. The king’s assassin sipped his beer without tasting it, his eyes fixed on the front door of the inn. Grave would come soon, he was a creature of habit and with the waning of his crest charm he would for sure be in need of a liquid crutch.

  To Smoke’s surprise the man who entered was not the Grave of old. This man was neatly groomed, his beard trimmed and his posture confident. The transformation was a shock. The spine on Grave’s crest where the demon charm once sat stood out from the others, the bony spine a soft unstained white. Grave downed his first tankard of seaweed ale at the bar before taking his refill back to the snug. Smoke nursed his own ale, the king’s assassin warming the tankard of sour brew between his hands. He had a plan, not one he was proud of but nevertheless a simple and sound ruse that would not conflict with the future he already knew would pass. When Grave left the snug and made for the door Smoke laid aside his tankard and rose from his chair, following closely before quickly drawing level with Grave, his face masked.

  ‘Do not turn your face Master Grave,’ said Smoke, his voice calm and level. ‘I have a message for you, you could say it is the final piece of the puzzle that has tormented you these last few days.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ snapped Grave instantly suspicious.

  ‘Don’t insult me with such a poor lie Master Grave, I know far more than you could ever guess. I know for example that you have finally conquered the fetter charm that ruled your life, I also know that you lust after another man’s wife and that tonight you must gather what you need and leave Delta Crossing.’

  ‘And why would I do that,’ sneered Grave.

  ‘Because at dawn five days from now the focus of your lust and her boy will cross the High Cliff Road just shy of the mid stone mark. You are to capture them.’

  ‘I think not’

  ‘Thirty old gold says that you will, but only if the two are both delivered alive to the new keep of young Lord Flatstone Hinge four days from now and no later.’

  Grave cleared his throat and spat on the cobbles. ‘I’m no kidnapper, and no one pays thirty old gold just to capture a woman and a boy.’

  ‘Five on account,’ replied Smoke tossing a small purse down onto Grave’s fresh spit. ‘You will earn your coin Master Grave, you will be pursued, high talents best avoided. Trust me when I say your tracker skills will be tested.’

  ‘And if I fail or choose to go elsewhere.’

  ‘You will note, the teller Barebranch has already foretold your future, wander from the path and your life will be your forfeit. I suggest you nod your agreement.’

  Grave nodded, the tracker turning swiftly his broad bladed dagger slashing the air but catching nothing but darkness. Smoke disarmed him with a single dismissive blow, his blade clattering loudly to the ground

  ‘My masters do not reward failure Master Grave. You are here for a purpose, do not fail us……..that would be a mistake.’ The lie came easily, Smoke pressing the point of his own dagger hard against Grave’s crotch, the king’s assassin fighting the urge to drive his blade in up to the hilt. ‘If you do manage for some reason to defy the tell Master Grave you can be sure of one thing,’ said Smoke twisting the blade and drawing blood, ‘you will never enjoy the boy’s mother.............do I make myself clear?’ Smoke new the effect the words would have, hating himself for speaking them aloud. The future that would happen would happen and there was nothing he could do. Ember had lectured him on the subject, cautioned him and rebuked him.......you cannot change what has already passed, like it or not, Cloak and Dolly’s fate was already sealed.

  Grave’s licked his lips, his nodding eager. ‘Good,’ said Smoke stepping back, and sheathing his dagger. ‘You have little time, I suggest you use ready yourself.......and Grave, cheat, lie or fail and your death will not be a pleasant one.’

  ---

  As Grave leaned down to retrieve the gold, Smoke slipped away, the king’s assassin confident that he had told Grave’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

  The tracker Grave’s had already captured and tortured One Button, forcing the youth to reveal all. The teller Barebranch had known what would pass and had played his part, passing on to Button only snippets of his tell, but enough to whet the tracker’s appetite. Now, he too had now played his part, returning in time, interfering with the past and in doing so making himself the unwitting catalyst for a future that he would soon live and breathe. Had Blacksky’s tell revealed that the man charged by the king with rescuing the boy would also be the one to set Grave’s down a path that would ultimately lead to Cloak’s capture and the abuse of Dolly Chair, perhaps? Then again, perhaps there was another reason.................perhaps sending Grave off as he did would save a life, a potentially precious life.

  ---

  Goose Beam stood unmoving, the giant of a warrior suppressing a smile of immense satisfaction. He did not believe in luck, but he did believe in fate and tonight fate had once more smiled down on him. He was soaked and stank of seaweed ale, his near full tankard spilling down his jerkin when some carless dastard tipped his elbow as he passed. He had turned to follow, ready to lay a bloody blow or two on the fellow before returning to his seat............but the fellow was followed, a high crest scout rising fluidly from his seat before slipping quickly after him, a man who carried hidden blades and moved like silk.

  Invisible to all but the most sensitive of noses he had remained close, the Captain of Mistress Willow’s troop seeing everything and more importantly hearing everything he needed to know. He did not know who his informant was and had at first suspected a trap or a trick but not now. Whoever he was, the honey scented whisperer had given him access to exactly the information his mistress sought most.

  TWENTY FIVE: Clemency

  The persistent drizzle that had echoed the grey dawn had now turned into heavy rain, chilling wet spears piercing the tree canopy, the rain driven on a rising westerly wind. For the last two hours Smoke had ignored Ember’s curses, pressing on into the worsening weather, ever conscious that time was against them. He could feel the Questor’s pull on his bond increase, the compelling force growing steadily until finally he was forced to acquiesce and ease the pace.

  ‘You’re a dastard Smoke, I know you heard me, I pleaded with you to stop over a mile ago. My arse is killing me, my balls are mashed and my inner thighs feel like they have been rubbed red raw with a bristle brush soaked in vinegar………..I’m sure they’re blistered and bleeding. If you want me to compel you to obey then fine, so be it, next time I’ll just haul you from your saddle and make you crawl.’

  ‘Thank you for that Master Ember, the image of your red raw inner thighs will live with me forever,’ said Smoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Fortunately for your thighs, the midden lies yonder.’

  Ember stood in his stirrups and eased his sodden leggings away from his crotch before dismounting. Having securely tethered their horses some distance away, Smoke and Ember stood at the far end of the small grove and stared in admiration at the giant star tree. Without doubt, this was Throat Bark’s spirit tree. Having travelled through the night, both men were cold and wet, the persistent rain and chill wind gnawing at their spirit. They had ridden when they could but from the small hours of the day had mostly walked, leading their mounts cautiously along narrowing forest paths and across fast flowing streams. High above the swaying treetops slashed at the underside of the low clouds as they scuttled overhead. The weat
her would get worse, a forecast for the days ahead that Smoke could give with some certainty.

  Their route had few waystones and with the guiding stars hidden from view, the king’s assassin had to call on all his scouting talent to guide them. He had chosen a path that swept in from the east, well shy of the mid route marker that Grave would be now be staking out. Smoke smiled to himself, he had been careful not to reveal to Grave whether Cloak and Dolly would cross the road from the north side or from the south, in doing so he had pinned Grave to the crossing point, forcing him to hide out until his prey arrived. He would follow them south, silently and invisibly, observing the pair from a discrete distance, closing in only when their destination became clear.

  Their arrival at the grove was later than Smoke had planned as once again aspects of Cloak’s past conspired against them. One Button had been gravely injured, the young engraver’s jaw had been broken, the skin bruised and in places split open to the bone. Smoke had quickly crossed the town, dragging Ember from the his whore’s warm bed in the Fluttering Moth before forcing the little man to wheel Grave’s barrow and the injured youth through the narrow lanes of the old town and up to the gatehouse of the infirmary. Ember’s honey talent suppressed the matron’s probing questions, his donation of three large silvers ensuring One Button some special care. Broken, bruised and bloody the young engraver was safe for now, the bandages masking the Shill’s swollen face making One Button’s almost unrecognisable.

  A discrete and light footed reconnoitre of the path around the midden revealed no sign of recent footfall. By Smoke’s reckoning he and Needle had encountered Shiver Cauldron at the base of No Marrow shortly after midday. Whilst he had been able to confidently tell Ember the ‘time’ of the Troll’s arrival he had kept secret the fact that his assumption on the ‘day’ of his arrival was based on nothing more than healed spider bites on an old man’s crotch.