CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  ‘Is there no other mark, somewhere to the north or west?’

  ‘There are two. The next closest mark lies to the north just beyond the rift you call the Blue Cut, it sits deep in the forest near to the entrance of a wild nest called Callous Depths. It is a place where my brothers and sisters eyes are red with hot blood and their hearts remain full of un-channelled anger. The woods are very old and the blanketing canopy blocks the sky from view, shielding the ground from sharp shadow. There would be nowhere for you to hide and your scent is dark and strong,' said Shiver wrinkling his nose. 'The sons and daughters of the nest would hunt you down and eat you before you had travelled a league.’

  ‘.........and the other?’ asked Smoke.

  ‘The other sits to the west. It lies to the south of the Blue Cut high on a mountain. My people call the peak Taste the Sky, the dog folk call it Mount Soar. The mark is a prayer stone, it is a mark made by the first to walk and comes from a time before the Troll thawed from the ice. The stone is a shrine and sits above the clouds where the sun always shines, the air is thin and the winds are strong and cut with cold even in summer. If your blood did not freeze, the fall from the peak would kill you………… there are no paths, the mark is only reached by those with a talent for high majic who have mastered the single step.’

  ‘How far from the bastion does this mark lie?’ asked Smoke impatiently.

  ‘Thirty or more leagues,’ replied Shiver. ‘The high plateau that surrounds the mountain lies above the tree line and is a sheet of ice even in high summer. The ice is slick and when the winds blow you will have to crawl on your hands and knees. Which death would you choose Master Shadow? Or would you prefer a moment to consider whilst I draw the majic from Master Fat Boar?’

  As Shiver stepped forward, Ember’s legs visibly wobbled. The Questor fighting the urge to run, holding his ground as wave after wave of cowardly spasms wracked his bowels.

  ‘Stand fast Master Meaty Morsel and hold your piss tight whilst I lay hands on you. When the link is broken a spark of pain will blossom around your heart but this will last only a few heart beats.’

  Ember braced himself as Shiver laid a massive hand on his shoulder, his rough palm pressed down hard on his tunic, the Trolls thumb resting on his sternum whilst his fingertips extended over Ember’s collarbone to the base of his shoulder blade. Shiver squeezed gently, a sensation that left Ember feeling like a haunch being tested for tenderness. With his free hand, Shiver drew a ward, the Troll making a winding motion in the air near to Ember's heart before pulling his hand swiftly away.

  Ember head flopped backwards his face skywards, eyes bulging, mouth gaping open in a silent scream. When Shiver released his grip, the portly Questor crumpled to the ground, his knees giving way beneath him, his face striking the ground without an arm outstretched to ease his fall.

  The king’s assassin gasped as his own bond with Ember wept pain, a caustic burning around his heart that tightened his chest and laboured his breathing. Rushing forward, Smoke examined Ember’s crumpled body. The Questor was clearly unconscious, a tortured expression twisting his face, his breathing slow and shallow and his pallor grey as a goose. Above his heart, fresh blood bloomed scarlet on his jerkin.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ shouted Smoke, his hands dancing over the hilt of his blade.

  ‘What I promised,’ responded Shiver with a grin. ‘The bond to the nest is gone………….but not in the way he or you expected.’

  ‘Meaning?’ said Smoke.

  ‘Meaning that there is no ‘undoing’ Master Murder, the bond has to be broken, rent from the body not unmade by majic. I have pulled it free and it has withdrawn into the rock. For now Master Meaty Morsel's slumber will mask his pain but when he awakes, he will suffer.'

  ‘How long will he remain unconscious?’ asked Smoke.

  ‘A three days, perhaps more.’

  Smoke kicked the ground and cursed, the king’s assassin letting loose a string of oaths, low words that would have shocked a slaver’s bitch.

  ‘I need you Troll,’ said Smoke, his voice steady. ‘Without your aid I cannot accomplish my goal, I need you to far-walk me today, before the boy and his mother arrive………………..you know this?’

  Shiver’s response was curt. ‘I said I would so why should I not? If my god and master see fit for me to far-travel you to the far east, so be it. They are wise. Perhaps their great plan requires that you freeze to death or drown or be eaten by my eastern kin.’

  ‘Tell me Troll,’ said Smoke, his voice rising to a yell, 'are you a cunning shit foot or just thick as week old porridge? I need to travel today Troll, alone. To travel alone I need the bond that links me to Master Bag of Guts undone.’

  Shiver laughed, rolling his head from side to side as if stretching his bulging neck muscles. ‘I am amused by your dilemma Master of Shadow. He will not wake, you cannot kill him while he sleeps and the Jailer’s Whip prevents me from carrying you alone.’ Shiver slapped his thighs. ‘He is likely the only dog crest in the land that you cannot kill,’ laughed the one eyed Troll, ‘this amuses me. However, you have not been thwarted Master of Shadow only left with but one choice one that you clearly you have no taste for.............................you must take him with you.’

  ‘Troll what do you mean the Jailer’s Whip prevents you from carrying me, why?’ asked Smoke suddenly curious.

  ‘Because the white would not tolerate the coloured link of the bond passing through the core,’ replied Shiver as if the reason was plainly obvious. ‘It is the only reason I was able to carry you and the old walking dog to Throat Bark’s Midden. If you had still been linked to the old dog king you both would have died.’

  Shiver laughed, his belly rising and falling as the look of sudden recognition left Smoke open mouthed.

  ‘He knew?’

  The giant Troll took no notice, his silent smile enough to answer Smoke’s question.

  ‘Time is a precious and it is now time for you to choose your path Black Dog of the Dog King. Pray tell, which of the four deaths you have chosen?’

  TWENTY SIX: The Mist Fishers

  ‘When will your coven be ready to fish the mists sister?’ Demanded A’Skla, Lord of Airless Citadel.

  ‘Patience brother,’ replied A’Quoo, ‘the king expects reliable results not pale excuses and certainly not the same old excuses you have been feeding him for the last six moons. What in the name of all the gods made you think that you could deceive him with your watery lies?’

  ‘Not lies sister………..I prefer the term embellished readings or optimistic perspectives but not lies. Should I hear that word used again in the context of the valued information passed to our king, a beating with a thorny cane will be liberally administered.’ A’Skla whisked his hand through the air his fingertips barely catching his sister’s hair. ‘Had you made yourself available to assist when I first called on you the situation I find myself in would not be as fraught.’

  ‘Do not dare use me as an excuse for your own failing’s brother. My fishers and readers were deployed on matters of state, matters that you need not concern yourself with. It is your foretells that have sent the king generals into a state of near panic. Why? Because you dear brother placed your faith in an incompetent seer who not only interpreted most of her foretells incorrectly, but who also continually failed to align the time line.’

  A’Quoo stared out over the mirrored surface of the lake. ‘As for that last tell, it was not just old brother, it was ancient. Had you submitted it without elaboration it might not have been referred to the king, but no, you brother chose instead to garnish a turd.’

  A’Quoo poked a stiff finger into A’Skla’s chest. ‘Before I forget,’ said A’Quoo sternly, ‘I do not normally offer the services of my coven for free, not even to you dearest brother, but……..’ A’Quoo paused, ‘given your predicament and the lack of skill displayed by your own fishers and seers, I will accept your signed note of promise and will graciously forgo imposing any in
terest on payment…………..for the first two years.’

  A’Quoo dipped her fingers casually into the waters. ‘The sun is high and the surface waters grow tepid. I’m surprised your witches can capture anything in such conditions,’ said A’Quoo dismissively. ‘There will be no mist fishing today. My own coven will commence their sifting at dusk. They will of course require unrestricted access to The Thunderous Swallow………sole access, no guards, no visitors, no onlookers, including you dear brother,’ added the dowager royal. A’Skla made to protest, A’Quoo’s raised hand silencing her younger brother. ‘Once my mage master is satisfied that the waters have cooled sufficiently my fishers will trawl the mists. I expect them to receive nothing less than the highest level of courtesy brother, my fishers and seers may be slaves but they are my slaves, make sure your courtiers, guards and servants take heed of this.’

  ‘Yes sister,’ said A’Skla reluctantly. ‘I will ensure your retinue and your coven are treated respectfully. It is in my interest after all. Your fishers and readers come with a handsome reputation and your fee………….’

  A’Quoo’s sharp look cut her brother’s words in half. ‘Don’t dare quibble brother. You’re not the pauper you make out to be. Let’s be blunt shall we. Your flowery invitation did all but use the words ‘I beg you’. You have lied to the sovereign and you will be lucky to just forfeit your pathetic little estate. What use are you to me if you lose your wealth or your head?’ A’Quoo let her words hang. ‘You need me to save your life, you need me to provide intelligence, reliable intelligence,’ emphasised A’Quoo. ‘In other words brother, you need me to find a seam of gems sufficiently rich to ensure the king’s executioner stays his blade.’

  A’Skla contemplated his sister’s words. He was a prince, a low prince but a prince nevertheless. His citadel sat high in the mountains close to the eastern sea, his impressive fortress, an oasis in what were otherwise harsh and unforgiving lands. Guarded by a crown of mountains, his lush fief was well defended and well provisioned, his lands irrigated by three great melt fed lakes. Whilst the snows that lay on the high peaks all winter ensured the underground rivers and aquifers remained full and their waters sweet, it did little to fill his coffers............a prince does not grow rich from water and greens.

  It had not always been so. Three generations before the Airless Mines had flourished, their gems and rich ores filling the coffers of the citadel. Over time, such finds became fewer and despite searching endlessly for new seams and the cutting of new shafts the bounty had dwindled. Within a few years what was left of the hard won gains had been squandered until finally, the estate failing and in debt, the emperor’s father revoked the old lord’s rights to the land. As a low prince, such was his reward, a fiefdom without riches or influence……..that was until fifteen years ago.

  He had been no more than twenty five when the great quake struck. It was a day of destruction and death. The power of the tremors split the valley asunder, swallowing parts of the town and turning the river’s course. Hundreds were crushed or drowned, many more injured or maimed, the quake touching the lives of lords and layman alike. Had the true impact of this small sacrifice been known to him at the time he would have celebrated the day. Instead he had moped childishly and selfishly, locking himself away with his chancellor whilst he bemoaned the cost of restoration.

  The quake had changed the landscape, burying old mines and exposing new rock. Most of the old workings had suffered. Some mines had been crushed flat and where landslides had dammed the narrow valleys, the deep shafts within had filled with water. The loss of the old mines was not a concern, indeed, he had quickly realised that the new rock faces exposed by the quake were a potential windfall, not only revealing new seams but providing a tumble of rich rubble in the valley floors.

  As soon as the period of mourning was over, an expedition was sent out to more accurately evaluate the gains and losses. The small party comprised a high crest surveyor, his prentice, a minor mage and eight hack head slaves. He had expected them to be gone a moon or more but to his surprise, on the tenth day, the mage returned with a single slave in tow, the skinny fellow securely shackled and collared. The memory made A’Skla smile, the mage’s words still clear in his mind. ‘this slave has a latent talent, he claims to have seen a feathered rainbow’. It was true. In one fell swoop the slave had changed his path, his luck and his fortune. He had found not just a thread of colour but a veritable rainbow, the coloured majics dissolving as they rose from the surface of a newly formed lake. Shortly after the find had been confirmed A’Skla had visited the lake himself. He was blind to the colour of majic and had known before he set off for the lake that he would see nothing but its glassy surface, but, blind to majic or not, the invisible fountain of majic existed and the riches it would bring him required he undertake the pilgrimage, kneel down on the rocky shore and praise his god until the sun set below the high horizon. Although hidden from view to all but those blessed with a rare talent, the existence of the majic fountain became a well guarded secret. The surveyor, his prentice, the mage and the slaves were quickly culled, their friends and their families, the guards on watch and finally his own secretary and chancellor..........in total three score souls.

  All raw majic belonged to the king, the price for each shade determined each new year by the king’s chancellor. A black market existed but since illegal trading was punishable by death and family forfeit, only the foolish or desperate chose to disobey. Whilst he had heard that there were often arguments with the treasury over shade and quantity, the payment in gold was prompt and provided the fortunate few with a handsome source of income. He had expected his grand uncle to order him to drain the new lake, pump out the old shaft and commence mining the majic but he did not, instead, he had offered him the services of his best engineers and the promise of much greater gains.

  His journey to the capital had taken him a full moon cycle, his tedious journey made worse by a further ten days of wearisome waiting at court before finally being summoned. When his grand uncle had first asked him what he knew of mist fishing he had thought him addled and had smirked. This was an old wives tale, a faerie story, the tale of a young maid who lived in a cave beneath a waterfall and who professed to fishing secrets from the falls. ‘Yes’ he had said dismissively to his grand uncle. ‘.........and the villagers thought her mad and drowned her in the mill race.’ His uncle’s face had remained stony and the truth he heard him recount that day was more fanciful than the tale.

  ---

  ‘The fountain of majic that you describe is extremely rare and extremely valuable,’ said the king. ‘There are only seven such fountain that we know of in the land. Three of them lie deep in the Black Sands Desert and are mined for their majic. Of the four remaining fountains two produce little. One of these lies deep within the Well of Shells but the ground shakes that plague the land make it both a difficult and dangerous place to mine. The other sits at the centre of Fever Lake. I have not been there myself but it is said that on a clear day the fountain can be seen from of the Citadel of Reflection. Unfortunately not only are the shallow lake waters not conducive, the biting flies that infest the shores carry a particularly virulent strain of Marsh Fever.

  The king had paused, swearing him to secrecy before continuing. ‘My advisors do not understand why but by god’s good grace given the right conditions, the fountains contain more than just majic............they contain preserved tells. Not one or two, not hundreds, not thousands but tens of thousands of tells. Incredible as this may sound it would appear that when a Teller of the crested folk peers beyond the veil of time what they see and hear is bonded to the majic and drawn back into the earth. The telling abides for decades, even centuries, its story trapped within a tiny ball of majic but not only that,’ said the emperor a broad smile creasing his tanned face, ‘they replicate again and again.........I know this because I myself have had the same tell appear on my desk three or four times in one year.

  At present there a
re two fountains where tells are harvested, one is within the Cavern of Kings and the other is in the Valley of the Trumpet. Both fountains emerge into lakes high in the mountains where the air is cool and the waters are chill. Each day from the tenth moon until the fourth new moon of the year the mist fishers comb the outflow waters but as summer approaches and the waters warm they leave the mountains and retire to their Temple House returning once more in the autumn when the waters have cooled. The waters of the lake where your fountain lies is however fed from a glacier and should therefore allow the waters to be sifted almost all of the year.’ H’Zel shook his head, the emperor barely suppressing his glee. ‘How and why these bubbles of majic congregate in the chill waters we do not know, what we do know however is that where a rainbow fountain exists, and where the conditions are just right, the tells can be fished out.’

  ‘Fished out.........how?’

  A’Skla remembered standing before the king slack jawed as he described the process, more so when he was advised that his own sister, the dowager princess A’Quoo had been commissioned by the king to assemble the first coven of fishers just over ten years before, a secret she had kept well hidden, and now, one that he too was sworn to maintain on pain of death.

  ---

  His progress had been slow at first. Good talents were rare, the best having already been coerced to join his sisters own coven. After three years of searching and with little help from his sister he had slowly improved his stock. His success was intermittent at best, and it was not until the heart of winter on the fourth year that his mist fishers and seers finally began to capture and interpret tells of value. He regretted his own avarice, pressing his coven to harvest the falls again and again, regaling his fishers when they failed to capture more tells and chastising his seers when their interpretation proved mundane.

  His downfall had started during the harsh winter of the year before last. Greedy for gold he had forced his small coven to fish the icy waters day and night. Weakened, several succumbed to Grippe Fever and in his rush to find replacements, he had accepted poor substitutes. As his rate of capture dropped, his debts began to grow once more and with them so to his desperation. He had not lied to the emperor, he had merely ensured that the best interpretation was placed on each tell. Unfortunately, as the months passed, even he had to concede that the line between interpretation and imagination had begun to blur.