CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy)

by Russell Thomson

  ‘You are an embarrassment old man,’ laughed Smoke. ‘The older you get the more loony you become, you are much like a small child…………..a very annoying one. For half a penny you could have sent a runner to find me rather than risk your heart bursting.’

  Needle struggled to his feet, dusted himself down and recovered his dignity as best he could. Adjusting his clothing and casually flicking stray pieces of rank straw from his cloak, the old wish walker ignored the giggling stable lads and, head high, made his way to Smoke’s side. Smoke had just shaken hands on a deal to purchase two workhorses, both were sound in the leg and bore no sores but the draughts were clearly old and had been worked hard until recently.

  ‘Ours?’ slurred Needle pointing at the horses.

  Smoke patted the shoulder of the nearest mare and nodded.

  ‘Good, we’ll need them,’ said Needle rubbing his bruised hip. ‘Smoke, if I was to said the name ‘Hinge’, what would you say?’

  ‘The words conniving dastards of uncertain birthright and as crooked as a dogs hind leg comes to mind………..why do you ask?’

  ‘Do you remember a few years back an old low lord called Sliver Hills Green, he ended up in severe debt and had to sell his only daughter?’ Smoke nodded. ‘Well, the lands between Delta Crossing and High Cliff Haven and from the coast back to the high mountain ridge line were his. The only other asset of value apart from his daughter was the Low Mound silver mine,’

  ‘There is going to be a point to all of this I’m sure………….,’ said Smoke.

  ‘Yes, yes. Well, it would appear his daughter married a spawn of High Lord Hinge, he bought the old man’s debt, and, accepted the silver mines as a dowry. The low lord she married was his forth son, Flatstone Hinge. The previous lord never stayed anywhere near his lands, indeed, they say his daughter has never been closer to High Cliff Haven than the east wall of the King’s Capital. It would however appear that young Lord Hinge is not his father’s favourite son and in addition to being obliged to marrying this girl, he is also being obliged to live on the estate…………….he has moved to Low Mound,’

  Smoke stared incredulously at Needle and swore. ‘What!’

  ‘He has just completed a new tower about four miles from the village, spends the fair days hunting and hawking and the wet and cold ones counting the coin earned from his new mines. The new road was his father’s idea, previously it was just a single track but his new found greed for silver ore made him widen and straighten it so as to take larger wagons. All the ore is shipped to the smelters at Hollow Point on the southern shore of the inner sea.’

  Smoke raised a hand to stop Needles excited flow. ‘Needle, who told you all this?’

  ‘I found the whorehouse. At this time of day the ladies are at their leisure so they were happy to talk……….,’

  ‘Your information came from whores………,’

  ‘It’s pillow talk,’ said Needle smiling, ‘and it did not come for free so it’s safe to presume it’s reliable.’

  Smoke leaned against the corral fence, silently absorbing what he had heard. ‘Needle, we are being played with. The coincidences just keep piling up and hurdle after hurdle is placed in our path so we are never able to get ahead of the game. You know of course that young master Flatstone Hinge and I have………unresolved issues to settle?’

  ‘Oh yes, the whole of the court and inner circle are aware but they see you only in your guise as king’s high messenger boy, they do not quite appreciate the type of message the king asks you to deliver. I am sure Lord Hinge would soil himself if he knew the truth.’

  Smoke spat, the meaty oath under his breath barely audible. ‘Did you know that the king forbade me from slicing the wee dastards cockerel off and feeding it to him?’

  ‘I did not know for sure but I suspected even one of your best ‘accidents’ would still have focussed a light on you as the guilty party. Our master plays the great game of houses and whilst I am sure it would have grieved our master, you would have been sacrificed to keep the peace.’

  The stable lad returned carrying the tack, saddles and panniers, all worn but serviceable. As the lad readied the horses, Smoke and Needle quickly unpacked their travel bags and loaded the panniers. Whilst time was against them Smoke insisted they walk the horses up the steep stretch of road from the town to the crossroads with the Low Coast road, preserving their old mounts for the long ride ahead. As they journeyed north, dusk descended and with it the foul weather returned. The horses bore them with ease but the mare’s wide girth and lumbering trot stretched Needles un-used muscled and mercilessly pounded his now swollen hip. As the junction of the High Cliff Road came into view Smoke called a halt, resting briefly to water the horses and allow them to graze.

  ‘If your information is correct we have four miles more to travel. Two west then two south. We should be able to safely ride the first three miles, possibly more if the dark allows. After that, we’ll have to dismount and walk the rest of the way,’ said Smoke shaking the rain from his hood.

  Needle gave Smoke a pained look. ‘Why waste time walking, this weather will surly shield us from view, more so if we keep to the tree line?’ pleaded Needle.

  ‘This weather is as much a blessing as a curse but since we do not know the lay of his lands there is a risk that even with our night sight we might stumble across one of Hinge’s watchmen sheltering in some hidden road end guard box.’

  The stop lasted no more than ten minutes and whilst the frog mucus remained potent, it could not prevent Needle’s muscles twisting with cramp. Having slid down from his saddle the old wish walker now found he could not mount up, his swollen hip preventing him from lifting his foot more than ankle high from the ground.

  Smoke hunkered down, lift Needle painfully back into his saddle. ‘Sorry old man, we must move on. If we had time to stop for tea I would minister some herbs but all I can suggest for now is that you stand in your stirrups to ease your cramps , rub your sores and trust in prayer.’

  ---

  The gravelled road leading to the castle was smooth and well drained, the broad grass verges well tended. Half a mile shy of the castle Smoke stopped and dismounted lightly. Needle sat unmoving, the old man unable to lift his leg over the mare’s back. Aided by Smoke his eventual dismount was as unorthodox as it was inelegant, the king’s wish walker sliding backwards over the backside of the mare, his heavy landing blowing the air from his lungs.

  ‘Take my reins old man and I’ll scout ahead. Find a break in the trees and work your way parallel to the road.’ Within a few paces, Smoke had disappeared into the dark wet night; silent, invisible and deadly.

  Stooped low Smoke trotted along the tree line until his senses told him to seek the cover of the boughs. The castle keep with its four tall towers and high outer walls was overly grand, a design no doubt chosen to impress the eye rather than hold back a determined foe. The central tower of the keep rose high above the surrounding forest. On a clear day the view from its windows would no doubt be impressive but on this night, the upper floors lay hidden by the blanketing clouds.

  They had been tricked and had lost a day, precious time that could mean the difference between success and failure. Smoke offered a small prayer; please let this be the place and please god, do not let it be too late.

  SIXTEEN: Flatstone Hinge

  Echo Grave stood unmoving in the shadow of the stable doors. Clad all in grey, hooded and masked, his outline melted into the background. The boy was not his concern any longer and the coin he had been paid would last him for years. He had been handed his purse by Star Light Willow, the low royal was pretty but past her prime, her impressive crest festooned with fetishes and charms. Her man had contacted him just before he left Delta Crossing, passing over five old gold in advance as.....‘a symbol of good faith’.

  When he finally arrived at Hinge’s castle, Lady Willow had been courteous to him, casually passing over the remaining twenty five pieces of old gold that had been promised. It was
a small fortune, but, nothing compared to the satisfaction he would get from his other prize, the herb woman. God must have heard his prayers, gifting him the woman he had lusted after from the first day he had set eyes on her. She was now his obedient slave and would warm his bed whenever he willed, indeed, Mistress Willow had all but offered him her blessing saying that the ‘widow’ of the late sword deserved a fellow such as he. As for the lad he could not care less, the obsession that One Button had exposed was gone, and now, god be praised, he had been thrice blessed; the Sword was dead, his comely widow was now his to enjoy and he had thirty old gold secured in his belt. Fate had looked kindly on him.

  The fated boy stood in the centre of the yard, head high and haughty, his hands tied behind his back, a short length of rough rope pulled up and around his neck securing him like a dog on a leash. He was tethered to the water pump and had been left without a cloak or hood to stand in the cold rain for over an hour. From the base of the south tower, the noise of bolts being drawn back and light spilling from an open door turned Cloak’s head. Reluctant to brave the weather, two guardsmen stared out into the rain before stepping across the threshold into the rain. Both men were clan warriors, their bright chain armour peeking out from beneath their boiled leathers, their eyes alert to danger as they walked hand on hilt towards Cloak. The securing knot on the water pump was released with a dismissive twist and two hard pulls. Clearly impatient to return to the dry and warmth of the tower, Cloak was grasped firmly under each arm before being unceremoniously lifted from the ground, the toes of his boots skimming the wet cobbles as he was dragged towards the black stone tower.

  As he stood in the centre of the main assembly room, an expanding puddle of water formed around his feet. The room was large, warm and well lit, an array of lamps suspended from chains illuminating the well adorned chamber. At the far end of the room an overly large fire burned in an equally large hearth, the smoke drawn up and past the mantle into a broad stone flue. Cloak was not alone, the seats to either side of the fireplace occupied, a man and a woman, the couple engaged in conversation, their discussion muted but clearly intense. The woman was elegantly and expensively dressed, her high crest charmed and her forehead bearing a distinctive sect tattoo. As she rose, she motioned the man to remain seated, her dismissive gesture making it clear to Cloak where rank lay.

  ‘Don’t be frightened lad, come closer to the hearth and dry yourself out. I am Mistress Willow, I have been commissioned to protect you and escort you to safety. The gentleman seated by the fire is Lord Flatstone Hinge, master of this fine keep and surrounding lands, heir to High Lord Winter Hinge, crown crest and inner chamber advisor to the king. I had originally hoped to escort you all the way from Delta Crossing but unfortunately I had other business to attend to and was delayed………fortunately for me, and you, Master Grave was on hand to escort you here. I do hope he treated you well?’

  Flatstone rose to stand at her side. The man was a coxcomb, his wife pregnant and in her private chambers high in the keep whilst he stayed below and serviced the maids and matrons. The forged letter that she carried with its unbroken royal seal had assured his cooperation. Hinge had followed her instructions, pressing his finger to the seal and reciting his name, the brittle spell shattering the hardened wax seal into a thousand pieces. He had read it quickly twice, slower the third time before following the ‘king’s’ instructions and casting it into the fire. She had shared a smile with him as the flames consuming the parchment; his smile for the implied promise contained in the letter, her smile at the obvious success of the ploy and the destruction of the evidence.

  His own involvement in the ‘secret mission’ was to remaining forever a secret, a favour for which the king would be eternally grateful. Given that young Hinge was a low son and far from being his father’s favourite, such a ‘debt’ to the king meant only one thing, an invitation to the capital and entry into the king’s outer court. She had flattered him and charmed him, and just to be sure, had laced his drink with a potion that induced both lust and forgetfulness. In matters of such importance, she was not above whoring.

  Cold and miserable Cloak held his head high, his anger unabating. He knew the soaking and binding were designed to bend him and cow him, make him doff his cap to their royal crests. In the past he would have done so, reverent to their rank, his eyes averted as he bowed. That was what he had been taught, that was what the Sword and his guardian mother would have expected of him. But not know, not since the beating he and his mother guardian had endured at the hands of Echo Grave, his vile abuse and rape hardening his heart and filling him with hate. These high crests with their smirking faces, soft words and cultivated accents were clearly out of place in this vast forest, lands barren of the niceties of court. The woman’s smile irked him and the longer her face held the cheery expression the more it rankled, not because it was false, but because it was clear her smile was not for him but for herself. A self satisfied smile, one that she was unable or unwilling to hide, a smile that openly displayed her delight at his capture and signalled clearly to Cloak that he was not a guest but just a prisoner, a hostage subject to someone else’s purpose and will.

  ‘Does your rank provide you with immunity?’ snapped Cloak. ‘Kidnap is a capital offence is it not Mistress? You use sweet words with me that you don’t mean. Indeed I sense your use of words takes you close to a lie. We are your prisoners, your hostages and you hold us against our will. I suspect that if we resist you too will beat us and strap us across a mule’s back if needs be.’

  Mistress Willow continued to smile, ‘Not ‘we’ young man, just ‘you’, the common woman who escorted you will not be travelling with us. She will leave later this evening in the company of Master Grave, you however are to stay here for the night.’ Mistress Willow turned to Hinge, the young lord glancing up from her bosom with a wet smile. ‘His lordship has kindly made all the arrangements and I think you’ll find not find his hospitality wanting.’

  Mistress Willow’s smile did not fade as she crossed the chamber and ascended the broad open staircase. Cloak remained stock still, desperately trying hard to hide his racing emotions. His mother guardian would not go willingly with that man, she would kill the snivelling little shit, cut off his sack and feed it to him. She would return, pick up Mistress Willow’s trail, and follow them. All he need do was slow the bitch and her escort down, drag his heels and make sure he left a clear trail. Willow would not kill him, he was her quarry, all he need do for now was mule; pull back steadily, start slowly, stop early and use every juncture to slug walk until he was found and rescued.

  Flatstone Hinge rose from his chair. ‘Mistress Willow and her troop leave at dawn. For now, my men will escort you to your chamber.’ Flatstone failed to suppress a thin smile. ‘I suggest when you get there you get some sleep. I don’t know what they want you for boy, my role is only to provide a secure hold. If you are a sharp lad you will already have surmised that your life is not in any danger, we are not a threat to you and as long as you behave you will be treated justly.’ Cloak silently raised his fettered wrists. ‘I would be delighted young man but unfortunately, removing the fetters is not a decision for me to take. Your eyes are full of anger and you seek to exact revenge, perhaps in the morning when your blood has cooled Mistress Willow will reconsider.’

  The ‘chamber’ he was escorted to was a basement cell, a damp rank hole with a high grilled window that sat almost level with the courtyard gutter. Outside the rain poured down, the heavy runoff cascading over the low cill and down onto the narrow stone pallet below. There was no dry space to couch in, no blanket for warmth and no escape from the spittering rain. Within minutes, Cloak was sodden again, the damp chill puckering his skin and biting into his joints. The iron fetters were weighted with lead, the rusting metal of the cumbersome and weighty cuffs digging ever deepening grooves into his flesh. There would be no sleep for him this night, indeed, this was their ploy all along, another message, another lesson.

 
Hunched at the far side of the cell, Cloak stared up at the open grille. All was silent, all was darkness, a blackness only broken by a spill of lamp light as a door on the far side of the courtyard opened and closed briefly. As he peered upwards, a shadow darker than the night approached the grille stopping several feet away. The figure stooped low and despite his head being hooded, Cloak easily recognised Echo Grave.

  ‘I won’t come any closer to the bars,’ sniffed the tracker. ‘Mistress Willow’s web of majic is all around and the hot threads are already singeing my coat. I thought I would pay you one last visit before I left. No other reason than just to gloat. Our paths part here, you are someone else’s prize now and let me tell you, they paid well for you. In the end boy you made me a happy man. I have what I want, more gold than I could spend in a lifetime and warm wet pleasures to savour. I’m sure your guardian mother will appreciate my manhood after years of suffering that pinkie pricked Master of Sword she was married too.’ Grave spat between the bars of the cell. ‘I’ll tell you a truth boy, free advice. There are men in this world who not afraid to walk in the twilight towards the dark god’s realm. Men willing to do whatever is necessary to wipe the hairy southern dastards from this world and reclaim what is rightfully ours. You are fortunate to have been rescued by those destined for victory, I suggest you bow to them. When the war comes, which it will, I will be there to blood my sword, but for now, I have a ferry to catch and a bedding to look forward to…………….’

  Cloak bit his tongue and stayed silent, hating Grave more and more, confident that when his mother guardian freed herself from her bonds, the snivelling drunkard would die; slowly and painfully from a gutting stroke that would leave him packing his own entrails back into his belly.

  Grave rose and returned to the stable block, checking his tack one last time before leading his horse and the laden mule out across the cobbled court towards the main gate. He knew his exit would be noted by the watchman in the tower but despite the witch’s assurance, he remained uncertain as to whether he would be followed. She had not enquired about his destination, a small something that made him suspect she planned to recover the gold, but not so, she did not ask because she was as sure as day follows night that the folk who bought him had the resources to find him no matter where he hid. They were wrong.