---
Hidden some yards back from the forest edge Needle secured the horses and made his way towards the keep. A further potent dose of green frog mucus had improved his vision turning the black of midnight into a pale grey dusk. Smoke joined him, the king’s assassin slipping down from his hiding place, invisible, his dark leathers merging with the shadowed bark. Protected from the worst of the weather by the dense tree canopy, Smoke and Needle watched in silence as Echo Grave led his horse and mule out of the main gate, the tracker exchanging small pleasantries with a female guard before turning his mount south and disappearing down a steep brae towards the low forest.
‘Is that him?’ Smoke barely nodded preferring to remain silent. ‘Are you sure?’ Another emphatic nod.
‘Yes that’s him all right, he’s delivered his load, fed and watered himself and now he’s off through the low forest to High Cliff. He’ll seek passage on the ferry that plies west to Long Cliff and then south towards Parasol via Cooper’s Hold. No doubt he’ll then head into the Soulless Forest.’
‘This may be a stupid question Smoke but how do you know it’s him and all? I’m glad you are as emphatic as you are, the sooner we get the boy, the sooner we can high tail it to some warm safe hide. Another night under in this pissy weather and I’ll shrivel like a prune.’
‘In answer to your question old man, it was more of a lucky guess than you might think. A lone rider with two mounts allowed to depart the main gate in the middle of the night from the castle occupied by one of the most ill mannered dastards I know …………… coincidence, I think not. As for the timing of our arrival, I think that’s just pure chance or maybe, just our first piece of good luck. As to his destination, that’s another guess. He said to the guard as he left he was heading home, south, to some decent weather and some warm sweet nut spirit. He also had the accent of a man brought up in the South Green Mellow and putting one and one together my guess is he’s from somewhere near the western edge of the Soulless Forest.’
‘Now that the gate is shut and bolted once more I presume you have some cunning plan for getting in?’
Smoke sighed in exasperation. ‘Getting in is not the problem old prick, getting out with the boy and remaining undetected, that’s the problem.’
‘Why not wait and ambush them on the trail’ replied Needle ‘we could pick them off or sneak into their camp at night and be away into the forest before they knew he was gone’
Smoke suppressed a laugh. ‘We, what do you mean we? You can’t run, your dagger is blunt and you’re scared of your own shadow. You have to admit that you’re no match for an armed man half your age, twice your weight and thrice as mean. As for evading capture, I could take to the shadows and hide but not at night out in the open and, until you regain your ability to wish walk, you my friend remain easy prey and a great prize. The Hinge clan are nearly all warriors and are members of a sect called The High Defenders. They manipulate all aspects of the military and they are also not averse to engaging or bonding with high talents such as mages, assassins or weavers. Such folk do not travel without armed escorts, archers, skirmishers and close combat warriors, the best. Let’s face it, if they know ‘who’ they have or at least ‘what’ they have, the boy deserves only the best to keep him safe. Like it or not the weather is our ally. With just over five hours until dawn, the final watch will be a long, cold and miserable one. See how they leave the lamps on a high wick, the light is their only relief, from the cold and wet. The light at their back comforts them but when they look out into the darkness of the forest it half blinds them. Where there is light there’s shadow, and in the shadow, there waits the assassin…………….’
Smoke removed his dark hooded cloak and hung it carefully from a low branch, the beads of rain running freely from the heavy oiled cloth. From deep within his saddlebag Smoke removed a long black scarf, wrapping the long length of thin material up and across his face as well as over his crest. His movement appeared well practiced, the wrapping a ritual performed many times before. With his scarf in place, only his eyes remained visible, Needle shivered, the man looked every inch an executioner, confident in his ability and unflustered, a man on his way to carry out an everyday task. End a life.
Without another word Smoke boldly stepped out from the tree line and swiftly crossed the open ground, his own dark form soon merging with the dark stone wall of the keep. Needle peered out from his hide, scanning the outer wall left and right from the main gate to the outer tower and back again but try as he might he could not spy Smoke. The king’s messenger had melted from sight and would soon be delivering his silent dispatch.
---
Quickly covered the open ground Smoke pressed himself up against the high stone wall. Safely out of sight of the tower guards, the king’s assassin sidled across to the main gate and began his assent. twisting a thin bladed knife deep into the gap between the door and the huge oak frame. The hide wrapped handle was slim but offered sufficient grip to allow Smoke to balance lithely on the handle. Smoke slid a further blade into place and another. Two more steps, each an arm’s length above the other brought him within reach of the ornate ironwork that spanned the gate head, a sculpted band of wrought iron decorated with wolf heads, each clutching a broken spear in its mouth. Balanced on the handle of his fourth blade, Smoke gripped the metalwork, pulled himself upwards and reaching high, gripped the spiked rail on the top of the gate. His movement from the head of the gate to the wall head adjacent to the guard post was almost balletic, his surgical strokes silently ending the lives of the two unwary guards.
Shielded from view by the persistent rain, Smoke propped the two warm corpses up against the wall. There static pose would not stand close scrutiny but from a distance, given the cloaking rain, his guising giving the guard post a semblance of normality.
Looking down from the guard post Smoke scanned the courtyard. The scene was exactly as he had expected. Ward lines. As neat a lacework as he had ever seen, the lines crisscrossing the courtyard formed a net of deep green majic, a web invisible to the untrained senses. Smoke had seen such webs before, the elaborate pattern of lines a favourite of majic weavers, the stretching of the majic sounding an alarm and trapping any who breached the web. The weaver’s called it a ‘loyalty web’. Those with a nervous heart, a furtive mind or poorly cloaked feelings of anger or hate would attract a thread to them, the majic bonding itself to their flesh and thus tagged, allow the weaving spider to find the fly no matter where it hid. Clever majic, but not that clever thought Smoke. Those with the ability to cast majic could often choose to make it visible or invisible. Most chose the latter but to a gifted few, all majic, even masked strands remained visible. Smoke’s ability to see and smell majic was no natural talent, an embedded charm carved on his breast bone gifting him with the ability. The charm had been a gift from the king, the majic close to his heart in order that it could feed power to the perpetual charm. It was clearly an asset for an assassin to possess such a talent, it had saved his life more times than he cared to recall and after so many years of use the gift had become such a part of him that he used it as instinctively as any of his natural senses.
Smoke slipped a hand up under his scarf and rubbed the pearl earring on his left ear, the surge of majic was ice cold and made him draw a swift breath but within three heart beats, the pearl warmed, grew hot and as it did so, its hue slowly changed from cream to green, the colour mimicking exactly the weaver’s wards.
Enveloped in a hazy green shroud, Smoke slipped down the inner face of the wall before crossing the sodden courtyard towards the main tower. The weaver’s tendrils that quartered the yard were brushed aside by the masking majic, his green shroud preventing the sticky threads from taking grip. Half way round the donjon, Smoke crest sparked. Sensing a trap the king’s assassin slowed sniffing the air around him before stopping dead in his track.
The transition from bright green to dark red was well masked and had it not been for the faint sound of the rain hissin
g as the beads were sliced apart on the hot spears of majic Smoke would have been lanced with flame and burnt to a crisp. This was unforgiving majic, sundering lines that cared naught about loyalty. The low opening guarded by the ruby majic was barred, the space beyond silent and unlit. Memorising the location, Smoke retraced his steps, returning to the outer wall before cutting across the cobbled yard to the servant’s quarters.
The doors were locked fast but the locks were easily breached. Inside, oily lamplight flickered across the corridor, the lamps cast wavering shadows, not ideal but all he needed. Extending a hand Smoke touched the deep shadow cast by the flame and disappeared.
Smoke's journey through the shadows of the corridor took him past the pantries, dry stores and finally the kitchen, only dropping from the shadows when faced with the fortified door separating the servants quarter and kitchen from the main tower. The door was thick and strapped with iron, the fit at the jambs and head tight to the frame. At his feet a sliver of light trickled across the threshold where the passage of many soles had worn down the stone floor slab, the resulting shadow gap just wide enough to allow Smoke’s vaporous form to pass. The route to down to the cells twisted and turned but eventually Smoke found himself at the outer door of the dungeons. Peering through the small grill at the top of the door the king's assassin cautiously peered in. The room beyond was small and barely furnished, the single guard on duty nervously pacing back and forth across the floor. Flowing through the grill and suspended himself in the shadow cast by the wall lamp Smoke waited patiently for the guard to step within arm's reach, a single stroke of his long dagger silently ending the young man’s life. As the body of the guard slumped to the floor Smoke stepped out of shadow and eased his warm corpse silently to the floor before propping the body against the back of the desk. The single door on the far side of the small guard room was locked, his thorough search of the dead guard revealing no key. The door was similar to the one he had just passed, this time the small grill revealing a dead end corridor some twenty paces long, each side lined with barred doors and at the far end, two further guards standing watch over the last door. In the blink of an eye, Smoke entered the slim shadow that surrounded the door, slipped past the frame and re-emerged back into the light of the narrow corridor beyond, his blades already drawn. The guards died quickly, the pair barely having time to drop a hand towards their sword hilts before Smoke silenced them both, his twin daggers surgically slicing their throats, parting the voice box but careful as ever not to cut the main artery, and release a gory gush. As the men fell clutching vainly at their silenced throats, Smoke stepped forward to make the killing stroke. His narrow daggers were sharp, their hardened tips piercing leather and parting mail like butter. Pushing the blade home to the hilt, the smoothly executed stroke entered under the ribs and ruptured their hearts. The easy part was now over.
---
Despite the cold and wet Cloak’s emotions remained hot and angry, his plans for escape and revenge filled becoming more and more elaborate with each passing hour. Just before dawn, the door bolt was drawn back, the door opened and the yellow oily light of the corridor wept into the cell. The man who entered was masked and dressed all in black. He was armed, his daggers dripping fresh blood, the bright red drops tinting the shallow puddles on the floor.
Cloak’s blood chilled instantly as he shied away from the door. ‘A pox on you executioner. Your poxy master’s word is clearly worthless. I should have guessed he’d not blink at murdering an innocent boy. You can tell your poxy Master Hinge I died cursing his name he’s a lying poxy arsed dastard and you can tell him I said so. Is this why he kept me bound and tethered? So you could kill me more easily. Will it make you proud to say you have slain an unarmed lad?’
As the man in black stepped forward Cloak closed his eyes and waited for death, only to fall forward onto his knees when the weighted fetters fell from his wrists.
‘You are absolutely right boy, Hinge is a lying poxy dastard as are all his poxy clan. However, if I had wanted to kill you, you’d be dead on the floor and even your ghost would find no trace of me. You don’t need to know why I’m rescuing you, just accept that I am. Follow me………’
Suspecting a trap, Cloak remained on his knees. ‘I’m not going anywhere, as far as I’m concerned your just a kidnapper trying to undo another kidnapper. Why should I believe you? Convince me?’
Smoke knew the question would be asked. He would do the same, why jump from the cliff if you do not know how deep the waters are. Why risk a worse fate. Two words entered his mind, meaningless words……………...‘One Button.’
Smoke did not know where the words came from nor where, what or who One Button was but at the sound of the name, Cloak’s expression changed, a brief smile creasing his face, a smile that disappeared as soon as he left the chamber and entered the hallway. He had never seen a fresh corpse before, at least not unless they were laid out proper dead in a casket or hanging from a rope. The sight of so much blood and the smell of loosened bowels and piss turned his stomach and he could not help but heave, coating his jerkin in puke as he lurched along the corridor past the two dead guards and out into the guardroom where the other twisted body lay. Cloak pressed past Smoke, the lad’s attempt to escape the gory scene thwarted when he found the door on the far side guard room locked,
‘Where’s the key?’ said Cloak staring at the large rusty rim lock.
Smoke shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea boy, neither of these two had it on them. I suspect they were locked in, not good for their health but a good security measure none the less.’
‘Then how did you get in and how do we get out’ asked Cloak ‘Is this a dastard trick?’
‘I’ll answer your second question first. To get you out we need to wait on the guards arriving with the key. After they enter I’ll dispatch them and we’ll be on our way. All you need do for now is bang on the door and shout until you attract their attention, when you hear the far door open, step back to the rear of the room and keep out my way’.
Cloak spat on the floor and wiped his sour mouth with the back of his hand ‘That’s your plan!…….it’s pish pot poor.’
‘What have you got to lose lad, they won’t kill you, you’re the prize. It’s me they’ll shoal to.’
Cloak thought on this for a moment then nodded, it was true, or at least true enough to be trusted. Stepping forward Cloak hammered on the door, letting loose a string of dockside curses, accusing Hinge of cowardice, a small manhood and breathe that smelt like wet cow splat. Smoke could not help but smirk at the boyish curses, the quality mattered little, for now it was the volume he was counting on. ‘Cow splat’, very fitting, just like Hinge, stinking and runny.
Near five minutes later Cloak was still in full flow. His favourite curses were now being repeated more regularly and his voice was becoming slightly hoarse when the noise of metal grating on metal and boots on stone came down the corridor. As Cloak stepped back quickly, Smoke stepped past. As he did so, Cloak’s head exploded in pain, his world turning black as Smoke’s small cosh made contact with his temple.
Smoke eased the boy to the floor before resting his limp body against the far wall of the room. The coshing was unavoidable, an action bred out of necessity and one he would rather not have employed on someone he had been sent to protect. His ability to melt from solid to formless shadow was a secret, a well guarded talent that for now he did not wish to share with the boy, no matter how special he was. To escape the keep he would need to use the shadows, and, with urgent footsteps approaching, the shadows in the far hall beckoned.
Smoke had barely slipped into the lamplight shadows beyond the door before the first of the guards approached at a run, a sergeant at arms followed by two burly keep guards. The rear two guards fell where they stood, stabbed through the back between the fourth and fifth rib, their hearts pierced clean through before a deft twist of the blade ruptured the organ fully. The sergeant reacted quickly but not quick enough, failing to avoid Smok
e’s next thrust, the assassins dagger piercing the man’s eye, the force of the thrust taking the blade up to the hilt, the point protruding from the back of the man’s skull. Releasing the hilt, Smoke brushed aside the sergeant’s feeble defence, his free hand crushing the man’s windpipe and choking out his final cry.
Smoke pulled his dagger free, wiping the fresh blood on the man’s sleeve before retrieved the keys the sergeant’s belt. Stepping over the warm corpses the king’s assassin re-entered the guard room, and, picking Cloak up by his jerkin, deftly threw the boy’s limp form over his shoulder. The first of the hard parts was over.
----
The tendril of moss green majic attached to the sole of Cloak’s foot was well masked, the change in the tension detected as soon as the boy had departed the cell and walked into the corridor. Willow was not to be rushed, it was not her style. She had learned a long time ago that it was sometimes better to let the fish run with the line rather than play it hard from the first pull. It was not a surprise that others still sought the boy, but attached to her line she could now find him wherever he hid. She would get the boy back, but not before she had used her link with the boy to track them to their hidey-hole, torture them for their secrets and, depending on their worth, eliminate them.
Her tether was not just some inert thread, it was designed for her eyes only, even a scanning charm or another weaver of higher talent would not sense her tendril. The majic that formed the outer skin of the tendril was earthy brown, an invisible wrapping without any other purpose than to hide itself. Inside, concealed, a fine inner core of screaming green…………. smart majic, exposed only for a fraction where it entered the victim’s body, securely attached to the sole of their foot.
CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy) Page 25
