Willow felt the tendril move………….this was not a surprise but what made her raise an eye was that whoever sought to rescue the boy had managed to evade her web. She had already dismissed the possibility that the act was carried out by one of Hinge’s guards, they all had different threads attached and none had strayed from their post. Moreover, the guards were all clan crest warriors, selected for their brawny not their brains. No, whoever this bold intruder was, he or she not only had the ability to pass through locked doors without the use of a key but were also able to slip past the tell-tale charms that alerted her own captain each time the doors were opened.
She had been warned by her master that other skilled talents would trail the boy and try to take him, threats she had dealt with but at a cost. Seven dead; three to secure Dolly's flight from Delta Crossing and three more on the road to Low Mound, the later an audacious ambush by two cunning dastard mages who wrongly suspected they already held the boy.
The high talent attempting to rob her now would be taken and questioned, killed if necessary but preferably force bonded and sold south into slavery. Such a prize, even cropped, would be worth a few hundred old gold, a well deserved reward that would go some way to compensate her for her loss. Willow tucked herself down below the bed covers and rolled over, pressing her naked form tightly against Hinge before gently stirring him to wakefulness. It was dark, cold and wet outside, dawn was still some hours away and as yet the warded courtyard below remained still. Hinge was a stud, inbred, his skull a void, his brain hanging between his legs. Her offer to bind wards to the cell window was graciously accepted, the ladies of the court watching from a safe distance and applauding politely her casting of needle sharp spears of red majic before complimenting her at length on her skill at wielding such a deep powerful colour. Willow smiled to herself. Neither Hinge nor any of his small court of wastrels had the skill to see or smell her high majic. They saw only what she felt fit and remained both blind and ignorant of her invisible lacework of sticky green threads that criss-crossed the outer courts. Hinge was out of his depth and would more than likely forfeit his life as a result, the young runt of the Hinge line culled for the sake of family pride. For now, the longer Hinge remained abed the better, there was no need to rush, her majical link to the boy would hold until she commanded otherwise and when that time came, she would lead the chase. For now, leaving that loathsome little upstart Hinge to explain to his father how he had been duped into aiding her was a humiliation many would agree he deserved. Perhaps with luck the intruder was an insider, a traitor. Willow smiled at the thought and dug her nails into Hinge’s groin, he did not have enough talent to find a shit in a pot and his small court and poorly trained guards had barely enough talent to boil fish. In the morning she would round on him for his laxness and take command of the pursuit. He would likely cower with his tail between his legs for the next few moons, living each day in fear of the king’s wrath..........that is until the sham is revealed and his high lord father is forced to deal with the gullible runt.
---
As he approached the door that would lead him back out into the courtyard, the king's assassin slowed. Cloak was draped over his shoulder, a dead weight, the lads arms flapping loosely as he jogged along the narrow twisting corridor. This was a stupid plan, it relied on spilling blood and an excess of good luck. The later was a gift from god, a gift that he had always used sparingly, however, tonight, this poor excuse for a plan would use up every last piece of god luck he had ever earned. The swelling on Cloak’s temple was now the size of an egg, an ugly bruise forming around the tender lump. He had not meant to hit the boy so hard but had judged that rendering him unconscious avoided the almost certain struggle he would have faced in pulling the unwilling lad into the shadows.
Over the years he had dispatched hundreds in the name of the king, honing his skill whilst at the same time dulling his emotions, his senses immune to pleas for clemency, immune to the sight of blood and deaf to the sound of screams. The long bladed daggers he wielded had been specially made for his unique talents, surgically precise strokes, single cuts that dropped a man to the floor, the tendons behind the knee sliced clean, his voice box silenced, his eyes blinded or arteries lanced. Tonight he had already had to drop the lad unceremoniously to the floor twice, the first time to engage two guards patrolling the corridor beyond the outer corridor door, the second just as they approached the door below the outer wall of the keep, four ward guards trapped in the narrow corridor with their backs to a locked door, all dead, two men, two women, their long swords and heavy armour useless to defend against the speed and precision of Smoke’s attack.
Returning to retrieve Cloak from the floor, Smoke cautiously stepped over the young warriors, carefully avoiding the pools of hot blood and fluids that coated the stone floor. By the time he reached the door to the courtyard, the rain had eased slightly. Nevertheless, the short dash from the servant’s quarters, around the smaller outer tower and across the court to the steep staircase next to the stable left him soaking. Having scaled the first flight Smoke made his way to the upper parapet, careful not to slip on the worn and slick steps.
Calling once more on the shrouding majic generated of his pearl earring Smoke blanketed them both in protective green before stepping out into the night. It would be easy to kill the remaining watchers, lower Cloak over the wall on a rope and follow him down before making for the safety of the wood. The keep guards he had faced so far were all good clan stock but none were near a match for his blade. His precision and speed had culled their numbers, all of them dying without offering any real challenge.................. A black thought chewed on the edge of Smoke mind; was he being duped, did a trap await him? If he was being deceived then good soldiers had died to make the ruse work, either way, he was now nearing the outer wall and as yet, the snare had not been sprung.
The weather aided him, the rain cascading from the overhanging eaves compelling the remaining watchmen to stand well back from the outer parapet. Had the night been fair and the rain less thunderous, one of the guards might have sensed his approach. This night however their view was masked by a veil of rain and their ears deafened by the deluge that pounded the wooden roof over their post. With the first guard coshed and stunned the king’s assassin quickly dispatched the second guard. Like a knife through butter Smoke’s imbued blade penetrated the guard’s throat. His larynx cut through Smoke pressed the dagger home, the needle sharp point piercing the main artery in his neck from the inside, drowning the man in his own blood as it flooded down his throat and into his lungs. Pulling back the hood of the first guard Smoke delivered the stroke of grace, the king’s assassin indifferent to the pleading look of terror in the young woman’s eyes.
Smoke made quick work of lowering Cloak over the wall, stopping momentarily to scan the courtyard with its green lacework of magic before descending himself. Less than twenty minutes had passed since he had scaled the gate and sixteen soldiers now lay dead. A feeling of wrongness dogged him as he jogged across the open ground towards the shadow of the trees, an intangible feeling that he could not shake off but one that, with each passing minute, made him surer and surer that he was being played. As he reached the tree line Cloak stirred, the lad lifting a heavy arm to tentatively touch the raised lump on his temple. Needle stepped forward and helped ease the boy gently to the ground, Cloak’s eyes opening with a start as the old man wafted a tiny vial of smelling salts below his nose.
Needle held a bony finger up to his lips. ‘Silence boy or my friend will happily tap you on the temple again. We leave now, quickly and quietly. When we reach the wide path over yonder we’ll mount up and you’ll share a saddle with me. For now I suggest you get steady on your feet and step lively.’
Cloak turned to face Smoke as he prepared to lead his horse down the narrow path. ‘That little dastard coshed me on the side of the head. Why did he knock me out when you purport to be rescuing me?’ he asked angrily, ‘and what about my mother?’
/> ‘Sorry lad,’ said the old man sadly. ‘No time for questions or answers. All I’ll say for now is that if you don’t follow right now you’ll wake up with a matching lump on the other side of your head trussed across the arse of his horse.’
Cloak rose reluctantly and followed Smoke’s horse, his head spinning, his temple thumping painfully. The veiled man had fastened a cloak around his shoulders, covering his blood splattered leathers. Cloak shivered at the sight of the blood, the memory of the gore and carnage outside his cell causing his stomach to empty, the flow causing Smoke’s horse to shy away from the acid boak. The old man patted his back fatherly and wiped his mouth with a corner of his cloak. Searching through his pannier, Needle drew out his dry blanket and wrapped the heavy woollen cover over Cloak’s shoulders. Cloak smiled in thanks, gripped the rough cover tightly about him and drawing a deep, deep breath, stepped quickly after Smoke.
After mounting up, the first few miles of the journey took them down and along narrow forest ways, tracks similar to those he had travelled less than a day before. Dark needled firs and rod straight cedars lined parts of the route, their overhanging branches blocking out the sky and providing the travellers with some welcome shelter form the constant rain. The route down and away from Hinge’s keep was narrow and steep, a testing route by day and a tortuous one by night. Had it not been for their sure footed mounts and the potency of the frog mucus the sinuous path they followed may well have defeated them, their enhanced sight allowing them to guide the horses over and around the many dips and trips that littered the route.
At the end of the path Smoke halted briefly to scout the road ahead, quickly rejoining Needle and Cloak and urging them forward onto the clear apron at the edge and road. The exit point was well masked, the trail meeting the road within a stone’s throw of where Needle and Smoke first encountered it. It had taken them almost an hour to reach the road to Mangler’s Oar and by the time their heavy horses lengthened their stride, dawn had all but broken. Those who gave chase would soon follow and would pursue at pace, taking the road, the added miles from Hinge’s keep to the crossroads buying them valuable time.
As they galloped south, Smoke ground his teeth. Something was wrong. He had thought at first that the rescue been anticipated, the deaths of the guards scripted, their lives deemed expendable. Hinge was a warrior, a low royal with an impressive crest yet a pale shadow of his high rank father. The young lord was clearly being played, not too challenging a task given that the man was a mummer and thick as spawn. Indeed, thought Smoke, he was in many ways the perfect whipping boy.
The more Smoke scratched the mental itch, the surer he became. He had checked both himself and the boy for threads and had been careful to cover them both with a shroud to avoid the lacework of clinging green wards that criss-crossed in the courtyard but the further they rode from the castle, the more Smoke’s sense began to burn. The Weaver had the lad on a thread, a spidery length of floss that had evaded his detection. Their troubles were not over.
SEVENTEEN: The Ferry to Flick’s Pier
With nostrils flaring and lather foaming around their mouths the cross breed mares galloped down the ever steepening track towards Mangler’s Oar. With Cloak clinging hard to his back, Needle led the way, Smoke keeping to the rear, protecting the boy's back and giving himself free rein to turn and engage if needs be. The faint sound of baying hounds and horns drifted across the air. Pursuit remained far off but their gambit to return to Mangler’s Oar and catch the ferry to Flick was a high stakes gamble and one they could not afford to lose.
Needle slowed his horse to a walk just as the old gateman stepped from his booth. The small silver sixpence that he dropped into his hand brought a wry smile and a conspiratorial wink. With the gate behind them, their pace slowed to a sensible trot. Hooded strangers galloping through the streets would turn many heads and Smoke judged that the loyalty of the town wardens should not be not tested. Time however remained their main enemy. They had stopped twice to walk and water their horses, using up precious time, trusting that resting the old mares was a better call than having one or both collapse before they reached the coast.
By the time the picket wall and gatehouse came into sight, the sun had risen well clear of the eastern horizon. Dawn had come and gone. Down at the harbour, the loading and unloading of the ferry had been completed, the dory’s had been shipped and the crew were aloft readying the sails for the journey south across the Inner Sea to Flick’s Pier. All around the wharf, the porters were hard at work carting goods between the harbour edge and the tall timber warehouses that lined the waterfront. The inner harbour itself was near deserted, the small drift net fleet already out at sea leaving only a work worn coaster loading a shipment of cut timbers and a few local long liners tied tight to the harbour wall. Smoke disregarded the tub and made his way up towards the end wall of the harbour, stopping at the very last skiff. The girl on board was hard at work shelling blue black muscles and baiting her lines. Smoke dismounted, handed his reins to Needle and stepped over to the harbour wall edge.
‘Lass, will you aid us, we need to make the Flick ferry, can you catch her before she weighs anchor and get us on board………we’ll pay well.’
The young girl stopped her task and looked up, wiping her hands casually on her leather apron to remove the fishy slime. No older than Cloak, her crest looked newly formed. She was tall, clan crest and dressed in a smock and knee length breeches. Her surprise at being approached by two high crested gents was quickly replaced by one of suspicion but at the mention of coin, Smoke knew he had her attention.
‘How much?’
‘These two mares, the saddles and tack………purchased only this day from the stable on the hill. The mares have served their purpose and we have completed our business and have no use of them……………….’
‘You got a bill of sale?’ asked the girl, clearly dubious at such a generous offer.
‘I do.’
‘Give it me………..hitch the pair to the wharf and step aboard.’
Smoke drew out the slip of paper from his jerkin and passed it over, the girl's face broadening into a wide smile. Needle stepped reluctantly aboard, Cloak stepping lightly behind and joining him on the mid thwart. Whilst the lass hauled the mainsheet and raised the rig, Smoke unhitched the painter and pushed the prow free of the dock. As if in response to their flight, the sound of horns echoed over the town. The pursuers had made good time.
The girl appeared unflustered by the distant call, pulling the tiller hard over and letting the sale fill with wind before tacking hard for the harbour mouth. The early morning breeze was brisk, stiff gusts heeling the small craft over as it cut through the confused chop. The lass stood confidently at the stern, unperturbed by the buffeting waves that sent showers of briny spray up and over the small foredeck.
‘Are they after you?’ asked the fisher girl staring at Cloak.
'Yes, the dastards seek to re-capture me and return me to the keep,’ replied Cloak. ‘I do not want to go back.’
Two hundred yards away, the sound of an anchor being raised could be heard over the wind. The girl seemed unconcerned, easing the little craft from one tack to another, each change of direction throwing up more silver spray. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly, ‘they’ll be held at the gate until gateman Sparrow hears their appeal. There’s no love lost between the new lord and the folk of Mangler’s. Ever since he became Lord of Low Mound he's has lobbied to have our free port status dissolved. He doesn’t like it that we are a free town and charge him a toll fee for his dirty ore wagons. He bullies the town councilmen and the provost and folks here don’t like his intimidating ways.’
Cloak pointed out towards the ferry, the fat hull now turning into the wind. ‘Will you catch her in time lady?’
The girl blushed, nodded and smiled. ‘Never been called 'lady' before, my name is Oyster.’
Cloak returned her smile. ‘Oyster………pretty name. My name is Cloak.’
&nb
sp; ‘Well Master Cloak, in answer to your question, yes, we’ll catch her. The Billowing Sheet is as deep as she is fat and she’s laden to the line. She'll have to avoid the skerries and with the wind hard from the west it will force the captain to tack twice before he can bear off south. We’ll soon be able to steer a course that cuts over the shallows and out yonder. The ferry tacks like a barge, so we’ll be waiting for them rather than us chasing them down.’
As Smoke stood alone near the prow, Needle sat in silence, leaving Cloak to talk with the young fisher girl. He hated the sea, feared its white waves and black depth. The very thought of trusting his life to a few planks of wood and a slip of a girl at the tiller left him feeling distinctly uneasy and the increasing heel of the boat brought a sickly queasiness to his guts. As the girl eased the sail and drew the little craft round onto a broad reach Needle eased his grip on the thwart and breathed more easily. Square to the wind the little sailboat's speed increased, the hull now skipping over rather than through the waves. The girl had been right about the ferry’s course and Smoke could clearly see that they were now ahead of the lumbering craft.
‘The course I’ve set will place us ahead of the ferry but I’ll have to turn into the wind to draw aside. You’re not the first passengers who ever needed to chase a berth so the crew will drop nets for you,' she shouted over the wind. 'I’ll only get one run at it so you’ll have to be ready to jump, grab and scramble.’
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.
CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy) Page 26
