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

  Images of battle flashed across Cloak’s mind. He was a little disappointed that war had never reached the shores of the Delta but, protected by the vast delta to the south, the inner sea to the west and the densely forested hills that flanked its shores even he could see that this was certainly the best defended town in the land. The inner sea was its highway, eighty leagues to the great port of West Stage where the stormy narrows called the Maelstrom mixed with the waters of the Crashing Sea and near one hundred more miles to the capital itself and the seat of the King. A few of the elder folk had ventured as far as West Stage but no one Cloak knew had ever visited King’s Capital or seen the king. He had however heard tales of other far flung places, tales about the mighty fortress citadels of the great lords, their massive towers protected from evil by ancient majics, of the Great Soulless Forest whose abundant riches lay scattered on the forest floor for those brave enough to seek them out, and of course, tales from the cursed southlands, a land of evil and devilment where the folk were crestless and grew hair on their heads like a mule’s main.

  Did such places really exist or were they just fancies? Exaggerated tales just like the old book stories about Troll, witches and majic without colour…………..nothing but faerie tales.

  TWO: Black Stain Nest

  For the last half moon Soar Hot Hawk, rightful king of the crested lands sailed northwards. The cold waters were soupy thick with greasy ice, the thin crust floating like hardened lard on the calm surface. Pushed north on an induced wind they had reached the whaling town of Carcass in good time. The stench from the rendering fields hung over the town like an oily shroud, the vile fetor catching on their throats and causing many to gag. They had disembarked quickly, the kin’s guard setting up a picket around a broad bracken filled swale before unloading their horses and baggage train. The ground underfoot was hard as rock and despite their thick clothing the teeth of the chill bit at their skin. The king stared northwards and shivered.

  For the next ten days they pressed inland, following the winding course of the Old Prey River before cutting north at the confluence of two fast running tributaries, boulder strewn torrents named The Fast and The Pure. Their destination lay a hundred miles north of west and ten thousand feet above the bare rock plateau called The Bear’s Maw. This was the land of Troll.

  It had been two days since King Soar, his close talents, high guard and train had passed the markers that signalled the territorial boundary of the Troll nest. The giant cairns that pox marked the land projected high above the boulder plain, each rocky pile stood some twenty feet high or more, each a monument, a shrine and a warning sign. The cairns had been carefully constructed in layers of dry stone and bleached bones. None dared approach or touch, all well warned that each and every piece had been cursed, each stone and bone carved with an old majic ward.

  From the head of the valley the king scanned the giant mountain that blocked their path. This was Black Stain Law its peak splitting the high clouds, its craggy foothills guarding the entrance to the Troll nest he sought. The foot of the great mountain appeared to lie in permanent shadow, the land still, no sign of passage marring the snows that lay like a flawless blanketed at its feet. As they grew closer, blemishes in the perfection appeared; black towers, a hundred or more of various sizes and heights, their windowless dry stone walls still wearing a thin coat of last season’s grey ice.

  The ranks of armed Troll that lined the broad road to the maw of the nest stood sentinel, their silence menacing, their smell a pungent musk that hung heavily in the chill air. Above, crested folk stared down from the safety of their towers but none stepped beyond their thresholds to greet them. There had been no flanking escort, no welcoming party bearing flags of truce, no cheering or jeering crowds, no regal ceremony, not even food and water offered for the mounts, nothing, just a single Troll warrior waiting on foot at the narrow nest entrance with a brusque instruction in the common tongue to dismount and follow. He could see the fear in the eyes of his faithful as they followed him past the disciplined ranks and into the entrance. Within his chest Soar’s heart pounded, but unlike those around him, not from fear of deceit or bloody death, but from the truth......................the Troll were now masters of their own minds.

  Leaving all but his close guard behind Soar dismounted and standing tall, walked towards the opening. Around him, the tension on the faces of his warriors was clear to see, they followed their king and expected to die. The entrance to the nest was narrow, no more than a thin cut in the rock face like a split lip that would never heal. The cave beyond was wide and for the first quarter mile or so of the cavern twisted and turned, the gentle downward slope barely discernible. Sheltered from the elements the bare dry rock of the cold cavern mouth soon changed. As they walked on the featureless black walls and rough cut ceiling suddenly gave way to a ruby red rock wormed with blue, the chiselled surface mottled with a grey lichen that appeared to emit a pale ghostly grey light from its scalloped edges. After walking for nigh on half a mile the downward journey suddenly grew steeper, their route taking them down long ramps, short flights of steps and spiralling passages from which other caves, wide and narrow branched off. All were silent, the only sound the echo of their own footfalls and the clink of arms and armour.

  Contrary to nature the flora of the nest grew more abundant as their downward journey progressed and with it grew the light and the heat. Clusters of long stemmed pink fungi, watery green ferns with long feathery fronds and intricate webs of silver mycelia that clearly pulsed with light. Old majic. The deeper they went the warmer the cave became as the majic in the rock fed the plant life and fuelled their light. King Soar marvelled at the measured draw of white majic, a skill no crested man or woman could ever hope to master. Impressive as it was, the old king knew this was no demonstration of power over white majic, this was every day majic, a majic every Troll who walked the barren cold lands of the north could tap.

  The relentless downward journey through the winding sloping corridors and spiralling stairs of the nest soon drained the strength from their joints. Each step of each flight reached almost mid thigh, each one more a jump than a step. The air they breathed had lost its purity, fungal spores and sticky floral scents filling their noses and thickening the mucus in their throats. Indeed, the deeper into the nest the party trekked, the more the atmosphere appeared to curdle.

  Weary and sore, the old king could only guess at the passage of time and distance they had travelled since entering the nest. If pressed he would have estimated their downward journey to be near four miles but four, two or one, the very thought of the return journey filled him with trepidation. The taste of the thick hot air in the depths of the nest burnt his throat, tightened his chest and made his breathing laboured, his lungs fighting to absorb goodness from the air. By the time a halt was finally called, the old king’s heart was thumping loudly in his chest and his joint’s screamed with pain, a piercing hurt barely dulled by the power of the enchantment that dangled from one of the thin bracelets around his wrist.

  The deeper they had plumbed, the more the old majic appeared to fertilise the cavern growth and stimulate the floral light. Ferns, fungi, mosses, lichen and vines grew in abundance, their yellow, blue and bright pink luminance fusing into a cottony white glow, a glow that appeared to cast a shadowless light. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of elaborately carved stone doors, each rune shivering with power. The doors stood some twenty feet high and twelve across each side flanked by a statuesque Troll, both beasts armed with axe and mace.

  Drawn open from within, the huge doors began to part, the rune lines bridging the doors snapping with an audible hiss as fragments of power escaped into the already charged air. No trumpet sounded, no hail lord king, no choral blessing or floral ceremony but the invitation to enter was clear. Stepping forward, only silence faces greeted the old king as he and his close guard entered the massive chamber, the hush only broken by the sound of his gold tipped staff striking the polished stone flo
or.

  King Soar stepped forward, his stride confident and his head high. Around him his guard stood in ordered ranks, their faces tense, their knuckles a bloodless white. All faced forward, their eyes locked on the raised dais and ornate throne where sat the Lord of the Northern Lands. The inner court of the northern lord lined the columned aisles that ran the full length of the great hall, men and women in equal number, a hundred or more, many of them bearing low royal crests, the depth of their majical talent unknown. Although this retinue was clearly designed to impress, not one head turned to gaze, all eyes remaining locked forward their stare unblinking.

  Ahead, the personal guard of the northern king flanked the dais, forty or more high crest warriors each as broad as a bull and taller by a head over any man standing before them. Behind them stood the Troll council, a score or more of muscled giants, none less than ten feet tall, all clearly ancient, their hides scarred and patterned with algal like blooms of green, grey and rust.

  The smell of Troll filled the air, the stench clawing at the old king’s throat, the air a mixture of blood, bowels and musk, the atmosphere damp and tainted with their rank sweat. Ten paces from the dais King Soar stopped, the spot marked by a pillar of pale white light.

  Sharp Thunder Moon, Lord of the Northern Lands sat on a heavily upholstered chair mounted on a low dais. To his left sat three women, their skin milk white, their crests low royal, each delicate point dressed with engraved charms and wards………..wives, consorts or daughters, the old king was unsure. The bull Troll standing to Sharp’ right stared straight ahead, his name was Boulder Spine, the bull of the nest, master of the rut and leader of the pride that bided in Black Stain, a nest that sat deeper in the bowels of the earth than the old king had ever imagined possible.

  Sharp stood, the Lord of the Northern Lands easing himself out of his high backed chair. ‘Welcome Uncle. Welcome to Black Stain Nest. Welcome to the northern lands of the crested folk and the home of the mighty Troll.’ Sharp Thunder Moon, stepped forward, the Lord of the Northern Lands towering over the old king, his spectacular warriors crest casting a deep shadow over his sunken eyes. His voice was cold, hard as rock, his welcome words laced with malice. ‘Tell me uncle, have you come north to warm your hands at my fire or piss in my hearth?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough nephew,’ replied the old king ‘but given the stink in this hole the smell of my fragrant piss wafting through the halls would be lost on all but the most discerning nose.’

  Sharp circled his uncle, slowly pacing around him like a wolf trapped prey. ‘A nice repost uncle but I suspect at your age the main challenge would be finding your cockerel before you pissed yourself.’

  Soar stood his ground and faced forward, refusing to be taunted. ‘Diplomacy is clearly not one of your strengths is it boy. Did your father never teach you that hack and bludgeon only bring fear but not respect. Fear is cheap, respect has to be earned.’

  Sharp continued his circling, his mind seeking a barb to stick in the old lion’s side. ‘Don’t lecture me on the value of respect uncle when half of your own Inner Council of high lord’s, the ones you consider your most loyal servant’s, do not respect you. I find it hard to believe that you have managed to survive as long as you have when even your most trusted councillors and even some assembled here today could not give a wet fart whether you lived or died. You really believe that those who cluster around you and who fawn your banner do so out of loyalty?’ spat Sharp. ‘No uncle, they do so out of fear and they wish you dead.’

  Battle cries and bawdy insults echoed around the great chamber as the Lord of the Northern Lands returned to the dais. Soar waited patiently for the noise to die. Had the tables been turned he would have used similar tactics, an assembly in an open forum, insult and belittle, sow seeds of doubt over the loyalty of those close to the crown……………all rhetoric. This was mere theatre and would be over soon, then, the real dialogue would commence.

  ‘Perhaps you should sit on the ice and cool your balls nephew,’ replied the old king. ‘You lash out with your words but I take no hurt from your taunt. Words are the only weapons you have to hand and whilst you try to use them like daggers and stab my heart all you have is an ugly club. You are fearful and you strike out like a cornered wolf. I understand.’

  ‘Fearful!..............you are an arrogant old man, you try hard to hide your desperation but I can see past your eyes dear uncle and into your bloodless heart. Did you expect me to defer to you, to thank you for visiting, clap my hands and show my glee, perhaps ask my allies to offer you the freedom of their nest? Sharp’s eyes burned with hate, flecks of spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. ‘Let me tell you true old man, you are not welcome here and I am of no mind to parley with you. I suggest you turn and leave quickly………….we will be sporting, we will not commence our pursuit for a week, either that or stay, kneel and kiss the floor before my throne.’

  The chamber filled with noise once more, both sides posturing and exchanging meaty oaths. Soar raised his hand, silencing his own entourage. ‘I hope you are not too disappointed if I decline both offers nephew. The stairway to the surface would tax me and I only kiss those I trust and love,’ said Soar calmly.

  Sharp leaned forward in his chair, hand on chin. ‘Age may have wizened you dear uncle but do not try to deceive me into thinking that it has tarnished your wits or your wisdom. I know you’re not some old stooped man who carelessly dribbles peas from his spoon at table, it’s a mantle you wear, an act, a well honed performance, a deceit.’

  The old king remained silent as his nephew letting the words hang.

  ‘You are a tactician, a maker of plans, a devisor of ploys, a schemer and a manipulator.’ Sharp twisted the last word. ‘Some within your ranks describe you as a venomous little snake, a man with deadly fangs hidden in every shadow, a man who trusts no one and is himself untrustworthy.’ As he had expected, his pause provoke no answer.

  ‘Some others in your own lands think you a husk of a man, hollow and too blinded by his own scheming to see that his time is past. A king who cannot accept that his reign is at an end and that his hold on power is merely a death grip.’ Sharp’s smile widened. ‘Of course, none would say so to your face, your kindly grandfatherly face, not if they wished to live.’

  With both hands resting on the head of his staff, the old king remained static, his face impassive. Sharp rose from his chair and stepped forward again, stopping close to his uncle, placing his lips mere inches from his uncles ear.

  ‘I suspect you know this uncle,’ he whispered ‘I hear your high talents have a way of over hearing the most intimate of secrets without being seen or scented. Your power is built on knowledge rent from beyond the veil, you manipulate future events and place your pieces on the board to ensure you prevail but you have stirred the mists too often uncle, the turbulence you have caused will be your ruin. So uncle, let me read your future........’ Sharp put his lips closer and lowered his voice further. ‘In order to leave the northlands alive you will need the aid of god himself.’

  The Lord of the Northern Lands stepped away, returning to the dais and taking his seat once more, carefully draping his cloak over the upholstered arms of the throne. ‘My father said that they should have named you King Cunning Cunny, did you know that uncle?’

  Sharp let the old insult hang. It had been a full month since the old king’s party was spied leaving No Marrow, his troop watched from afar and left unmolested. This was clearly no flight of fancy, no sentimental outing to reunite with long lost kin, this was Soar Hot Hawk, this was a well thought out strategy, a plan with some as yet hidden purpose. It came as no surprise that the old king knew where to seek out the Troll nest, his use of spies was legend, as was his reliance on high talent tellers, far seers and assassins. When word had first arrived of the royal train he had quickly set aside his initial disbelief, spending much time consorting with his own cohort of tellers and seers none of whom had anticipated such a visitation. The closer the
party grew to the nest the greater the unrest and tension, Boulder Spine, bull warrior chief of the Black Stain nest having to spill blood to quell the growing outrage at the furtive trespass, culling a young bull warrior whose blood could not be tempered.

  Had they a right to be concerned? Had the old king mastered a way to read the swirling mist and knew what lay beyond the veil? Did he know the outcome of this bold and uninvited visitation, or was he playing a game of ‘last to blink’ and as blind to the outcome as he was?

  ‘You are indeed your father’s son young Sharp. Questions, questions, questions, many laced with the occasional low insult. My brother did once call me Prince Cunning Cunny, but only once. He had not long taken the throne when he felt the need to confront me about a private matter, he was angry, his mood fuelled by a blood rush and libation. He lashed out with his tongue I lashed out with my boot. I kicked him in the sack so hard he did not know whether to rub them, count them or spit them out.’

  The younger man grit his teeth, his lips a thin line. Like father, like son, the implied threat in the old king’s tale made his intent quite clear.

  ‘I have come here for three reasons. Firstly because I knew you would not come to me, secondly because my exchange is more easily spoken than written down and lastly because my visit is as important to the future of the Troll as it is to the crested folk.’