The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  It worked. The creature lost its footing for a moment, time enough for Renna to gain those critical few paces on the drooling beast. Stealing another quick look back, Garec saw that the bull had started down the dirt trail leading towards the cliffs. There would be no time to take the precipitously terraced switchbacks down to the river; the turns were too steep.

  ‘We’re going to have to jump for it, Rennie,’ Garec shouted to the mare, who seemed to understand. She lowered her head and, with her last strength, ran without slowing off the edge of the cliffs. The grettan, close behind, also leaped into the morning air.

  Danae’s Eddy had been formed by several large rocks below the surface on the north bank of the Estrad. Right at the point where the river made a lazy turn south, the submerged formation forced the water’s flow back on itself and carved a deep pool from bank to bank.

  In the vivid morning sunlight Garec could see the rocks, a russet blur beneath the surface, and feared for a moment that Renna’s momentum would carry them too far and they would land on that inhospitable bed – but as they began to fall, he realised they would barely clear the rocks and trees on the south bank beneath them. He flailed his arms and legs in an effort to get off Renna and as far from the mare as possible before they hit the water; he was still pulling at imaginary lifelines when they did. Although the fall was not great, the impact was powerful enough to force the air from his lungs as he plunged deep beneath the surface.

  Gasping for breath, Garec clawed for the north bank. He could see Renna well ahead of him; by the way she was moving it looked as if she had come through the fall unscathed. He was not as certain about himself. His ribs hurt and he could already tell he’d damaged his right knee.

  ‘Relax,’ Garec told himself, in an effort to calm down, ‘you’ll be fine. Just relax.’ The hunter allowed the current to carry him a short distance downstream while he caught his breath; when he looked back, he could see the grettan struggling onto the south bank and up the cliff trail, the twin arrows askew in the monster’s neck. The bull stopped several times to face the river and scream, an unholy cry that chilled Garec, even though he knew that thanks to the grace of the gods of the Northern Forest, they had made it out of harm’s way.

  Renna had clambered out of the river and was trotting along the bank, anticipating where he would come ashore; she gave him a knowing toss of her head as she sidled gracefully towards the water. Favouring his ribs and sore knee, Garec began swimming for the distant bank.

  The almor waited silently on the south bank of the Estrad River. It had observed the young man’s flight through the forest, and the small herd of unshapely black beasts that pursued him; now it watched as the snarling, frothing creatures returned. Several stopped to drink from the shallow pool while others went back to the bloody remains of the fallen deer. The almor’s hunger was maddening. It had been summoned early that day by a bold and powerful force, and its mission was clear. The hunt would soon begin, but first it needed to feed, to replenish its energy and to gather knowledge of the surrounding forest.

  The largest of the beasts, the great bull that had nearly captured and killed the young man, struggled to the pool for a drink. Two of the man’s projectile weapons were lodged in the animal’s throat and it would soon fall from loss of blood. Several of the other creatures waited nearby, ready to attack the large male as soon as they were certain death was imminent. The almor did not wait for them. Stepping into the river, it shimmered for a moment, then melted away. An instant later, the bull grettan stiffened sharply, as if struck by a seizure, and then collapsed on the muddy riverbank. While the others prepared to leap on their fallen leader, the grettan’s eyes sank back in its skull, its coat turned a light shade of grey and its great mass expanded slightly before shrivelling down to an ashen shell. The grettan was gone, sucked completely dry in a matter moments by the starving almor. Garec’s arrows, a skeleton and a wrinkled, leathery putrefying husk were all that remained of the great beast.

  THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF IDAHO SPRINGS

  ‘I don’t get why it has to be a square unit,’ Myrna said as the door closed behind the only customer to visit the bank that morning. ‘I mean, wouldn’t they have measured the area of a circle in circular units? Isn’t a circle a perfect shape?’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t the right shape for area, and the Egyptians knew that,’ Steven answered from his office. ‘Anyone who dealt with the area of regular and irregularly shaped polygons had to come to the conclusion that area would best be measured in units that could accommodate the angles inherent in their buildings, towns, fields, or whatever.’ He outlined the corner of his leather desk blotter with a fingertip. ‘So they decided on a square, because circular units don’t interlock, nor do they fit into corners. Squares were easy to conceptualise and, having four equal sides, they were easier to use.’ He paused for a moment, considering what he had said, and went on, ‘At least I think that’s the way it worked out.’

  Steven had received another maths quandary that morning from Jeff Simmons and had shared it with Myrna Kessler, his colleague; it was one way to pass time at work. He had already figured out an answer, but teased Myrna as she struggled to piece hers together. Myrna was a self-proclaimed ‘mathsophobe’ – she was going to study liberal arts or humanities once she’d saved enough money for college. She’d graduated from Idaho Springs High School three years earlier, but her parents weren’t able to help finance a degree.

  The bank manager refused to play along with Steven and Myrna unless the problems dealt with compound interest or real estate speculation. ‘I had a maths concepts class for a year in high school,’ Griffin told them, ‘and I still don’t know what the hell that class was about. Derivatives – what the hell’s a derivative when it’s at home?’

  ‘We’ll tackle that one tomorrow, Howard,’ Steven promised. ‘Today we’re dealing with the Ancient Egyptians.’

  Steven read the e-mailed problem aloud to Myrna: ‘Ancient Egyptian architects established the height of the pyramids using the diameter of a circle whose area equalled that of the square footprint at the pyramid’s base. How did they calculate the diameter’s length?’

  ‘You know, all this maths problem stuff makes you look like a geek,’ she said. ‘You need to find another hobby.’

  ‘He is a geek, and he’s found the perfect geek hobby. Leave him alone.’ Griffin’s voice resounded from somewhere inside his office.

  ‘I am not a geek,’ Steven defended himself. ‘All right, I might be a bit of a geek, but it’s certainly not maths’ fault. If I’m a geek, I’ve done it to myself. At least I’ll be a noble geek.’

  ‘And this problem is boring. I like the last one about the phone and the calculator. I haven’t been able to figure it out, though.’ Myrna went silent as the front door of the bank opened and a customer approached her window.

  ‘Neither have I,’ Steven answered to himself. He hadn’t thought much about that question in the weeks since its arrival; it was more difficult than it appeared at first. He pushed a few buttons on his telephone keypad, but was interrupted when Griffin poked his head into the office.

  ‘Aren’t you heading into Denver tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m hoping to get out of here a bit early this afternoon so I can make it to South Broadway before the antique shops close. Why?’

  ‘Mike Thompson at First American Trust has an extra ticket to the game Sunday. Could you stop on your way down and get it for me?’ Griffin was no great football aficionado, but any excuse to drink beer while eating grilled bratwurst would bring out the fan in his boss.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Just call and tell him I’m coming.’ Steven grimaced: he never enjoyed the drive into Denver. The opportunity to appreciate the picturesque foothills and long sloping vistas was invariably ruined by interminable traffic. If he left by 2.00 p.m., he would have a couple of hours to shop for his sister Catherine, who had just agreed to marry the man she had been dating for the past two years. The wedding was scheduled for
mid-December, and Steven planned to buy her a late-engagement, early-wedding present. As a child, his sister had loved the antique china cabinet their mother had in the family dining room. It was mahogany, with thin glass panes set in an elaborate woodworked pattern on double doors. South Broadway Avenue was lined with antique stores and Steven had seen an advert for a going-out-of-business sale at an old family shop, Meyers Antiques. One way or another, he was sure he would find something just perfect for Catherine.

  He missed his sister. They spoke frequently on the telephone and she teased him when he forwarded maths problems to her by e-mail, but he wished they saw each other more often. When they were children he had always been busy with friends, athletics and all those other world-shatteringly vital teenage things he couldn’t even remember now. He’d rarely found time for her, despite the fact that she had idolised him. When he reflected on their childhood, fifteen years later, he felt that was his greatest failure, that he had not taken the time to be a good older brother to her. Kenny, the man she was marrying, was a technology specialist and computer programmer. Steven had met him only once, during the Christmas holiday at Catherine’s home in Sacramento – Christmas in humid, eighty-five-degree weather, ironic but fun nevertheless. When he’d got back to Idaho Springs, he’d erected a Christmas tree in his living room to enjoy the holiday in a snowy setting, even if it was a week late.

  He wanted his gift to show that he had paid attention to things that were important to her when they were young, even if it came a score of years too late; he hoped she would realise how much she had always meant to him. So he had to find the perfect cabinet.

  Steven collected the papers for a small-business loan application and placed them in a manila folder. He walked to the lobby and handed the folder to Myrna, who quickly put away sketches she had been working on and opened a magazine resting on the counter. ‘Were those circles I saw drawn on that sheet of paper?’ Steven asked, grinning.

  ‘No. Well, okay, yes, but I’m not working on it any more,’ she said, then changed the subject pointedly. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘This is the Thistle loan application. It’s all approved. Would you put it in the computer for me and send out the letter once Howard signs it?’ he asked.

  ‘I am not your secretary, Steven Taylor,’ she answered, trying to sound offended and failing. Steven liked Myrna. He often found himself taking time to tell her the things he wished he’d said to Catherine through the years. She was an attractive twenty-one-year-old with short, raven-black hair, light skin and blue eyes. She had been a member of Mark’s world history class three years earlier and Steven knew he would always think of her as one of Mark’s former students, even though he often heard her planning evenings out with friends or trips to the resorts for après ski parties.

  Myrna’s father had to give up work after being injured in a car accident, and she’d taken on a number of part-time jobs around town to help her mother make their mortgage payments. Finances had been tight for several years, but last winter her mother had been promoted to assistant manager at the local supermarket, and her father had landed a job helping out in the cafeteria at the hospital. Myrna’s dream was to attend college, and Mark had been helping her with scholarship applications; if all went well, she would attend the University of Colorado the following fall.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Steven responded, ‘I was just hoping you’d help me get out of here early today so I can get my sister a wedding present.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll help you. Also, I’m bored. It’s been dead out here today.’ She cast him a coquettish grin.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said as he turned towards Griffin’s office, ‘okay, I’m off. Howard, I’ll drop the ticket by tonight if I’m not too late, or tomorrow morning after breakfast. Myrna, behave yourself tonight. Stay away from the Ja¨germeister. That stuff will kill you.’ He grinned back at her and pulled an arm through one sleeve of his tweed jacket.

  ‘How would you know, Steven? You’re never out – when was the last time you had a shot of Ja¨ger – or anything?’

  ‘It may be the only German Schnapps I know, but if you really want to drink like a fat, balding German banker, that stuff is your free pass. Behave yourself anyway.’

  Myrna watched through the front window as Steven waited to cross the street. She’d had a crush on him three years ago, but now she looked on him more as a protective older brother than a potential catch. He looked over his shoulder, shook his head in amusement and hopped back up the stairs.

  Myrna looked at him expectantly. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a square built on eighty-nine per cent of the circle’s diameter. The Egyptians had it all worked out long before they ever heard of pi. See you Monday.’

  GREENTREE TAVERN AND BOARDING HOUSE

  Garec Haile rode hard through the village towards Greentree Tavern. He had taken a few moments near Danae’s Eddy to clean the claw wounds on Renna’s hindquarter, but the injury needed stitches. Garec thought Sallax had some herbal concoction to help the mare sleep while Brynne stitched her up; for now, the bleeding had slowed enough for Renna to carry him back to Estrad. He hurried to spread the word that there were grettans in the southern forest. Careening into Greentree Square, Garec suddenly reined Renna to a slow walk, a spray of mud about her feet marking the abrupt change in tempo. There were nearly a dozen Malakasian soldiers tethering their mounts to a hitching post in front of the tavern, their black and gold uniforms unmistakable. Some remained outside, encouraging interested passers-by to continue on with their business, while others entered the tavern through the front and rear doors. The platoon would have been no match for an organised group of Estrad villagers, but the Eastlands and Praga had been under Malakasian occupation for so long – several generations now – that few would even think of spontaneously taking up arms against Prince Malagon’s forces.

  Fighting his fear, Garec rode to the mercantile exchange across the square from the tavern owned by Sallax and Brynne Farro and hitched Renna there, not wanting to lose her to the Malakasians should trouble arise. Lashing his bow and hunting knife to his saddle, he limped across the common and attempted to enter the building. ‘Hold there, son,’ a burly sergeant called, ‘we won’t be long.’ The soldier was an older man; he looked like he’d been hardened by many Twinmoons’ service in Malagon’s army. He stood a full head taller than the other soldiers and corded muscle bulged in unlikely places.

  ‘I’m unarmed,’ he replied. ‘I have friends inside.’

  ‘I said hold here, boy,’ the sergeant directed. ‘If your friends are smart, they’ll have no trouble this morning.’ Garec watched as one of the soldiers moved to block the front entrance. These men were more heavily armed than the Malakasian patrols that regularly crisscrossed town and covered the north bank of the river. Something was wrong.

  ‘You don’t look like normal patrolmen,’ he ventured, ‘is something wrong?’

  ‘Mind your business, boy,’ the sergeant told him sharply, then softened and admitted, ‘Actually, you’re right. We’re looking for a group of raiders who took a caravan last night along the Merchants’ Highway north of here.’ He fingered a short dagger in his belt. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, boy?’

  ‘Uh, no sir,’ Garec began, ‘I haven’t—’ He was cut short by the sounds of a struggle erupting inside the tavern and started to move towards the door, but before he could enter, he was seized roughly by the guard posted near the entrance and felt a strong blow to his head. Stunned, his vision blurring and his head swimming, Garec fell backwards and managed to sit heavily on the wooden stoop.

  ‘Now, you’re lucky, boy,’ the sergeant told him calmly. ‘I could have you killed for that, but you caught me in a good mood today. You stay smart and stay put, because you come at one of my men again and I’ll run you through, armed or not.’ Garec did not believe he could stand if he wanted to, never mind fight. Through the ringing in his head, he listened for sounds from the tavern but heard noth
ing. Soon thereafter, the remaining Malakasian soldiers emerged, mounted their horses and prepared to ride away. Among them was a young lieutenant who gave several sharp orders, then scowled at Garec before waving his platoon northwards out of town.

  Garec tried to shake off the queasy feeling and struggled to his feet.

  ‘Have a good morning, young man,’ the old sergeant said and cuffed him once, hard, before riding away.

  The scene in the tavern was not as bad as Garec had feared; he remembered much worse from any number of Twinmoon celebrations. One well-dressed patron he recognised, Jerond Ohera, lay unconscious near the front windows; others helped to right tables that had been overturned during the search. Sallax and Brynne Farro were behind the bar; thankfully, both appeared unhurt. Versen Bier, a woodsman and Garec’s close friend, was kneeling to help Jerond. Garec knew all the remaining customers except one, a travelling merchant from the look of his boots, silk tunic and brocaded wool cloak.

  ‘So what was that about?’ Garec asked as he made his way to the bar.

  ‘Lords, what happened to you?’ Brynne asked, hurrying around to help him to a seat. She took his face in her hands and began cleaning the blood from his temple with her apron.

  Sallax answered Garec’s question. ‘They said they were looking for three men, part of a group who raided a caravan along the Merchants’ Highway last night. Apparently three were killed, but three managed to escape.’

  Looking up into Brynne’s eyes, Garec could see her concern. He whispered so only she could hear, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t him.’

  A tear began forming at the corner of one eye and she quickly wiped it away on her sleeve.