The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  Through his fear, Steven felt time begin to slow. He and Gilmour were the only members of their party not yet fighting; it looked to him as if they had been spared, maybe because they had been riding at the end of the line. He remembered the feel of cool water cascading across the back of his neck and his own words, repeated over and over: ‘We might not make it.’

  In slow motion he dismounted, stooped for a moment to pick up a length of hickory from beside the trail. We might not make it. A Malakasian soldier emerged from a thicket to his right and with effortless grace, Steven turned, bringing the staff around violently in a deadly arc that crushed the unsuspecting soldier’s skull. The man’s face was animal-like; he had a wild look, almost brutal.

  Steven paid him no more heed and moved instead to where Garec lay, still fighting to free himself from the two soldiers ripping at his flesh with clawed fingers. We might not make it. Steven released his anger in a crushing blow that took one soldier under the chin and broke his neck cleanly. Thrown backwards into the brush along the trail, the Malakasian’s body continued to twitch reflexively as Garec’s second attacker turned his attention to Steven. Seeing the now-bloody hickory shaft, he tried to tear it from Steven’s hands.

  ‘We might not make it,’ Steven heard himself cry, and then laughed inanely as he punched the Malakasian hard across the face. The soldier lost his footing and Steven brought the wooden staff down across the outside of his knee, shattering it beneath him. The warrior screamed, it sounded like an ancient, primaeval curse, and flailed wildly as he fell to the ground.

  Steven ignored him and moved to help Mark and Brynne. Mark was fighting to escape from the iron grip of a brutal soldier pounding away at him with sledge-like fists and granite elbows. Moving with mercurial quickness, Brynne ducked and closed in on the enemy soldier. Her short blade in one hand, she spun, took a glancing blow on the side of her face and rammed her knife to the hilt in the big soldier’s chest. She gave a guttural shout of satisfaction when the blade broke through the sinewy muscles above the Malakasian’s breastbone.

  Steven made his way around the injured soldier and took aim. Swinging like a lumberjack felling an ancient redwood, he splintered the hickory staff against the small of the enemy’s back, breaking his spine. The man collapsed like a pricked balloon.

  Brynne helped Mark to his feet and the couple scurried away from the now disabled but still vicious Malakasian. ‘Steven, get back!’ Mark shouted when he saw his roommate standing over their fallen attacker.

  ‘We might not make it,’ Steven cried in a voice that sent chills along Mark’s spine. And he watched in terror as his best friend raised a short, jagged piece of hickory and drove it deep into the soldier’s neck, killing him.

  Steven, sprayed with the explosion of blood from the soldier’s carotid artery, fell to his knees and began to sob. The world caught up with him: now time moved at breakneck speed. He felt alone, terrified, and certain he would die in this strange land.

  Mark wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulder and led him away from the bloody aftermath of the fight.

  ‘We might not make it,’ Steven cried against Mark’s chest.

  Versen and Sallax had dispatched their assailants in a flurry of deadly axe blows; now they moved towards Gilmour, who was sitting in the mud beneath Mika’s horse, cradling the young man’s head in his lap. Mika was dead. His head had struck a rock when the Malakasian wrenched him from the saddle. He died as the soldier battered his already fractured skull. Over the din of Steven’s sobs, and the raging screams of the injured soldier dragging his ruined knee through the forest underbrush, Sallax heard Gilmour say quietly, ‘He was just a boy.’

  When she saw Mika’s broken form lying still in Gilmour’s lap, Brynne began to cry. Versen, white, brushed a hand over his eyes, trying not to give way to emotion, and Garec too fought back tears as he held a patch of cloth against a large gash across his forehead.

  Then Gilmour’s face changed. Shock and sadness were wiped clean, to be replaced with cold, calculating rage. Gently he rested Mika’s head on the ground, where it lolled awkwardly to one side. He rose to face the last surviving soldier, still doggedly dragging himself to freedom despite his shattered knee. The Malakasian grunted malevolently and spat at Gilmour as the Larion Senator glared back at him.

  ‘Our time draws near, Nerak,’ he said almost to himself as he raised one hand above his head. ‘I am coming.’

  With inhuman speed, Gilmour brought his arm forward in a crooked, throwing motion, releasing the full force of his anger in a focused magical stroke. As he did so, the Malakasian was lifted from the ground and thrown several paces back into the underbrush. It looked as if he had been hit in the chest with an invisible boulder, a shattering blow that audibly broke bones and punctured organs. There was no need for anyone to confirm that the last of the attack party was dead.

  Without speaking, Gilmour moved to the soldier Steven had killed with the broken branch and withdrew the short length of splintered hickory from the dead man’s neck. More blood ran from the wound; Mark wondered briefly how that could be possible since the man’s heart had stopped beating. He was distracted by Gilmour stepping over the body to retrieve the shattered pieces of the rough staff Steven had used to fight off the Malakasians. Turning to face the forest, the old man fit the shaft together piece by piece until each section was back in its original place. His hands glowed a warm red in the dim light of early evening as he ran them along the length of wood, magically reshaping the hickory staff.

  When he had finished, the Larion sorcerer recited a barely audible spell. The glow from his palms grew bright for an instant, then faded to match the surrounding darkness.

  Steven had calmed down somewhat; like the others, he was watching the old man with great curiosity. Gilmour handed the remade hickory bough to him and said, ‘Take this. You wield it well.’

  Steven felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘I killed people today. I don’t know if I can—’

  ‘You must.’ Gilmour’s look was one of warmth and genuine compassion. ‘We would have lost Garec, Mark and Brynne as well as Mika if you hadn’t intervened.’ Again, he pushed the staff to the younger man. ‘Take it.’

  Steven found himself accepting the weapon. It felt strange in his hands: just a bulky length of wood. He hoped he would never have to use it again. Near the top, where Gilmour had magically melded the shattered pieces together, the grain was stained with blood from the soldier he had killed.

  Not killed, Steven mentally corrected himself, murdered. You murdered an incapacitated soldier. He stared hard at the bloodstains left by the dying man. The dark rivers of colour had soaked into the grain pattern like a work of abstract art. Steven was afraid to touch it. He feared it might sear an indelible brand on his soul, mark him as a murderer for all time. He knew he would carry this burden with him back to Idaho Springs, and even there, home, surrounded by everyone he loved, he would for ever be a murderer.

  Garec broke the silence. ‘What were they?’ He hooked the toe of his boot under one dead body and rolled it over. ‘They look human, but they’re not. They fought like animals, scratching and biting.’

  ‘They are human, or I should say, they used to be human,’ Gilmour said grimly. ‘They are called Seron. I have not seen one in more than five hundred Twinmoons.’

  ‘Where do they come from?’ Brynne asked as she helped Mark dress Garec’s head wound.

  ‘They are the product of a sickening process Nerak employs. He tears the souls from the bravest soldiers, those most skilled in combat, and replaces them with the souls of rabid, furious animals – wild dogs, or even grettans. He breeds them for several generations, all the while torturing them to foster intense hatred for mankind. He trains them to become fearless assassins, his personal pack of ravening wolves.’

  Gilmour started to gather up fallen pine boughs and stacked them neatly in a small clearing near the trail. ‘He can command large numbers of Seron from afar,’ he went on. ‘They
always fight to the death, but they rarely use weapons. Like animals, they use surprise and ferocity to overwhelm their opponents. They’ll often eat the remains of their enemies – whether they’re dead or not.

  ‘I think Nerak is sensing our coming conflict, because he hasn’t dispatched Seron warriors in hundreds of Twinmoons.’

  Steven, feeling a growing pain in the pit of his stomach, asked, ‘Why were we not attacked?’

  ‘Who?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Gilmour and me,’ he said, ‘we weren’t attacked. At least, I wasn’t attacked until I made a move to help Garec. I wonder why.’

  ‘Because they need you, Steven.’ Gilmour had filled his pipe and was now smoking contentedly. ‘You arrived in Eldarn via the far portal Nerak hid in your bank. I imagine he thinks you have Lessek’s Key.’

  ‘But you said he would just go there and find out where the key is hidden by taking over the minds of my family and friends,’ Steven said bitterly.

  ‘That’s true, he can, but if he has you, Nerak doesn’t need anyone else. You or Mark can tell him everything he needs to retrieve the key to the spell table.’

  Versen chimed in, ‘So why weren’t you attacked, Gilmour?’

  ‘I think someone else out there wants to kill me himself.’

  ‘Nerak?’ Brynne asked, suddenly fearful.

  ‘No, I would sense Nerak coming,’ Gilmour assured her, handing a bandage strip to Sallax who was dressing an injury on his forearm. ‘This is someone else, a cunning someone who has been tracking us since we left Estrad Village. The Seron who came for us tonight were created and sent here by Nerak, but tonight they were obeying that someone’s orders.’

  ‘Should we push ahead then?’ Versen asked, hoping they could move beyond their vulnerable position in the ravine.

  ‘Yes,’ Sallax suggested quietly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Gilmour interrupted. ‘We must give Mika his rites, and we should burn these Seron bodies as well.’

  He glanced about the clearing again, almost sniffing the air to detect threat. Sensing nothing, he returned to his work collecting pine boughs for Mika’s funeral pyre. ‘We’ll see no more trouble tonight.’

  Jacrys Marseth murmured a string of curses into his fist as he watched Gilmour destroy the last of his Seron warriors. Although he was certain the old man’s magic was focused entirely on killing the injured soldier, the spy felt a curious energy ripple through the forest and up the hillside where he lay hidden. The attack had failed miserably: only one of the pathetic ‘freedom fighters’ lay dead. Communicating with the filthy and unpredictable Seron was an unappetising task, and watching them fail to dispatch the Ronans threw him into a brooding rage.

  He had planned to kill Gilmour himself, to take the old man while he grieved for his fallen comrades, but now that pleasure would have to wait. His teeth clenched tightly together, Jacrys fought the urge to charge down the wooded slope and run the old man through with his rapier.

  A throbbing pain began in his temples, spread across his forehead and lanced down the back of his neck. He had been tracking Gilmour since the attack on Riverend Palace and the constant vigilance and pursuit had left him on edge. He was hungry and tired, and furious that his carefully orchestrated ambush had gone so awry.

  Jacrys breathed deeply and rubbed his temples vigorously in an effort to calm himself down. Meticulous planning, a level head and a ruthless nature had always been his most effective weapons. He could not afford to fly into an uncontrolled rage this close to such a dangerous target.

  He fastidiously pulled evergreen needles from his tunic as he watched Gilmour gather boughs for the dead man’s funeral rites. Malagon would sense the magician’s continued presence in the Blackstones; he would know Jacrys had been unsuccessful in this assassination attempt. His life would be worthless if he did not see the job finished before Gilmour arrived at Welstar Palace. Malagon would certainly send more Seron, and perhaps another herd of grettans. The almor continued their hunt, but he had no idea where the closest demons were now.

  He bit off an obscenity. Swearing wouldn’t help now. If he failed to get ahead of the travellers once again, he might be forced to make his way into their camp and kill the old Larion Senator in a more traditional fashion.

  Jacrys turned his attention back to the band of partisans. From this distance they looked battered and bleeding, ragged and worn threadbare, like a handful of third-generation dolls. Only the pale stranger had a sense of strength about him. It was difficult to see, because the foreigner knelt weeping near the trail. But he had fought bravely, an unexpectedly deadly foe, especially as he was armed only with a length of wood he had picked up off the ground.

  Jacrys was rarely surprised by the actions of his enemies. This one surprised him. For some reason, Malagon wanted him and the South Coaster alive, transported to Welstar for torture and interrogation. Jacrys had no idea why they were so important, but he silently promised he would discover more about the foreigners before he brought them to Malakasia.

  Wiping his palms dry on the front of his tunic, he moved slowly up the hillside and out of sight.

  Later that night, Brexan struggled to locate a trail in the darkness. Straining her eyes in an effort to pick out overturned or disturbed ground, she considered giving up until dawn. A light breeze blew down from the north. She took a moment’s respite, turned her face into the fresh air and inhaled deeply. Flesh. Somewhere beyond the next ridge, someone was incinerating bodies. Resolutely, Brexan turned her horse towards the sickeningly sweet aroma. Certain Jacrys was somehow responsible for the lingering smell of death above the foothills, she spurred her mount into a brisk canter.

  BRANAG OTHARO’S

  LEATHER GOODS AND

  SADDLERY EMPORIUM

  In the days since her arrival in Praga, Hannah Sorenson had seen nothing of Southport; except for a few nervous glances around as Hoyt and Churn led her hastily to Branag Otharo’s Leather Goods and Saddlery Emporium, she had no idea what Southport was like. She had seen the harbour from the hilltop where she spent her first night, but since then she had been sequestered in the storage area at Branag’s. Her deadly dull routine was occasionally enlivened by having to duck inside a hidden antechamber tucked artfully between the saddler’s workshop and the cold room adjacent to the Seaweed Inn, a tavern catering for the more reprehensible of Southport’s wharf rats, sailors and dockside whores. Those were the worst moments: Hannah nearly gagged every time Branag or Hoyt adjusted the replaceable planks to create a space for them to crawl inside. Hannah was becoming increasingly certain nothing but rancid meat and spoiled beer were ever served at the Seaweed, and that every single patron in the dilapidated waterfront structure chain-smoked something Hoyt called fennaroot; in an effort not to breath in the foul stench she kept her face pressed against the ancient boards forming the back wall of Branag’s storage room. From that position, she could at least imagine the tangy aroma of tanned leather and heavy polish breaking through the miasma.

  The drill was always the same. A riotous clamour would begin at the far end of Branag’s narrow street whenever a Malakasian patrol was conducting a house-to-house search for the fugitives who had allegedly murdered five – or perhaps even seven – soldiers in a surprise attack outside the city. With each search the brutality worsened as the number of supposed Malakasian casualties grew. On their first night in Southport, a squad of black-clad soldiers burst through the entrance of Branag’s store looking for the murderers who might have killed one soldier somewhere along the coastal highway east of town. They were especially interested in finding a young woman dressed in odd, brightly coloured clothing, wearing white cloth slippers and heavy breeches.

  Several days later, the number of Malakasian dead had increased, as had the fugitive band of killers, now a veritable brigade of well-armed, half-crazed homicidal monsters who at any moment might turn against the peaceful citizens of Southport.

  The din was a reaction, people crying out, shouting for family mem
bers, children, even pets to come inside, but in actuality, the noise was nothing more than a warning that the patrol was coming. Anyone who needed to be hidden had better get hidden quickly, to ensure the Malakasian scrutiny passed harmlessly over the otherwise quiet street.

  Branag’s response was always the same as well. Hustling back into the storage area, he whistled a quick warning to Hoyt, who in turn scurried behind the rows of tanned cowhides dangling loosely from the ceiling like macabre curtains to pry open two planks leading to the hidden chamber. Once inside, the trio would sit absolutely still, saying nothing, avoiding positions that forced them to shift their legs or arms, and counting the moments until the platoon moved on to the next block. Hannah would bury her face in her hands and listen to the shuffle and scuff of heavy Malakasian boots as they made their way through Branag’s building. She would try to slide deeper into the shadows, shrinking and folding her thoughts down into the darkest parts of her mind, sitting stone-like, somehow closer to death every time those boots stopped shuffling about. Had they seen something? Did they notice a plank askew? Had one of them finally seen that this building was slightly narrower inside than out? There would be no escape; they were trapped in a closet.

  But the soldiers never came. They never noticed. With their departure each time, Hannah would slowly raise her head and bright fireworks of yellow and white light would dance about where she had pressed her eyes too tightly against the hard surface of her knees.

  The first night in Southport, Hoyt insisted they remain in the foetid chamber as random searches continued until dawn. Teams of soldiers burst in and tossed saddles, leather harnesses, belts, half-finished boots and even untreated hides aside in hopes of turning up evidence that the saddler was harbouring criminals. That night had been the worst of Hannah’s life. After a while Hoyt, sensing her burgeoning anxiety, lit a thin paraffin taper to bring the tiniest, muted half-light to the foul closet. In the candlelight, Hannah saw weapons, hundreds of primitive axes, swords, daggers and bows, hanging from hooks and wires along the narrow interior of the hidden chamber. Behind her were five bloated hemp bags; one, slightly open, revealed thousands of silver coins.