The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  ‘Excellent!’ Garec almost shouted, ‘we will plan a great two-hundred Twinmoon celebration for you. It is an important milestone for us.’

  ‘That should just be about enough time,’ Steven replied, grinning, ‘I might be ready for alcohol again in a hundred and twenty days.’

  Shortly after lunch, they reached the eastern edge of the narrow ridge that led up to the landing. Now there was only a gradual incline, but the footing on the ridge trail was precarious as it climbed over boulders and up sharp rock faces. There were dangerous drops on either side. They had not realised the north and south faces of Seer’s Peak were nearly sheer when they had looked up from below; a wrong step or loose rock might mean a gruesome fall to the forest floor.

  They had no rope and Steven cursed his shortsightedness every time Garec or Gilmour slipped, however slightly: he was an experienced climber and should have known better. Steven sympathised with Garec as he periodically peered over the edge in terror.

  ‘We were always told to avoid looking down.’ He tried to sound reassuring. ‘But I find it helpful sometimes to take a good long look.’

  ‘Helpful?’ Garec looked doubtful. ‘How could it possibly be helpful?’

  ‘Well, it does keep you focused on the task at hand. I mean, there’s nothing like fear as a motivator.’

  ‘Then I have quite enough motivation, thanks.’ Garec forced a tight-lipped smile. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll work on staring straight ahead.’

  Steven made his way to a large flat rock that jutted out over the precipice where he lay flat on his stomach and peered over the edge, following the path of the river to their previous night’s campsite. Versen, Sallax, Brynne and Mark looked like ants from here as they hauled water and firewood. Steven rested for a moment while watching them, feeling sunlight on his back and the familiar texture of rock against his face and hands.

  We might not make it. The haunting mantra started once again, but he quickly forced the memory from his thoughts. Another bout with despair would do him no good up here. To distract himself, he thought of how much Mark and Hannah would love navigating this ridge: the challenges, the danger, the stunning vistas; this climb was almost a microcosm of his experiences in Eldarn. Down there, he was the weakest, the least capable, unable to find sources of strength, determination and support. Why could Mark so easily make the transition? He appeared to be completely at ease, acting as though he had grown up in Rona. He had even begun a relationship with a Ronan woman.

  Steven lay there in the afternoon sun, pondering his shortcomings, until Garec and Gilmour caught up with him.

  The Larion Senator interrupted his thoughts. ‘You look quite at ease up here, Steven.’

  ‘I am.’ Steven jumped nimbly to his feet. ‘I’ve lived most of my life in a mountain range similar to this. It’s the closest I’ve felt to home since we arrived in Eldarn.’

  ‘I am glad you’re enjoying the day,’ Gilmour said. ‘I hope tonight we’ll discover it was not a wasted effort.’

  Once Steven had toured an aircraft carrier. He remembered the feeling of awe at the size of the thing, particularly the breadth of the main deck. The flat expanse of rock that marked the western end of the Seer’s Peak crest reminded him of that gargantuan vessel. The landing was a geological anomaly. The stone was nearly flat for hundreds of paces and it looked flawless – no cracks, mineral intrusions or crevasses. Steven picked up a small stone and threw it as far as he could and it bounced to a stop less than a quarter of the way across the open area. A skilled pilot could land a plane here with room to spare.

  Equally amazed, Garec asked, ‘How can this be? The mountain couldn’t have formed this way naturally.’

  Having reached their destination, Gilmour was already smoking his pipe. The chill afternoon breeze carried his residual smoke eastwards along the ridge trail. Clenching the pipe firmly between his teeth, he answered, ‘It seems impossible this is a natural formation, I agree. However, if this area were the result of some mystical force, it occurred long before I was born and long before the Larion Senate began practising magic.’

  ‘Where – or how will Lessek find us?’ Steven wasn’t sure which question was more appropriate.

  ‘We can camp anywhere you like, Steven,’ Gilmour responded, ‘but I suggest we stay close to this end because it will be cold tonight and the closest firewood is back down the ridge a few hundred paces.’

  ‘Good point,’ Garec agreed. ‘You two get dinner started. I’ll go back and get some now.’ He dropped his pack and headed towards the trailhead.

  Steven followed. ‘I’ll come too – we’ll need as much as we can carry.’

  When darkness fell, Steven felt as though they had built a campfire in the middle of the world’s most expansive desert. Wind swept across the top of Seer’s Peak, carrying much of the fire’s heat with it, but Steven was too nervous to be cold; he was dreading the coming conversation with Lessek. He huddled deeper in his blankets, hoping, like a child, they might protect him from evil. He could see nothing except black stone and blacker sky.

  Soon emotional and physical exhaustion caught up with him and Steven Taylor fell into a deep sleep.

  He dreamed of the bank in Idaho Springs and the playful banter he’d exchanged with Myrna Kessler as she tried to solve his weekly mathematics problems. He had caught her trying to deduce the Egyptians’ formula for the area of a circle, just before he had visited Meyers Antiques for the first time. He had walked to the lobby and asked Myrna if she would process some loan papers so he could get to Denver before the store closed. Peeking over her shoulder, he saw her sheet of paper was filled with squares and circles and notes about circumference and diameter. She had been tracing the base of her coffee cup when he emerged and surprised her.

  Embarrassed, she had quickly put her notes aside and said something charming about not being his secretary. What else had she said that day? Her image moved in and out of focus, reminding him he was dreaming. She had teased him about having a geek’s hobby. Howard had agreed. Steven had warned her not to drink too much that night, then left for his drive into the city.

  As winds buffeted Seer’s Peak, Steven Taylor, sleeping soundly, pulled his blankets close and rolled over towards the fire.

  Garec tossed the last pieces of firewood onto the smouldering coals before curling up inside his blankets. He wanted to stay awake until Lessek arrived, if only so he did not awaken to find the spirit hovering over him. He was quite sure he would expire from shock if that happened.

  Seated across from him, Gilmour smoked contemplatively, saying nothing as he stared into the flames.

  Garec thought about his family and the farm. He prayed that the Malakasians had not connected his partisan activities with them.

  He would miss the late-autumn festival that celebrated the crops successfully harvested and sold, preserves canned, meats dried and smoked, grapes pressed and barrelled and firewood stacked for winter. The festival was five days of celebration: hearty food and plenty of local wine. For the past ten seasons he had provided a deer; the farmers working the land north of Estrad Village would expect him to arrive with fresh venison as usual. He wondered if they would miss him, or just the meat.

  He would dance late into the night with the farmers’ daughters, stealing an occasional kiss, but more often simply revelling in the company of vibrant, beautiful young women. He had grown up a farmer and a hunter. Becoming a resistance fighter – a patriot – was something he had stumbled into. Now, awaiting a visit from the ghost of the most powerful man in Eldarni history, Garec realised it would likely be many seasons before he saw another harvest festival.

  Looking over at Gilmour, Garec could see his lips moving slightly, but he could not hear the words. Garec guessed the old magician was chanting a spell to let Lessek know they had arrived. Now he was nervous, and fully awake. He checked to be sure his bow and quivers were at hand – he didn’t imagine for a moment that he would fire on Lessek’s ghost, but knowing his
weapons were ready reassured him. He had known Gilmour for nearly fifty Twinmoons, but now he had to get used to the idea that one of his closest friends was one of the most powerful sorcerers in Eldarn.

  As Gilmour continued the incantation, his lips hypnotically marking time through the avens, Garec soon grew tired and, like Steven, drifted off to sleep.

  His dreams came: desultory images, confusing and scattered. He watched as the Estrad River dried up, as crops shrivelled and villagers across Rona starved to death. He saw the land his family tilled, its rich soil dried to hardpan and cracked like the skin of a dying man’s face. He observed ghostly wraiths moving silently through the forbidden forest south of Estrad Village, too many to count, an army of disembodied ghouls searching for something lost.

  Then he saw Riverend Palace, the way he always imagined it had looked before it was abandoned and left to crumble: a proud and majestic edifice, with the Ronan colours flying above her battlements. Strong Twinmoon breezes blew in from the sea. Prince Markon strode around, supervising installation of the largest stained-glass window Eldarn had ever seen.

  His perspective changed again: a young South Coast woman, stripped naked, stood on the cold floor of a palace apartment. He gazed on her features and became aroused at the idea she might be longing for him – until he realised the look in her face was not one of lust, but of fear and foreboding. An intricately woven rug lay nearby, but she was too afraid even to move her bare feet to the relative warmth of the heavy wool carpet.

  Soon Garec discovered why. A beast of a man lay on the rug, also stripped bare. The naked monster appeared aroused, but then Garec saw the maniacal creature was not looking at the girl; instead, he was crying out, shouting unintelligibly at the ceiling. He grabbed his genitals and writhed about on the floor. Riveted, Garec watched as palace guards held the man down while the beautiful, almond-eyed woman moved to straddle the drooling, wretched creature. Behind them, Riverend was in flames. Ceiling supports crumbled, tapestries flared. Servants rushed for the safety of the palace grounds.

  All the while, the woman ignored the fire and coupled furiously with her terrifying partner.

  Chanting in a soft murmur, Gilmour felt his spirit move outside his body. Standing beside his seated form, he gazed into the darkness beyond the firelight and waited for Lessek. Although he knew the winds above Seer’s Peak were strong, he felt nothing as they passed through him and continued into the night. Steven and Garec slept on peacefully near the fire, which slowly burned down to a pile of dimly glowing coals.

  He waited nearly an aven before he detected Lessek’s spirit approaching.

  ‘Here, Fantus,’ Lessek called from inside his consciousness. Gilmour hadn’t heard his given name in a hundred Twinmoons. His spirit self turned to face that of the long-dead sorcerer. Lessek looked as he had when a young man: tall and confident, with a trim beard and a piercing gaze, wearing the style of robes long ago adopted as standard uniform for all Larion Senators. For a moment Gilmour felt as though he were back at Sandcliff Palace.

  ‘Welcome, my lord,’ he said softly.

  ‘You look weary,’ the spirit observed, his voice echoing inside Gilmour’s mind.

  ‘This struggle has gone on for so many Twinmoons, Lessek. I am tired these days.’

  ‘You are wondering if you can manipulate the spell table?’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I have studied for nearly a thousand Twinmoons and yet I am still not certain I’m up to the task.’

  ‘You have found the key?’ Lessek’s ghost scratched absent-mindedly at his beard and Gilmour was momentarily surprised a spirit could feel an itch.

  He motioned towards Steven. ‘This one, Steven Taylor, discovered where Nerak had hidden the far portal as well as your key.’ He paused before asking, ‘Will it be enough, Lessek?’

  ‘There is enough magic, sufficient power, yes. But you will need more courage than even you can imagine if you are to defeat the evil that controls Nerak.’

  ‘It can be destroyed, then?’

  ‘Defeated, not destroyed.’

  ‘I must banish it back to the Fold?’

  ‘Not all answers lie in the spell table, Fantus. Evil might be defeated there, but Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere.’ He raised one hand in a show of encouragement and brotherhood and said, ‘Rest now, Fantus and farewell for the moment.’

  Gilmour felt his spirit fall back into his body as dawn was breaking over the horizon. He wrapped himself in his riding cloak and allowed sleep to carry him away. Although the old magician required only a fraction of the rest most people needed, he welcomed the respite from his responsibilities, a moment’s grace from the arduous tasks that lay before him.

  He rarely dreamed, but this morning a brief vision came to him, a glimpse of Kantu and Nerak. They had travelled together to Larion Isle, off the coast of Malakasia, to practise their spells, to harness heretofore-unknown power and to synthesise knowledge of magic and sorcery for the Larion Senate. It was during this trip they had penned the Windscrolls. Gilmour remembered that particular journey; when he saw Kantu limping beside Nerak, supporting himself with a staff and wearing a makeshift cast on his foot, Gilmour had teased the great scholar that he was brilliant enough to wield Eldarn’s most powerful magic but too clumsy to step from a boat without twisting his ankle.

  Gilmour woke with a start. The Windscrolls. Pikan Tettarak had sent him to Lessek’s library to find one as she prepared the spell that eventually took her life at Sandcliff Palace. That was what Lessek meant by Nerak’s weakness being elsewhere. He had to get to Sandcliff and find the Windscrolls; he would need to use their wisdom in concert with Lessek’s spell table if he were to succeed in defeating Nerak and sending evil’s minion back into the Fold.

  Rejuvenated, Gilmour sprang to his feet and called, ‘Wake up, my boys. We have much to do.’

  The sun was well above the horizon now and their campsite was draped in the bright yellow of morning. The winds had died in the night and Gilmour could feel the temperature rising already. To the north, the Blackstones glowed so intensely it looked as if they had caught fire. The clear morning possessed a sense of renewal that sent Gilmour’s heart racing. Moments such as this, moments of clarity of purpose, were rare. He knew where he would find the power to emerge victorious; now he wanted to get there. He had spent half his life waiting for Lessek’s Key to come back to Eldarn without realising that the key alone would not have been enough: thanks to Lessek, they all had been saved from a potentially deadly mistake.

  Steven rolled over with a groan. ‘Is it dawn already?’ His legs were sore from yesterday’s climb and his back ached from sleeping on rock. Although riding all day was steady exercise, he had not enjoyed a good cardiovascular workout in weeks. He promised himself as soon as he found some decent shoes, he would run halfway across Rona and back. Stretching, he sat up and squinted through the morning sunlight at Garec. ‘Are we in a hurry?’

  Yawning, Garec twisted awkwardly several times to loosen his back muscles. ‘It appears we are,’ he said and then to Gilmour, ‘I assume you received instructions last night.’

  The old man was hurriedly packing his bedroll. ‘No, but I did speak with Lessek and I do now have some notion of how we will defeat Nerak.’ He reached into his pack and withdrew the last of their bread, fruit and cheese. Pulling a short dagger from his belt, he cut several pieces for himself before passing the remainder to the younger men.

  ‘Here, let’s eat quickly so we can get down as—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Did he speak with either of you?’

  Steven and Garec exchanged a worried glance before answering in unison, ‘No.’

  ‘Rutting dogs.’ Gilmour kicked an imagined pebble towards the precipitous southern cliffs. ‘I was certain he would have some insight for both of you.’ Shaking his head, he added, ‘I don’t understand it.’

  Steven began rolling his blankets. ‘I’m sorry, Gilmour. I slept soundly all night.’

  ‘As did I,’ Garec said. ‘I tried
to stay awake. Perhaps if we had been awake, he would have spoken with us as well.’ He pulled on one boot, then remembered their conversation of the previous day and motioned for Steven to trade footwear with him.

  ‘I did have some strange dreams, though,’ he added.

  Gilmour grabbed his wrist, interrupting Garec’s clumsy attempts to lace Steven’s Timberlands. ‘Tell me. Every detail.’

  ‘I dreamed as well,’ Steven chimed in.

  ‘You too, then.’ Gilmour stopped rushing and sat down beside them. ‘Tell me everything you remember. Take your time.’

  The old man had Steven and Garec relay their dreams to him, over and over again, asking probing questions about people or places his companions had seen. He was trying to get a comprehensive picture of exactly what they had experienced in their sleep.

  Garec’s dream did appear to be a message from Lessek, although aspects left the trio confused and guessing. Images of the land dying, of ghosts haunting Rona’s forbidden forest and of the Estrad River running dry were disheartening, but neither Gilmour nor Garec had any idea what they really represented. Garec’s vision of Riverend Palace in flames was real; Gilmour speculated that the bowman’s vision of two people coupling during the blaze was Lessek’s confirmation that a final effort had been made to continue the royal bloodline.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Steven asked. It was nearly midday and he was not convinced they could learn anything more from the evening’s alleged message dreams.

  ‘Prince Danmark was struck blind, deaf and insane by the same force that killed his father.’

  ‘Nerak,’ Steven confirmed.

  ‘Nerak. Correct. The young prince was not killed right away,’ Gilmour said. ‘He lived another full Twinmoon, not dying until the night of the fire that destroyed Riverend Palace.’

  Garec put the pieces together. ‘Someone could have been impregnated by Danmark during that Twinmoon.’ His voice rose slightly as he pieced together his dream. ‘So that bloodline may still be intact today. Prince Danmark could have a living heir somewhere in Rona.’