The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  Hovering above them in the current, Mark made several trips to the surface to breathe and to assure Brynne that both men were still alive. ‘Something has them,’ he called to her when he appeared the second time.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know – I can’t see anything, but they’re clamped solidly to the riverbed. Steven is trying to free them now.’ And Mark disappeared once again.

  Brynne held the Capina Fair steady against the current. Having lost Sallax and Gilmour, she could not bear to lose Steven or Garec now. Hurling a string of foul curses at the river, she fought a growing desire to dive into the water with them.

  Steven had no idea whether the staff’s magic could continue to provide oxygen while he was focusing its power on the creature that lay hidden beneath the riverbed, but he had no choice but to try. Summoning his courage, he gripped the staff with both hands, channelled his will and drove one end deep into the silt between his feet.

  At first nothing particular happened, although Steven could feel the staff’s power coursing into the earth with tremendous force. He and Garec remained firmly tethered by whatever evil lurked beneath them. Thankfully, the magic that was keeping them both alive was unaffected by Steven’s attack on their captor. He glanced over at Garec: he looked calm, despite the absurdity of being trapped by the wrist twenty feet beneath the surface of the water. He was confident Steven’s magic would save them.

  It didn’t work.

  Refocusing his thoughts, Steven tried again. He envisioned the earth freeing them from its grasp and the two men floating gently along in the current like bits of flotsam. He tried to repress any anger or frustration: perhaps the force holding them prisoner might release its grip if it believed they were already dead.

  Again, nothing.

  Steven began to worry; sensing his concern, Garec gave him an encouraging clap on the back, intimating that he should try again.

  Steven, about to try clearing his mind once more, took a moment to peer off into the gloom. An ungainly fish darted by, something caught between evolutionary endpoints, no longer what it had been but not yet what it was about to become. He watched it skim along in search of something slower and less agile to eat. Running his hands along the smooth hickory, Steven prepared for another assault on their captor when he felt they were beginning to move.

  Slowly at first, and then more quickly, they were being dragged through the silt towards the gigantic moraine. His eyes widened in terror: now he could see the remains of crooked, broken trees jammed haphazardly into stone crevices: a nightmare of twisted roots and branches reaching out for them. It wasn’t the current that had assembled this rock formation beneath the river’s calm exterior, but rather, this beast, this invisible force that was threatening to make them both a permanent addition to its underwater construction. Steven twisted and tugged at his leg and struck repeatedly against the riverbed with the staff, but despite his efforts, he and Garec moved inexorably towards the submerged stone outcropping.

  Ahead of them Steven saw a cave he had not noticed before: a dark, narrow opening between two massive boulders resting against one another. Whatever held them was dragging them slowly towards that gaping, inky hole. Above and behind, Mark appeared and grasped Steven by the hand and Garec by the ankle and pulled with all the force he could muster, but it didn’t do a thing to slow them down. Garec dug the fingers of his free hand into the silt, trying to find whatever had them captive – and that was seized as well. Looking up at Steven, the fear of imminent death in his eyes, he pleaded silently with the foreigner to try anything, to do something, before it was too late.

  Steven looked around, hoping for inspiration – then it occurred to him that the force holding them down might be linked with their current quest, maybe another of Prince Malagon’s dark servants. He really needed to concentrate. He directed his thoughts to Nerak, Gilmour, Lessek, and the Larion Senate. He thought of Lessek’s Key, that innocuous chunk of rock that sat waiting on his desk back home. And he envisioned himself handing over the stone to Kantu, the last of the Larion Senators, in preparation for a final war between the ancient magic of the spell table and the evil that sought to conquer it and bring about the end of all things. He focused his thoughts, his energy, his entire being on these images, forgetting himself and Garec, forgetting Brynne and Mark, even forgetting Hannah.

  The staff responded to his single-minded dedication. The magic, which had thus far been a strong, warm glow as it provided oxygen for him and Garec, swelled up inside him. It sharpened Steven’s consciousness and honed his perception of things around him.

  This time when he raised the hickory staff to strike out at the riverbed, he knew that, if nothing else, he would be using all his heart and will. There was a shudder, a pulse that rippled out from the riverbed to resonate through the rocky hills of Meyers’ Vale. Before Steven could strike out, the river released them. Jerking back reflexively, he and Garec were thrown towards the surface.

  Brynne cried out when she saw the three men reappear. Forgetting her charge to keep the Capina Fair anchored against the current, she dropped the wooden pole and began calling frantically, ‘Is everyone all right? No injuries?’

  Mark shouted back, ‘They’re fine, a bit shaken by whatever it was, but Steven managed to free them.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Steven interjected.

  ‘Well, the staff then.’

  ‘Not the staff either.’ He kicked towards the Capina Fair, keeping the staff’s magic close within himself in case the creature emerged to drag them back beneath the surface. It wasn’t difficult: the magic surged, vibrant and deadly, just behind the thin veil of his consciousness, as if it knew that danger was still imminent: it graced him with the strength – or at least the illusion of strength – to see him and his friends through to safety. He shivered at the thought of all of them being pulled back to the underwater formation – what if the magic failed again? They needed to reach the raft as quickly as possible, and then they could work out what the hell just happened, because he was damned if he knew. He was cold and frightened, but worse, he had lost confidence in the staff’s power.

  Meanwhile, the Capina Fair continued to drift downstream.

  Swimming with the current, Garec realised they were failing to narrow the distance to the relative safety of the raft. ‘Uh, Brynne,’ he called, ‘you’re floating away.’

  ‘Rutting merchant-on-a-stick! Sorry!’ Brynne remembered the pole and quickly anchored the Capina Fair, halting its resolute flight from the haunted river bend.

  They hauled themselves onto the deck, and Garec picked up a second pole. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he shouted, shaking a little as he pushed hard off the bottom.

  Resting in the relative warmth of the sun-drenched logs that formed the Capina Fair’s uppermost deck, Steven felt the magic exit his body, skimming across his already damp flesh to disappear back into the staff, the earth, sky, or wherever it went when it left him alone. This time, though, it felt different, and he imagined he could still feel a bit of it there, masking itself behind his regular heartbeat and breathing. He shrugged the sensation off as vestiges of adrenalin and gazed into the low foothills that lined the river along either bank. Immediately above them was a rocky ridgeline ending with a precipitous drop into a deep valley. The cliff was capped by a small grove of pine trees that looked so out of place perched there above the river that the image stayed with Steven long after they rounded the bend and passed out of sight. The fifteen or twenty pines grew at odd angles, stabbing outwards from the bedrock, a confusing collection of natural road signs pointing everywhere and nowhere at once. Without quite knowing why, Steven made a mental note of the landmark.

  Twelve days later, they reached the mouth of the canyon.

  THE RAVENIAN SEA

  ‘Get out of your boots,’ Brexan directed urgently as she struggled to pull her own off, ‘and your cloak, untie it. Just let it go.’ They had been in the water a very short time, but already the cold
was beginning to affect them. Versen didn’t look well: his face was drawn and pale, his eyes red, and his skin a cadaverous white. She struggled to keep his senses sharp despite the dulling influence of the frigid seawater. Versen’s fingers trembled as he endeavoured to loosen the thin wool ties holding the cloak about his neck; Brexan helped him.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ she encouraged. ‘We just need to get moving again. We need to swim. It won’t be so cold once we start swimming.’ Brexan badly wanted to believe that, but she was dubious. She could feel the chill penetrating her bones: it would be just a matter of moments before she began to grow numb, to lose her senses and become confused. It was apparent the big Ronan wouldn’t be offering much assistance.

  It would be up to her to generate a way to save themselves.

  As he battled to remove his clothes, Versen could feel his legs failing beneath him. In his mind, he could see himself kicking hard and paddling with cupped hands to remain above the waves, but dipping his face in the water, he could see his limbs weren’t responding. His right leg turned lazy circles that did little to keep him afloat, while his left, painfully cramped in the cold autumn seas, pointed rigidly down into the depths and twitched involuntarily back and forth like a pendulum. His voice cracked as he said, ‘My legs aren’t working, Brexan. I can’t get them to move.’

  ‘Hang on to me,’ she said. She had no idea how she would keep them both afloat, but she was determined to try. She draped Versen’s arms over her shoulders. Her face resting against his, she grimaced. His skin was cold, colder than the water around them. Trying to remain positive, she said, ‘There, that ought to keep you out of trouble.’

  ‘No.’ Versen struggled to pull his arms back, but he lacked the strength. ‘I’ll pull you under. You should try to make it on your own.’

  ‘Ox,’ Brexan said gently, ‘we will either make it together, or we won’t.’ She knew the cold was dulling her consciousness, because the notion of failure had crept into her mind and she didn’t feel terribly alarmed at it, at the prospect of giving up, of simply laying back in the water and falling asleep. Shaking her head, she forced a moment’s clarity and turned her attention north. The Falkan Dancer was coming about in a long slow tack. It was nearly out of sight already, so there was no chance they could hail the vessel on its next pass. She cursed Carpello Jax, and wished she had driven the stolen knife blade deep into his flabby pink hide rather than just slashing him. That wound would heal; she should have killed him when she had the chance.

  For a moment she thought she might have traded their current situation to be chained again to that bulkhead beneath the forecastle – being locked up in the dark, humid, stinking chamber had been difficult, but compared with their current plight, the manacles were a welcome alternative. She recalled the comforting sensation of feeling Versen’s legs entwined with hers, even though she couldn’t see him. But no, if they were going to die, at least they’d be free.

  They were entwined again now. Versen’s arms lay across her shoulders, and his long legs continued to jerk spasmodically, kicking between her ankles, interrupting her efforts to tread water, and causing both their heads to dunk periodically beneath the surface.

  The Ronan coast lay far to the east, two days’ swim away. Brexan nearly laughed. In another quarter-aven, both she and Versen would be a distant memory. She wondered if their bodies would sink or float in this cold water – as much as she hoped they would eventually be washed up on shore, she feared they would end up on the ocean floor. They would fall slowly, spiralling awkwardly down, and their bodies would come to rest in the deepest part of the Ravenian Sea, where the amiable reef fish feared to venture, where only the most primitive and cruel sea creatures scavenged for food. In an embarrassing fit of selfishness, she hoped the big Ronan would sink first; maybe then she wouldn’t find the journey as terrifying.

  Brexan’s imagination frightened her awake, and with a sudden burst of adrenalin, she grabbed hold of Versen’s forearms and tugged. ‘C’mon, Ox,’ she entreated, ‘we have to swim. Kick your feet. Kick, Ox.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Versen mumbled, then choked out a mouthful of seawater. But he couldn’t. As his head began to loll forward, Brexan submerged briefly to free one hand and shove against his forehead, pushing his face out of the water and away from the waves.

  ‘Keep your head up,’ she ordered, ‘I’m doing everything else over here. You ought to at least hold up your own head.’

  Versen didn’t respond to her weak joke.

  Shivering uncontrollably, Brexan felt her muscles begin to cramp. The tightness seemed to attack her all at once; it felt like her body had been seized by an invisible sea god. She howled in frustration. Her strength was failing. She couldn’t support Versen’s weight any longer. She had to let him go, let him sink. If she wasn’t supporting him, she might stand a chance of swimming, if not all the way to shore, at least into shallower water where the waves might eventually carry her body up onto the sand. ‘Please, Ox, please,’ she pleaded between sharp breaths, ‘I can’t do it alone. At least tread water, please.’

  Sobbing weakly, she held on until her muscles burned and then gave out. Even had she been able to summon the will to support Versen’s weight any more, her limbs had already rebelled, giving up the struggle. Unable to move she watched Versen bob a few paces off before sinking beneath the waves.

  Crying in earnest now, she inadvertently gulped a large mouthful of salty water and choked violently for several moments, coughing the fluid from her lungs between sobs. She struggled to fill her lungs and roll onto her back so she could float as long as possible before succumbing to the cold. She couldn’t feel her extremities any more. Her time was at hand; she hoped Versen was waiting for her on the long trail to the Northern Forest.

  Above, the clear blue sky was interrupted by a few thin clouds scudding north towards Orindale. Floating on her back, Brexan inhaled as if to breathe in those clouds, to draw them down with her in hopes they might bring the sun’s warmth or better yet, might carry her away, carry her someplace dry. They must be warm; they are so close to the sun. Let them come. Come and take me. Just one of you, come down here.

  Brexan choked as a wave passed over her face. Coughing and blinking to clear her vision, she drew a final hoarse breath, smiled up at the ghostly clouds stark against the brilliant blue sky, and gave up.

  ‘I’m coming, Ox,’ she mumbled and turned her gaze skywards. Unable to draw another breath, Brexan’s vision tunnelled, and the walls of her consciousness began to close down upon her. In an ironic last vision, she was faintly amused that one of the bone-white clouds appeared to be dropping from the sky.

  Karn’s leg was bleeding badly from the wound the young woman had dealt him before she sprang from the quarterdeck of the Falkan schooner. Now, trailing a cloud of bloodstained water, he knew he would not survive the day. The cold had already slowed his progress, but he doggedly continued swimming, determined to get as far as he could before allowing the ocean to swallow his body. Karn understood swimming to shore was his only choice; that had become obvious the moment he realised the schooner’s crew could not retrieve his prisoners from the Ravenian Sea. To return to Malakasia without their prize would mean certain death for him. Karn preferred to drown here rather than return to face Prince Malagon empty-handed.

  He had hoped the cold, coupled with the healing properties of salt water, would stop the bleeding, but although the pain had lessened dramatically, blood continued to flow unchecked from the wound. He wished he had had the forethought to stitch it himself before jumping overboard, but it was too late for that. Karn swam onwards, without hesitation or regrets.

  Beside him swam his fellow Seron. Rala’s jaw was set, and a look of fierce determination passed across her face when she made eye contact with him. They would not wait, nor would they slow their pace to accommodate him. If he made it to shore, he would bind his injury and follow their trail until he could rejoin them.

  Neither Haden nor Rala looke
d back as Karn began to lag behind. Soon they were ten, then twenty paces ahead of him. At fifty paces, he periodically lost sight of them behind the waves, and by the time the pair had moved a hundred paces more, Karn was already gone.

  Rala swam steadily, but not even the consistent, repetitive motion or her single-minded intention to recapture the Ronan prisoners could mask the reality: her strength was waning. Beside her Haden continued, apparently unaffected by the cold or by the impossibly long distance they had yet to cover. There was something terrible about him, something powerful and evil. Rala understood Seron were stronger and more physically resilient than most men, but he was especially strong, especially brutal and coldly cruel, even for one of their race. Lahp was smart, a heavy-handed disciplinarian and a powerful leader among the Seron; Haden was quite as strong as Lahp, his equal physically, but he was far more ruthless, content to wait in the shadows, biding his time and awaiting opportunities to kill or maim.

  Rala knew when they found the Ronans, Haden would most likely kill one of them right away. She would have to protect the second if they were to retrieve the stone, even if it meant a physical confrontation. It would be her responsibility to oversee the survivor’s interrogation, or they would lose critical intelligence to Haden’s inexhaustible appetite for pain, torture and dismemberment.

  Struggling to remain afloat, Rala considered asking him to help her, but fearing his response, she decided instead to rededicate herself to maintaining her strokes and ignoring the cold as long as possible. But it didn’t work: fear began to creep into her mind, an emotion she knew little of. Slowly, she felt herself give way to panic. Her short, economic movements, designed to carry her rapidly through the water with minimal effort, became wild, jerky flailings that exhausted her physically and exacerbated her terror. Her head fell beneath the waves several times, and she cried out, choking, then hacking the briny seawater from her throat.