The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  ‘You’ll do it.’ He smiled at her again. ‘And you’ll be toasting my memory a hundred Twinmoons after I’m gone.’

  She took his hands in hers and squeezed as tightly as she could. ‘We can make it together.’

  ‘Just one step at a time, and don’t be afraid to hang on to the rope. Let’s go,’ he shouted as he turned back into the wind, ‘Sallax, we’re off!’

  Lahp constructed a hasty but durable lean-to from several fallen trees, then gingerly moved Steven into its shelter, trying hard not to jostle the injured man. ‘Firood,’ he said, and when Steven nodded to show he’d understood, the Seron bounded off nimbly towards the river.

  Steven rested in relative comfort, listening to the sound of the river rushing by and feeling the delicate tingling sensation of the querlis interacting with the muscle and bone tissues of his lower leg. Adjusting his position, he focused his attention along the trail and up the slope behind their camp. Several minutes passed and he began to grow impatient.

  ‘C’mon Mark,’ he called, as if it might speed him along. The moments ticked by at an agonisingly slow pace while he tried to remain vigilant. A clump of snow, falling from an overburdened branch, made him crane his neck, hoping to spot his friends appearing suddenly from the underbrush. Soon his legs fell asleep and his lower back began to ache from sitting up straight. He realised he was getting hungry.

  Finally, admitting to himself that his companions were not about to arrive right away, Steven allowed his thoughts to wander back to Lahp, and his immense good fortune at having been rescued by the Seron. Lahp was nothing like Gilmour had described: although the soul of a man may have been torn from the Seron’s body long ago, Lahp was as caring and compassionate as anyone Steven had ever met. He could not imagine Howard Griffin, for example, going out of his way to build a stretcher and then drag him for mile after mile across the Rocky Mountains.

  He thanked God that he’d not just walked away and left Sallax to murder the injured Malakasian warrior. Lahp had repaid that moment of compassion in full. He wondered if other Seron might behave differently if they, like Lahp, could escape the iron grip of Prince Malagon. Though the Seron attack had become a little hazy in his memory, he knew they had been fierce, eager fighters. He had a sudden pang of guilt when he remembered how easily he – well, the staff, really – had dispatched the other Seron. Mark and Garec had tried to convince him that he had not killed people; it was more akin to putting an injured animal out of its misery, but perhaps they too could have become friends if Gilmour had been able to help them free themselves from Malagon.

  He had made a promise to himself the morning after the Seron attack. Sitting astride his horse, there in the foothills, he had smelled burning flesh from the twin funeral pyres. One represented last rites for a friend; the other was little more than basic sanitation, but the aroma was the same.

  He knew, intellectually, that he had had no choice; if he had not killed the Seron, then he and his friends would likely all be long dead by now. But emotionally, he could not justify the killing, and the promise he made that morning was this: he would be compassionate and merciful. Regardless of what happened, he would show kindness, because kindness itself was a powerful weapon.

  Now he had proved it: Lahp was an ally, one who knew the roads and trailheads that would provide him, Mark and the Ronan freedom fighters a safer passage to Welstar Palace. Steven let his chin fall forward onto his chest. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, stared at the snow and waited for Lahp to return. Before long, Steven fell back asleep.

  *

  When he awakened, it was to the sound of Lahp moving about under the lean-to, searching inside his pack for something. Darkness had fallen and two grettan steaks grilled near the fire. Steven felt warm, dry and quite comfortable cocooned in blankets. He wiggled his toes, hesitantly at first, but there was little pain, so he tried moving his injured leg. This time, when he bent his leg at the knee, it moved with greater ease and far less agony.

  ‘It feels better, Lahp,’ Steven called, patting his knee firmly. ‘I think I might be able to walk some once the others get here.’ He looked about the lean-to and added almost to himself, ‘Although it might be tough in this snow, so I will probably need to use my staff for support.’ Hearing no response, Steven looked over at the Seron, who continued to root around inside his pack. ‘Lahp, what’s wrong?’

  Lahp turned, and once again Steven was awed by the soldier’s massive arms and shoulders. ‘A one comes,’ he said, pointing back along the trail.

  Steven immediately reached for the hickory staff, and listened carefully, but he heard nothing. Twisting the staff in his hands, he asked, ‘How do you know, Lahp? I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Na, na.’ Lahp shook his head then inhaled deeply, sniffing the air. He pointed again, along the river. ‘A one comes.’

  ‘You smell them coming?’ Steven was incredulous. ‘I can’t smell anything except the smoke and those steaks.’

  ‘A one comes.’

  ‘If you say so, Lahp.’ He tried to see outside the circle of firelight. Beside him, Lahp gave a grunt of satisfaction and pulled a long hunting knife from his pack. He drew a second from a sheath at his belt, and as he turned back to face the river, Steven gave a jolt. Lahp’s face had changed: the gentle giant who had saved his life and nursed him back to health was no more; in his place was a Seron warrior, a deadly efficient soldier. At that moment Steven realised his companion was a killer.

  Crouched near the ground, his lower jaw set firm and slightly forward, Lahp looked as if he could fight an entire platoon of soldiers without breaking into a sweat. Steven was almost afraid to ask what was happening.

  ‘Lahp, what should I do?’ Steven whispered, struggling to stand. He leaned heavily on the wooden staff; he was not going to be much help in a fight.

  ‘Na. Sten stay,’ Lahp commanded quietly, and motioned for Steven to sit back down beneath the lean-to.

  ‘How far away is he?’

  There was no answer. Lahp crouched lower, his enormous legs like those of a pouncing jaguar, motionless except for the movement of his eyes as he strained to see into the darkness and the flaring of his nostrils as he sniffed the breeze.

  Steven backed up but planted the hickory staff firmly in the ground and clung to it rather than retaking his seat beneath the lean-to. Lahp’s concentration was unnerving and Steven too began to share the Seron’s concern that whoever was approaching was not a friend.

  Still unable to detect movement outside the camp’s periphery, Lahp closed his eyes and listened. Steven was about to whisper another question when a low humming broke the silence an instant before an arrow ripped through their camp and embedded itself in a tree just over Lahp’s right shoulder.

  Before Steven could move, the Seron had taken cover behind a narrow pine trunk and was gesturing furiously for him to get out of the line of fire while ordering, ‘Sten, dahn, dahn!’

  The only way to move quickly was to fall. As he did, a second arrow, its thin shaft illuminated by the firelight, hurtled through the night and found its mark scant inches from the first, deep in the bark of the nearby pine. They were warning shots, carefully placed warning shots.

  A weak voice, raspy with weariness, called from the forest in as threatening a tone as it could muster, ‘Get away from him, you monster, or the next one will find your throat.’

  It was Garec.

  Steven wrestled his body from the icy ground and managed to reach his knees. He was not going to stand by and witness the inevitable outcome of a duel between the seemingly indestructible Seron warrior and the exhausted bowman.

  ‘Garec,’ he shouted, ‘don’t shoot! I’m fine! He’s a friend!’ Lahp looked at him questioningly, his broad forehead furrowed in consternation. ‘It’s all right, Lahp,’ he said more quietly. ‘It’s Garec, my friend.’

  Lahp went from battle-readiness to calm right away. He tossed the second dagger down and helped Steven regain his feet, tapping at his leg
questioningly.

  ‘No, Lahp. I am fine,’ Steven said, ‘no more damage – but thank you.’

  Nodding, Lahp busied himself building up their campfire, apparently completely uninterested in Garec’s approach. Steven scratched his beard and considered how extraordinary it was to have earned Lahp’s confidence. He trusts me, Steven mused. He could not care less who comes down that path right now.

  With that thought, Steven heard footsteps crunching through the snow and he began hobbling out to meet his companion, the pain in his leg forgotten momentarily.

  Garec looked gaunt and completely worn-out, but he hugged Steven fiercely. ‘We thought you dead, Steven Taylor,’ he said as he removed two packs and placed his bow on the ground between them. He glanced over at Lahp and added, ‘I see you have a tale to tell us. I am very glad you are all right—’ He looked at Steven’s carefully bound lower leg. ‘Are you all right?’

  But Steven had not heard him; he was staring at the satchel on the ground beside the longbow. He swallowed hard before raising his eyes to meet Garec’s. ‘Why are you carrying Gilmour’s pack?’

  Lahp had scrutinised Garec carefully when he followed Steven into the lean-to. He examined the longbow, tugged several times at the bowstring and even sniffed at the fletching of the arrows in the twin quivers.

  Curiosity satisfied, he drew another grettan steak from what looked to be a bottomless pack and placed it carefully next to the two already cooking.

  Garec ate hungrily; he told his companions he had never realised how lean and tender grettan meat would be. ‘I’m too tired even to remember what fresh bread tastes like,’ he joked. ‘There’s bound to be fish in the river, even in this cold. I’ll get some for breakfast; we must, after all, have a varied diet.’

  Grunting his culinary approval, Lahp bid them both a good night and retired to his own pile of blankets next to the fire, leaving space beneath the lean-to for Garec. When the Ronan tried to protest, the Seron just pushed him back.

  ‘Na, na,’ he said. ‘Lahp na cahld. Lahp good.’

  Wrapped up in a white-coated huddle, Steven thought the Seron looked rather like a pitcher’s mound after a spring snowstorm.

  Later, huddled together under the entwined branches of their shelter, the two men caught up on each other’s news. Garec said he had moved ahead of Brynne and Sallax once they reached the valley floor. He had been looking for game to shoot when he smelled the smoke from Lahp’s fire. Brynne and Sallax would be along sometime soon; as for Mark; they had split up some days before. Steven, deeply concerned at this news, kicked angrily at a wayward ember that popped from a burning log and landed near his feet.

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Garec said, a little unconvincingly. ‘He is at home in the mountains, far more than the rest of us, certainly.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Steven answered, feeling horribly responsible for his friend’s wellbeing. ‘He’s tough, much tougher than me.’ He reached behind Garec for more wood. ‘We need to keep the fire going until the others get here.’ He leaned forward and gently placed the logs into the blaze. ‘Until all of them get here.’

  Finally, he asked about Gilmour. When Garec hadn’t answered earlier, Steven knew the news was bad. He did not cry; he didn’t believe he still could. Instead, he felt his stomach tighten, as if he had eaten something rancid and was about to retch.

  The feeling lingered and intensified: without the Larion Senator, he and Mark might never get home. Selfish, but true. And Nerak would use Lessek’s spell table to tear open the Fold and free his evil master. If they were to cross the Ravenian Sea and make their way to Welstar Palace without Gilmour, he might be called upon to wield the hickory staff in defence of his friends. Steven nearly choked. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his knees in an effort to ease the pain across his stomach. It was hard to breathe, as if the air had thinned suddenly, and he reached for the staff, pulling it close under the lean-to, a magical comfort in a wild and desperate land. Garec patted him gently on the shoulder and Steven realised that he had to do it. He would risk everything to save them. He would go to Malakasia, and face Nerak, even without being able to say goodbye to Hannah, or, more importantly, to say sorry.

  He would lose, that was a given: it was as clear to him as anything he had ever known – but he was not as afraid as he had expected to be. Rather, he was sorry. He was sorry he would never see Hannah again. She was here; she was so close that he could almost feel her, smell the aroma of lilac that surrounded her … and he would not see her again in this lifetime. It was sad, but not tragic.

  ‘She must know I love her,’ he whispered, and Garec squeezed his shoulder more tightly.

  ‘I am certain she does.’

  ‘I’ll have to face Nerak.’

  ‘Yes.’ Garec stared into the fire and again saw his sisters, the farm and his family back in Rona. ‘But I’ll be there with you.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Of course.’ He forced a smile. ‘I never imagined it would be the thing I do best.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Kill.’ Garec stared down at their boots, side by side in the snow. He could not remember when they had traded. ‘I wanted to be a woodsman, a hunter, like Versen, but circumstances forced me to become a killer. I fire arrows that find their target. It’s not magic; it’s just my willingness to do so. Its simplicity is beautiful. I am the best bowman I have ever known, and I say that not as a boast but as a matter of fact. I never hesitate, but afterward, I have frightening regrets; I often wish I had not fired at all. But if I can help you at Welstar Palace, Steven, I will.’

  ‘Your arrows will have no effect on Nerak.’

  ‘True enough, but I imagine there’ll be hundreds of guards on hand, and servants too, every one willing to give their life to save his.’

  Steven remembered Garec standing atop Seer’s Peak, his bow at the ready. When the almor attacked, he had fired shaft after shaft with almost inhuman speed. Garec was right; he would be a powerful ally when it came time for their assault on Nerak’s keep.

  ‘Well, don’t we make a pair,’ he said. ‘Two hesitant killers out to battle evil, hopelessness, tragedy and suffering.’ Steven paused a moment before elbowing Garec gently in the ribs. ‘I think we’re going to get our asses kicked.’

  The Ronan archer needed a translation, but when he had deciphered the colloquialism, he burst into laughter, a jovial belly-laugh that woke Lahp from his slumber and brought a moment’s grace to the frozen valley floor.

  *

  Steven had fallen asleep when Brynne and Sallax entered the clearing, but he awakened when Garec leaped up to help them. Lahp, seeing their drawn faces and emaciated bodies, was rummaging for more grettan meat before they’d even sat down. Hugging Steven tightly, Brynne whispered, ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘No,’ Steven answered, ‘but I’m sure he’s all right. He’s very strong.’ He released her, dried a tear from her cheek with a corner of his cloak and said quietly, ‘I am so very sorry about Gilmour.’

  Brynne’s brow furrowed and her mouth turned down slightly at the edges, a tiny gesture that spoke volumes. Her eyes glistened and she shook her head sternly from side to side. ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I will not—’ She paused to drag a sleeve under her nose, a starkly unladylike gesture that made Steven grin with genuine affection. ‘I will not lose them both.’ She looked at him as if her will alone would bring Mark Jenkins jogging contentedly along the trail. ‘I will not.’

  ‘I know,’ Steven responded reassuringly. ‘He’ll be along. He has to. Who’s going to save my life the next time I go wandering off on a fool’s errand?’

  ‘Steven,’ Sallax said loudly, and slapped him hard across the back, ‘it’s good to see you doing so well.’

  ‘And you, too, Sallax,’ Steven returned. ‘The last time I saw you I was quite worried.’

  ‘That has passed,’ the big Ronan grinned. ‘That demon wraith hit me hard, but I’ve recovered. We shall have to be on the lookout
for that horsecock, and I hope you’ll have a chance at him with that staff of yours.’

  Steven risked a glance back at Brynne. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the same Sallax who had led them from Estrad. Garec had mentioned that Sallax was still sick, despite his seeming improvement, but this was a very curious condition. The man standing before him had a wild look in his eye, as if an untamed beast lay just beneath the surface of his jolly exterior.

  It was as if Sallax were carrying something wicked that was chiselling away at him from within, leaving him half-sane, just a few fragmented and disjointed pieces of Sallax that had been rearranged, twisted about and whitewashed over with a boyish grin and a hearty laugh.

  Deciding to wait until he could find a suitable time to discuss her brother’s condition with Brynne, Steven redirected the conversation. ‘Come, let’s get you something to eat,’ he said. ‘I know you’ll enjoy grettan steaks; I’m quite a convert.’

  Sallax grinned.

  By dawn it had stopped snowing and the air felt a little warmer than of late. Steven discovered a bit of a thaw had left very little in their small but now crowded camp dry; he intended stoking up the fire to dry clothes and blankets before they got underway. Garec and Lahp were already gone, but Sallax and Brynne were still deeply asleep.

  Asleep, Sallax looked the same as he had back at Riverend Palace, a bit thinner, perhaps, but his face looked calmer, much more the confident partisan Steven remembered.

  In the distance, he saw Garec making good on his promise to provide fish for breakfast. Crossing the Blackstones had toughened Garec; he didn’t appear to be having as much fun as he had in the orchard outside Estrad, when he’d brought the highest apple to the ground with one shaft. He had been young then, filled with excitement at the promise of a journey north. Mark and Steven were strangers to him, still enemies at the time, and Garec had paid them little heed as he entertained himself there among the apple trees.

  Now Steven knew that despite Garec’s intense focus on the riverbed, he was also acutely aware of their surroundings. Nothing would threaten their camp this morning without first experiencing Garec’s skill with a longbow. Gathering fish to stay alive was not fun. Steven grimaced as he watched the archer loose another shaft into a shallow pool. It ought to be fun; given time and extraordinary luck, perhaps he would live to see Garec firing arrows through apples again.