The Hickory Staff

by Rob Scott

  ‘Jacrys!’ Nerak’s scream rent the night in two and Steven collapsed to the deck, unable to move until the echoes of the dark prince’s anguish had faded over Orindale Harbour. The staff may have been several yards away from him, but once again its magic reached out to envelope him. It thrummed beneath his skin, a protective layer of mystical power without which he would surely have been killed, crushed to a pulp by the force of Nerak’s cry.

  The dark prince dived for Steven, bearing down on him like a terrible vision of evil, anguish and death, and Steven cried out as he flicked two fingertips out to flatten the last corner of the far portal. It was not enough. Nerak moved so quickly, faster even than the nimblest of nocturnal hunters—

  As Nerak flew through the air, his cowled face turned towards Steven, he cast a deadly spell out before him in an effort to slay the foreign intruder before he could open the portal entirely, but his spell was an instant too late. Gilmour unleashed his own magic once again, and his power lanced through the night, striking the evil sorcerer a vicious broadside, which sent him reeling across the deck.

  And Steven Taylor disappeared.

  Mark nearly lost consciousness when the Prince Marek’s quarterdeck exploded over his head in a thousand splintered planks. His eyeballs throbbed with every heartbeat and his ears felt as though they had been clapped between a pair of cymbals. He sat dazed for a time in the wildly rocking skiff before he was able to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Nerak’s here, then,’ he whispered.

  The stillness that followed on the heels of the blast was unnerving, and for a moment Mark worried that his hearing had been damaged. ‘Sonofabitch,’ he shouted out, and then, encouraged by the sound of his own voice, ‘Brynne! Where are you?’

  The rope they’d been using to climb onto the ship had been blown away: Mark was trapped on his little boat, unable to help his friends. He had to have faith that Steven would find the far portal and Brynne would return safely to him. All he could do was what he’d been ordered: sit and wait. He picked up Garec’s bow and the quiver full of arrows and resigned himself to his silent vigil.

  As he scanned the night sky, he noticed a peculiar cloudbank, dark, running low to the ground, moving like a fogbank, but backwards, from land to sea. It looked more mist than cloud – and Mark blanched as his mind flipped back to a conversation with Gita Kamrec’s men. He dropped his bow and stood up in the little boat facing east towards the distant lights of the city, remembering the dark river cavern, and the Falkans’ tales of unimaginable nightmares hidden in these clouds.

  Hall Storen had told them how they’d tried to keep an eye on the clouds after sunrise, in case they had to avoid an attack from above. ‘It was worse when it came after dark,’ Mark repeated to himself, shuddering. And here they came, Nerak’s own little weather army.

  Fear roiled through Mark’s stomach. His thoughts faltered: what could he do? He was defenceless and time was running out. The obsidian fogbank appeared unaffected by the stiff sea breeze as it moved inexorably towards the Prince Marek. Mark, in a desperate effort to warn the others, began to scream.

  *

  Nerak raised his arms as if in supplication and whispered, ‘Oh, well done, Fantus.’ He exhaled and, voicing a gruesome curse, brought his arms down violently to his sides, sending a destructive spell deep into the bowels of the Prince Marek. The great black ship shivered and creaked as she began to come apart at the seams.

  Nerak’s decision to destroy his own ship took Gilmour by surprise. That few moments’ inattention was all the dark prince needed; before Gilmour could strike again he had leaped into the far portal and vanished from view.

  For an instant, Nerak’s pursuit of Steven came as such a shock that Gilmour nearly stepped into the portal himself, but rational thought intervened. Even that brief span of time before Nerak followed him gave Steven ample opportunity to close the portal at his home in Idaho Springs. Nerak would be elsewhere, cast somewhere at the whim of the portal, maybe whole worlds away from 147 Tenth Street in Idaho Springs.

  As Gilmour smiled to himself, the Prince Marek came apart beneath him. The remaining masts cracked and collapsed, smashing through the upper decks. The forecastle snapped off; thick beams burst asunder and heavy planks warped and splintered, a barrage of cracks that reminded the old sorcerer of rifle-fire at Gettysburg. The dark waters of the Ravenian Sea started to rush into what was left of the Prince Marek’s hull and the great ship began to list heavily.

  Taking a final look around the wreckage, Gilmour breathed, ‘Good luck, Steven Taylor.’ Moving with a speed and grace that belied the old fisherman’s age he crossed the deck and collected the tapestry then dived for Steven’s hickory staff, which was rolling dangerously close to the broken edge. Finally he removed his cloak and wrapped the tapestry and the leatherbound book of Lessek’s spells in its protective folds.

  Gilmour took one swift look around what was left of Nerak’s cabin and hustled up the now steeply sloping deck until he was perched on an uneven ledge. The former Larion Senator held fast to the cloak-wrapped bundle and the hickory staff and leaped into the chilly water below.

  EPILOGUE

  Charleston International Airport

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  David Mantegna ran an index finger up the smooth leather of the holster. It still felt strange – he and his partner, Sandra Echols, had been wearing their 9mm sidearms for just a week and were still getting used to the idea of carrying guns in the airport. In the wake of the ongoing threats to commercial airliners, the Charleston City Police now had officers stationed at the security gates to provide support for those airport staff operating the detectors and checking for weapons or incendiary devices stashed in passengers’ carry-on baggage.

  Funding cuts meant no extra police officers, so the airport’s security detail had been put through exhaustive – and embarrassing – background checks, followed by eight weeks of surprise urine tests, then two months’ intensive training at the State Police Academy. Thanks to a creatively inexpensive political manoeuvre on the part of the Charleston City Council and the Mayor’s Office, he and Sandra were now licensed deputies of the city police force, and could be called upon as law enforcement officers in crimes ranging from breaching airport security, to drug trafficking, to terrorism.

  Of course, they still had to do their fair share of gate security, checking bags, examining X-rays and basically ensuring nothing threatened the passengers and planes scheduled through Concourse B, gates 1 through 5. Thousands of bags passed through the X-ray machine every day and Mantegna was desperately hoping the city economy would improve enough so he could complete his studies and join the force as a fully fledged city officer.

  ‘I’m bored,’ he sighed, reviewing the black-and-white image of an elderly woman’s cosmetics case. Sandra smiled at him briefly. He liked her smile. She had one tooth that lay just slightly over another, giving her a bright but crooked grin that he found endearing. He teased her mercilessly about her uniform. Sandra’s blues had been well tailored and fitted her contours closely: she was fit and athletic, and obviously aware of her body and how attractive she looked in the wide leather belt and Kevlar vest. He openly ogled the curves of her lithe form as he remarked that she should stop showing up for work in her younger sister’s clothing. Sandra could give as good as she got, judging by the off-colour comments about the calibre of Mantegna’s weapon. ‘Only nine millimetres, David?’ she’d respond. ‘That’ll simply never do!’

  ‘I said, I’m bored,’ Mantegna repeated. There were only two flights scheduled out in the next hour and most passengers had already come through the security checkpoint.

  ‘Well, stop whining and go help that woman,’ his partner suggested. ‘Might as well earn your pay today.’

  He looked beyond the upright rectangle of the metal detector to the near-empty terminal. A young woman was approaching, pushing a baby stroller and carrying the sort of bag common among new mothers. This one was lime-green, adorned
with small pictures of Peter Rabbit, and jammed full of baby kit: bottles, plastic toys, clothes, Pampers, and a dog-eared novel. It started to slip off her shoulder as she reached in to remove the sleeping infant.

  Hoping a show of gallantry might impress his partner, David Mantegna hurried to assist the young mother. ‘Let me help you, ma’am,’ he said, picking up a couple of toys that had fallen from the bag.

  ‘Oh, please don’t call me “ma’am”. I can’t possibly be a “ma’am”, I’m only twenty-seven,’ she laughed before adding, ‘but thanks, I could do with a hand.’ He pushed the stroller through his security checkpoint, then looked into the empty storage area under the seat and felt the cushions for any hidden items. As he’d anticipated, he found nothing.

  While the Peter Rabbit bag rolled through the X-ray machine, Mantegna saw what he expected to see: bottles, clothes, toys and a book. He returned the stroller and watched as the young woman walked down the concourse towards her gate, B4, and the morning flight to Washington, DC.

  An alarm went off in Mantegna’s head as he turned to see a young man walk through the metal detector. He seemed nervous and uncomfortable, and his clothes were badly wrinkled, as though he had slept in them – or worse, showered in them. He had several days’ beard growth and carried no bags, just a ticket. Mantegna squared his shoulders and unconsciously patted his 9mm pistol. This was it. This was what all the training was about. He hustled back towards the security station, expecting the metal detector to sound any minute, but nothing happened. The dishevelled passenger simply walked through and hurried down the concourse towards Gate B4. Mantegna let his shoulders relax, almost disappointed. Just a bum with money then.

  ‘Did you catch a whiff of him?’ Sandra asked as she absentmindedly adjusted a focus knob on the X-ray machine.

  ‘No, I try to avoid smelling the passengers as they come through,’ he joked and was rewarded with a short laugh and a flash of her sexy crooked tooth.

  Steven Taylor boarded Express Airlines Flight 182 to Washing-ton, DC at 10.25 a.m. He had a connection to Denver International Airport scheduled to depart Reagan National at 1.20 p.m. He’d gain two hours on the flight west and be in Idaho Springs by early evening. His ticket had been expensive – $1200 – because he was flying at the last minute, and he silently thanked God he had remembered to pay his Visa bill that night outside Owen’s Pub, so long ago. And at least he still had his wallet, even if it had been soaked and dried out so many times since his arrival in Eldarn that he had been forced to covertly resign the signature block on the back. With his Colorado driver’s licence in hand, he purchased the ticket, checked in and waited for the gate attendant to call his row number for boarding.

  Thanks to the careless behaviour of Arthur Mikelson, a banker from Charleston currently suffering from a nasty hangover – and probably sunburn by now – Steven was dressed in an unprepossessing pair of sweatpants and a decade-old T-shirt from Gold’s Gym in Hilton Head. He had also had a ride to the airport courtesy of Arthur’s very comfortable Lexus sedan. Mikelson’s gym bag had a pair of Nike trainers inside, near enough Steven’s size, but he had turned them down in favour of Garec’s boots, which he was still wearing. Steven had every intention of returning them.

  Arthur had also been kind enough to leave his wallet stuffed under the front seat before heading onto Folly Beach to drink himself blind. With cash in hand, Steven had taken a few minutes out for eggs, pancakes, bacon, buttered toast, hash browns and six mugs of steaming black coffee. He thought of Mark as he breathed in the aroma: whatever else he did, he had to introduce the coffee bean to Eldarn.

  Now he was beginning to seriously regret not taking the time to find a shower: as he took his seat and awaited lift-off he was conscious he looked and smelled out of place. He was covered in dry, briny salt and he stank of sweat and low tide. Being this filthy made him feel uncomfortable and conspicuous.

  His self-conscious musings were interrupted as he watched a woman coming down the aisle. He had seen her at the gate, quietly rocking an infant, and he thought it a little odd that she hadn’t taken the opportunity to pre-board and get settled. But here she came, carrying the child in the crook of one arm, rather strangely, like a halfback might hold a football. Her other hand was tucked into the front pocket of her khakis and a small green bag bursting with essential-looking baby items hung from her shoulder and bounced uncomfortably off her hip and across the small of her back.

  He blushed, realising he’d been staring, and looked away as she took her seat several rows behind him. He lay back and closed his eyes, trying not to think about everything that had happened over the past months. He hoped sleep would take him for the flight home.

  Steven opened his eyes with a start. Something was wrong. He heard Gilmour in his head: If it looks strange, it’s probably strange. Something wasn’t right about this flight. Had he been followed? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something wrong. He hadn’t seen anyone since his arrival, apart from the generous Mr Mikelson on the beach and the woman at the truck stop who had served him breakfast just after dawn. Had Arthur Mikelson actually followed him through the portal – was he a member of Malagon’s army? No, surely not: he hadn’t heard other splashes, or seen other swimmers – and how the hell could Arthur Mikelson have found a Brooks Brothers’ suit, a Lexus, nine beers, a pack of cigarettes and the time to get drunk, throw up and fall asleep, all while Steven was swimming ashore? It couldn’t possibly be him.

  The airplane window was a small porthole onto a new world, and the airport tarmac stretched out to the horizon. If it looks strange, it’s probably strange. But what was strange? The swim, breakfast, the drive to Charleston, the flight, the plane, the woman with the baby, her hand in her pocket … that was it. Where was she? Slowly he lifted his head and turned around to peer behind him. She was there. Young and pretty, maybe twenty-five, and she was looking right at him. Strange. The baby was crying loudly, and yet she still looked straight ahead. Really strange. Her face was impassive, emotionless, and now Steven knew who had followed him through the far portal. Her hand had been in her pocket to hide the unsightly wound Gilmour had described, the festering sore that had marked all of Nerak’s victims.

  But Gilmour had told them the far portal on the Prince Marek was the weaker one, and his arrival off the coast of South Carolina confirmed that the portal in Idaho Springs had been closed somehow. If Nerak had followed him through, why hadn’t the evil bastard been deposited in Alaska, or over in Nepal somewhere? Shit, Gilmour, you were wrong. Nerak is able to come across the Fold. How did he do it – did he track me? Or track the magic – no, impossible. The staff is still on the ship. But however he did it, he followed me here.

  Steven felt his stomach turn over. The pressure in his forehead felt like it might crack his skull. Get away, he thought finally, just get away.

  Steven excused himself to his seat mates and made his way towards the airplane lavatory as a flight attendant was asking the young mother, ‘Is everything okay here, ma’am?’

  Tonelessly, the woman answered, ‘Oh, things are fine. He just needs his formula.’ She pulled two half-filled bottles from the green bag and slowly, in a well-practised motion, opened both, poured the contents of one into the other, screwed down the nipple cap and gave the now full bottle a gentle shake. Bubbles escaped from the nipple as she stood the bottle on her tray table. All the while she prepared the formula the young mother looked ahead, her eyes fixed on the forward lavatory.

  David Mantegna was standing near the stainless-steel table used for baggage inspections at the security gate. A passenger had come through carrying a laptop computer and, as federal regulations permitted, he asked the man to switch it on to prove it hadn’t been tampered with.

  When the explosion came, it was the stainless-steel table that saved David’s life. As the force of the blast threw him backwards into the wall, the table was thrown in front of him and acted as a makeshift shield against the shards of flying glass and metal th
at tore through the terminal building an instant later. While still at Gate B4, Express Airlines Flight 182 to Washington, DC exploded with such force that an enormous fireball raced up the jetway and into the terminal building, incinerating a dozen passengers on their way through the concourse.

  The fuel truck filling a plane standing near Gate B3 lifted off its wheels for a moment before exploding in a devastating blast that quickly ignited the fuel in the wing reservoirs. Express Airlines Flight 64 didn’t explode, but the fire that started when the wing tip was blown away spread almost immediately and the one hundred and sixty-four passengers bound for Atlanta were being burned alive, clawing and fighting one another in their desperation to reach an exit.

  David Mantegna looked down. On the floor next to him was the passenger’s laptop computer, still beeping away – that hadn’t been the bomb. So what had caused the explosion? He couldn’t quite keep his thoughts together. He felt oddly unbalanced as he stood up, and soon discovered blood running from his right ear and down his shoulder. The owner of the laptop was on the floor, screaming, over and over. The man’s arm had been torn off above the elbow and blood ran steadily from the stump. Mantegna was strangely surprised that the wound was not pumping blood out in spurts, like it did in war movies. He stumbled back to the security check station to see what had happened to his partner.

  Sandra Echols was dead, her eyes staring out at nothing. Her mouth had fallen halfway open and a shard of glass had torn through her upper lip and across her left cheek. Her left arm was broken and twisted at an impossible angle. Her uniform shirt and vest had been ripped open, revealing a deep wound under her left breast where a large piece of metal remained lodged, one jagged and bloodstained edge still protruding outward. With her arm twisted behind her back and her breasts revealed so prominently, the security guard thought she looked beautiful, like a sculpture he had once seen in an art-history book. His vision faded, then returned.