by Rob Scott
The Hickory Staff
( Eldarn - 1 )
Rob Scott
Rob Scott
The Hickory Staff
INTRODUCTION
Charleston, South Carolina
FOLLY BEACH
Next winter
The bay waters rolled in gentle swells, almost silent, deep blue colour fading to black. Norman Felson looped a bowline hitch around a small stanchion near the helm of his thirty-six-foot sloop, the Offshore Maid, and attached the opposite end to the tiller, fixing the helm to free his hands because a spanker line had come loose aft. He hauled it in, then hustled back to the bridge as soon as he had the errant sheet reset. He was still uncomfortable sailing the sloop on his own, and didn’t like to be away from the helm for more than a few seconds. He looked forward to sunrise; he worried less in daylight.
Kay, his wife, was working in their small cabin; he smelled the aroma of fresh coffee mixing with the cool breeze drifting down from the Chesapeake. Save for the distant glow of channel markers and moonlight glimmering in a kaleidoscope of geometric glints flashing from wave to wave, the bay was dark. Felson navigated north and east using his GPS satellite computer, heading towards the Charleston Harbour lighthouse before turning into the Atlantic and setting course for Nags Head. He liked to imagine himself a sailor from a previous age; he’d often try to stay his course using compass and the stars alone – though he was rarely successful. He silently cursed his Coast Guard navigation instructor for encouraging him to rely so heavily on satellite technology.
He checked again to be sure he had programmed the correct coordinates into his navigation computer before calling to Kay, ‘Is the coffee ready?’
‘Just about,’ she replied, ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’
Felson took a bite from a blueberry jelly doughnut coated with uncooperative powdered sugar and realised he was actually quite happy to live in this age. Certain the doughnut was the finest invention of the last millennium, he found himself imagining with a shudder what Francis Drake might have eaten for breakfast as he prepared to battle the Spanish Armada in 1588: drytack biscuits infested with weevils. Drawing out a dollop of jelly with his finger, he grimaced; the old captain’s fare could never have been as exquisitely simple and delicious as the doughnuts Felson bought, still warm, for $2.99 a dozen.
Kay appeared from below. She smiled as she handed him a steaming mug bearing an embossed logo from the Fairfield Gazette, the paper that had carried his first story more than forty years earlier. Now he was the editor, and proud of it.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a sip. Kay didn’t answer; she stared out into the inky darkness as the undulating waves, unbroken by even the smallest of whitecaps, rocked the Offshore Maid in gentle rhythm. Her hair was pulled back with a length of black velvet ribbon; her cardigan was unbuttoned despite the chilly pre-dawn wind.
‘Honey?’ Felson bent over to recheck their heading on the compass mounted above the helm. ‘Kay, are you-?’
He turned to find his wife standing directly behind him and jumped. ‘Jesus, you scared me… what-?’ His words were choked off as Kay took him firmly by the throat. With almost inconceivable strength she began to squeeze the life from him. Felson tried to prise her fingers from his neck. He felt his hand, coated with bloody pus, come away from her wrist, and, for a second, he was concerned for her. Why was she bleeding? But confusion was soon supplanted by terror: Kay was not relaxing her grip.
Panic struck. Norman Felson began to struggle furiously, kicking and writhing in his wife’s unfeasibly forceful grasp. He felt his nose begin to bleed as capillaries burst and heard himself gagging phlegm against the collapsed walls of his windpipe. As consciousness closed in, Felson watched his wife draw back her free hand. A tiny fist illuminated only by light from the sloop’s galley came forward with lightning speed to slam into his chest, tearing sinews and shattering bones.
Kay Felson wiped her bloody hand on the folds of her skirt and tossed her husband’s body back against the transom like a load of soiled laundry. A thin trickle of blood ran across the deck and out a scupper into the bay as the elderly woman gripped the helm and brought the Offshore Maid about.
With a cry of alarm, arms flailing, Steven Taylor broke the surface of the water. The sting in his eyes and briny taste in his throat confirmed his first suspicion. ‘The ocean, Christ, I’m in the ocean,’ he shouted, then coughed and began treading water. Thankfully, it was not too cold, and by the dim light of dawn he could see land, a beach, about a quarter-mile to the west. His sodden boots and woollen clothing weighed heavily on him, but he was glad to have them. He set his jaw for the difficult swim to shore.
Kicking towards the beach, Steven’s thoughts were churning. Would his credit cards still work? If not, he’d have to steal a wallet. He needed a flight, quickly. He had no idea where he was, or how far it was to Denver; Steven prayed he would come ashore, find an airport and be in Colorado by late afternoon. They would be expecting him between 5.00 and 5.15. After that, at least the immediate pressure would be off, and Steven would have twelve hours more to get home.
Fifteen minutes later, the sun had risen further in the morning sky and Steven recognised that he was on the east coast – he wasn’t certain which east coast, but he was hoping against hope that it was the United States. He had no passport to ensure safe passage home from a foreign country. He could claim he had lost it, or that it had been stolen, but he did not have the luxury of time to argue with the clerical staff at an American Consular Office in some foreign city. As Steven approached the beach, his concerns were alleviated somewhat by the sight of a dimly lit sign above a closed concession stand: Bratwurst.
He laughed to himself. ‘Well, unless they put in an ocean off the east coast of Germany, I’m back home… off course by eighteen hundred miles, but home nevertheless.’ If this were Florida, Hilton Head or, even better, New Jersey, there would be an airport close by. Judging from the temperature of the water he guessed he was south of the Chesapeake; although chilly, he hadn’t succumbed to hypothermia – at this time of year, northern waters would be much too cold: he would have frozen by now.
As he waded ashore, his feet leaving the only imperfections in the trowel-perfect sand, he noticed someone lying on the beach. It was too early for tourists: this was someone who had been there all night. Shaking water from his clothing, he quickly covered the distance to the sleeping form.
‘Hey, wake up.’ Steven nudged the stranger lightly by the shoulder. He was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, dressed in a rumpled suit and ruined tie; he smelled of stale beer and vomit. ‘C’mon, wake up,’ Steven repeated emphatically.
‘What? Christ, what time is it?’
‘It’s 5.15,’ Steven said, though he had no real idea – he had traded his watch for a horse in Rona months ago.
‘Are you a cop?’ the young man asked, still half asleep.
‘No. Listen, I have one quick question. Where are we?’
‘What? Leave me alone. Jesus!’
‘Tell me where we are.’ Steven was slightly amused: this young professional would soon wake to a painful hangover.
‘Folly Beach, South Carolina. Now shove off, asshole.’ The groggy drunk rolled back onto the sand. As he did, Steven noticed a set of keys lying near a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and nine empty beer bottles.
He waited a minute, counting the man’s steady breaths, before he silently stole the keys and the lighter. Running up the gentle slope to the parking lot, he hesitated a moment and turned to look once more at the sunrise. The light had brightened the waterfront, bringing a sense of hope and renewal. The still form of the sleeping drunk seemed out of place, ink spilled on an impressionist landscape.
St
even did not consider the incongruity long. He was home. Now he had twelve hours to get back. ‘Charleston Airport,’ he said as he hurried towards the lone car parked beside the beach.
BOOK I
The Bank
ESTRAD, RONA
981 Twinmoons Ago
‘I am aware they were flying Ronan colours, my dear Detria,’ Markon Grayslip, Prince of Rona, told his irritated cousin calmly. ‘I assure you, when they attack my ships, they fly the colours of Praga or Falkan, or some other territory. It’s the ruse they employ to get closer to our ships. Your captains really should know better.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted it.
Detria Sommerson’s face reddened with fury. ‘ My captains? Your captains should be out there ridding us of this threat. Your father wanted sovereignty of that unholy pile of rocks he called an island, and I was happy to give it to him. I know you didn’t ask for it, but now it’s yours and you had better police it.’ Beads of sweat lined the dusty edge of her enormous wig and drew rivulets of diluted white powder down her forehead. Markon did not wish to upset her any more.
He tried a different tack. ‘How many soldiers did you lose?’
She calmed slightly and admitted, ‘As luck would have it, we didn’t lose any. My flagship was able to run off those hideous ruffians. However, that’s not the point-’ she made an adjustment to one of the many layers of her dress. ‘The point is that damage was done to one of my ships, and you did not provide an escort to safely see me and my family across the Ravenian Sea.’
‘Hold on for a moment, please, Aunt Detria-’ She was always called Aunt although she was actually his cousin; now Markon hoped that reminding her of their family connection would soften her somewhat. ‘I offered you an escort, which you turned down last Twinmoon. How many ships did you bring?’
‘As a matter of fact, I brought three.’
Markon nearly laughed out loud. ‘Three? Great lords, why? Is it not just you, Ravena and Anis? What could you possibly need with three ships?’
‘Not that it is any of your concern… Nephew.’ She may be the family matriarch still, but Markon remained impassive. He did not take orders from her. ‘I needed three ships for my carriage, my horses, my palace escort, and-’ she paused, reddening slightly, then continued, ‘my clothing.’
Fighting to hold back a smile, Prince Markon II of Rona asked, ‘And which ship was damaged, my dearest Aunt?’
Detria gave up the fight, bursting out, ‘My rutting clothing ship, damn your insolence! And I want everything replaced – today.’
Seizing the opportunity to be gracious, Markon agreed, ‘Of course Aunt Detria, please let one of my palace aides know what was lost and I will have the finest tailors in Estrad here this afternoon to re-outfit your entire retinue. And I will also dispatch a force to hunt down these pirates and send word to you when it is accomplished.’ Grinning a little devilishly, he added, ‘It is lovely to see you again, Aunt Detria. You know you were my father’s favourite cousin.’
‘Do not try to sweet talk me, Nephew. I’m angry. I’m angry at having to drag myself over here to listen to this reunification proposal of yours. I’m angry at the soggy climate in this lowland swamp you call a nation, and I am very sceptical of this representative government you propose.’ She tried to stare him down, but Markon would not allow this, not in his own audience chamber. She went on, ‘You’re going to have to do a great deal of convincing over the next ten days, Markon, a great deal.’
With that parting salvo, Aunt Detria Sommerson, Ruling Princess of all Praga, turned on her heel and stormed out.
Climbing the grand staircase to his royal apartment, Markon found Danae, his wife, waiting for him on the landing.
‘Well, she sounds upset,’ said Danae, taking his hand.
‘You have no idea,’ he said. ‘I think one of these days she’s going to drop dead carrying on like that.’ A large stained-glass window above the landing illuminated the staircase and lit his wife’s face. She had aged well; he believed her the most beautiful woman in Rona. ‘I need her for this to work, though,’ he said contemplatively. ‘I need all of them, and I have only ten days.’
Markon’s cousins, the rulers of Praga, Falkan and Malakasia, had all travelled to Rona to hear his reunification proposal. The nations were independent of each other, and their political and economic relations had been strained for the past three generations. A brutal war between his grandfather, his great-uncle and his great-aunt had ended in an unstable peace agreement many Twinmoons earlier, but border raids, pirates and inflated tariffs were pushing the Eldarni nations close to conflict once again. Secret alliances had been formed, armies quietly levied and outfitted.
Markon was working desperately to stop the downward spiral into armed conflict; his proposal would bring representative government to the known lands and, hopefully, restore a true peace to Eldarn. The visionary prince was frustrated that his cousins had agreed to be his guests for just ten days; that left a great deal of planning and negotiating to complete in a very short time. Still, he was determined.
He squeezed his wife’s hand and turned to climb the remaining stairs. ‘We begin tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘Prepared or not, we begin tonight.’
From his apartment Markon looked out across the palace grounds. Normally a haven for quiet contemplation, today there were hundreds of people who had come to witness history, to sell their goods and services, or just to enjoy the fair-like atmosphere of the political summit. Although his royal cousins were housed in various wings of Riverend Palace, their escorts camped on the grounds between the palace and the Estrad River, together with those who had come to sell, to entertain or just to gawp. Markon had offered each a team of squires to act as servants or valets during the summit, but – like Aunt Detria’s naval escort – he had been turned down: his cousins mistrusted him. Looking now across the sea of multi-coloured banners, tents and pedlars’ carts, he knew he was doing the right thing. Markon imagined the great nation of Eldarn reborn, reconstructed into five equal nation-states, where all citizens could enjoy freedom, equity and an opportunity to build a meaningful life. He just had to talk his cousins into the idea. The Ronan prince believed they shared enough fundamental values to bring this vision to life. No one person should rule absolutely. Markon was certain that absolute power had been the damning variable in his great-grandfather’s life: he was killed because he had wielded unchecked power; his scions had been fighting for the shattered vestiges of that power for three generations. It had to stop.
‘Danae,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘would you have someone send for Tenner?’
‘Of course, dear,’ she said, gesturing to a pageboy down the hallway. She spoke quietly to the boy, who walked quickly off to find Tenner, the prince’s personal physician, and closest advisor.
Danae came up behind her husband and ran her hands under his arms and across his chest. He was still in good physical shape for a man nearly four hundred and twenty-five Twinmoons old, his chest and arms kept strong with continued riding and exercise. He had put on some weight above his belt, though, and Danae grabbed him playfully.
‘I’m not the man you once married,’ he told her quietly. ‘What do you suppose happened to him?’
‘I’d say he was a bit older, much wiser-’ Markon smiled at that, ‘-and about to bring lasting peace to the known world.’ She wrapped her arms more tightly around him, burying her face in his back.
‘I hope you’re right, my darling,’ he said, sighing a little.
‘I hope you’re right, too, my darling,’ a third voice interrupted: Tenner Wynne, the only man in Rona who would dare to enter the royal apartments without announcing himself. ‘You’ve been wrong so many times. I guess I can’t blame you, though: your losing streak started when you chose the wrong husband.’ Tenner was cousin to Prince Markon, the first-born son of Remond II of Falkan. When his father died, Tenner, a medical student at the time, abdicated the Falkan crown to his sister, Anaria: he
believed he would make a below-average politician but a superior doctor.
Now, many Twinmoons later his prophecy was realised as he was responsible for training most of the physicians practising in Rona.
Tenner’s friendship with Markon had begun when the two were just boys; it had grown stronger over the Twinmoons that he had lived and taught in the Ronan capital. He was a brilliant surgeon and diagnostician, but he was also respected as the prince’s primary advisor.
‘Tenner, I’m convinced your parents had you out of wedlock,’ Markon grinned. ‘And have you, in your decrepitude, forgotten how to knock?’
‘I would remind his Highness that I am younger than him, and that the door was already open.’ Tenner bowed with false obsequiousness. ‘You two really must learn to be more discreet.’
‘Ha! You’re just jealous.’ Markon turned back towards the window. ‘Now, tell me where he is.’
‘If by ‘‘he’’ you mean your son,’ Tenner said, ‘I believe “he” is hunting in the southern forest. He’ll be back sometime later today.’
‘He ought to be here.’ Danae was anxious; she feared yet another argument between her husband and her son. At one hundred and seventy-three Twinmoons, the young man had grown independent, and Markon found many of his son’s decisions disagreeable.
‘Oh, he’ll be here,’ Tenner said. ‘He knows how important this is to you. I believe he wants to make something of an entrance this afternoon – there are, after all, numerous young and attractive women on hand.’
‘Yes,’ Markon mused. ‘I noticed we haven’t seen the Larion contingent yet. Any word from our friends in Gorsk?’
‘Nothing, but I can dispatch a rider north along the Merchants’ Highway to find out why they’re late if you want.’ Tenner didn’t need to say that he was also worried that no one had yet arrived from the northern nation; they had been expected in Rona two days earlier. Detria and the Pragan envoy had been delayed by raiders on the Ravenian Sea; he had no idea what could be delaying the Larion Senate, which was comprised entirely of peaceful scholars who travelled with little or no money. Raiding parties invariably allowed Larion convoys to pass freely, waiting for more lucrative prey.
