The Hickory Staff e-1

by Rob Scott

  ‘As great as it smells in there, I say we keep looking,’ Mark said.

  Steven’s mouth watered at the aroma emanating from the warmly lit kitchen, but he nodded in silent agreement.

  Crawling on all fours, they discovered the windows in the next house were covered with pine shutters. Through a small crack between the wooden blinds Steven watched a burly, powerful-looking man don a wide-brimmed hat and exit out the opposite side of the house into the muddy street. Steven watched for a full five minutes, in case the man returned quickly, or other family members turned up. From his vantage point at the window he could see clearly through two rooms, but he wasn’t sure about the rest of the building.

  Mark grew uneasy waiting. ‘What do you see?’ he whispered at last.

  ‘Nothing,’ Steven answered. ‘One big guy went out the front, but I haven’t seen anyone since.’

  ‘All right, let’s go in.’ Mark began making his way around the side of the house. The front door was made of wood, with a length of hide hanging from a small hole drilled through the centre board. No locks. Pulling down on the leather strap, Steven felt a latching device inside come free and the door swung open easily on its leather hinges.

  The two men made their way rapidly through the house collecting food and clothing. It was sparsely decorated but comfortable, with a small stone fireplace in the bedchamber, a pile of logs and kindling next to it.

  Mark spotted the straw mattress and, acting on instinct, lifted a corner of the bedding to find a small pouch and a long narrow sword in a smooth leather scabbard. He emptied the contents of the pouch into one hand: silver coins. Although different sizes, they all bore an image of the same man embossed on one side, with an inscription Mark was unable to read on the other.

  ‘Well, thank God for us some things don’t change,’ he said. ‘People are the same everywhere: the family fortune is stashed under the mattress. I guess they can’t trust the banks here in Rona either.’

  ‘Hey, you can trust my bank,’ Steven retorted.

  ‘Sure, the bank you robbed.’ Mark laughed, then changed the subject. ‘I’m taking this sword, too.’

  ‘What are you going to do with a sword?’ Steven asked, belting a long tunic around his waist and stuffing what food he could find into a cloth pack.

  ‘Hopefully, protect myself from lunatics like Sallax. You should find some kind of weapon as well, my friend. He doesn’t seem terribly fond of you either.’

  Mark moved through the back room towards a row of windows facing the forest. On a plain wooden table was a long hunting knife similar to the one he had taken from Brynne. ‘Here,’ he said and handed the weapon to his roommate. ‘Take this one. I’ll keep Brynne’s.’

  Finding nothing more to pillage, Steven and Mark returned to the front door.

  ‘We should leave him something. I feel bad. We’ve taken everything this guy has,’ Steven said guiltily.

  ‘C’mon, let’s just go.’ Mark gripped Steven’s shoulder. ‘Of course you feel bad. We’re thieves. We just robbed this guy’s house. It’s not right, but with his help, we might just live through this nightmare.’

  Steven moved back through the house, removed two ballpoint pens from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘There, he can make a fortune inventing the disposable writing instrument.’

  ‘Compliments of the First National Bank of Idaho Springs, I assume?’

  ‘Home of the lowest interest small business loans on the Front Range,’ Steven said, as if reading a cue card.

  ‘Great, leave him the phone number. Howard will appreciate that.’ Mark opened the wooden doorway a few inches and peered into the street beyond. ‘We’re clear. Let’s go.’

  ‘Right.’ Steven moved outside. ‘Now we have to find Greentree Tavern and, hopefully, Gilmour.’

  ‘If he’s still alive.’ Mark sounded dubious.

  The roommates asked directions of an elderly woman, who spent several minutes explaining how to find Greentree Square. Once he’d grasped the directions, Mark tried to interrupt her, but she continued talking as if the two foreigners were the first people with whom she had spoken in half a lifetime.

  Steven was feeling stifled, despite a lingering Twinmoon breeze and the evening’s cooler temperatures. He was beginning to regret wearing his tweed jacket under his newly stolen tunic – he’d remove it as soon as they were alone, but for now he had to listen, somewhat impatiently, to the garrulous old woman while sweating through his layers.

  Her directions, although lengthy, were easy to follow and they soon reached a busy main street that appeared to run north. Mark suggested they stick to the side streets that parallelled the wide thoroughfare, to avoid Ronan freedom fighters or Malakasian soldiers who might be searching for them. It wasn’t long before the road opened into an expansive trade and commercial area, bigger than they might have expected for a village. Even though night had fallen, carts of dried meats, fresh fish, cheeses, tanned hides and wine still lined the small village common: it looked like a tiny grass island in the centre of a divided highway.

  Greentree Square.

  The evening breeze caused torches illuminating the area to flicker as if the light itself were alive, and shadows cast by those hurrying through town seemed to move in unnatural ways. Greentree Square bustled with activity, much of it caused by Malakasian soldiers moving deliberately through the buildings and back streets, obviously searching for someone, and the Ronans steering clear of occupation forces by taking shelter in any building that would allow them a quick entry through bolted doors. Locals working their carts raised collars, pulled hat brims down or stepped into shadows as Malakasian patrols crisscrossed the streets.

  Mark looked out on the bustling activity for several moments before melting back into the shadows where Steven waited. ‘We can’t go out there,’ he whispered, ‘they’re checking everyone.’

  ‘Let’s get Brynne,’ Steven said through a mouthful of Ronan bread and cheese he’d pulled from a pocket. The bread was hard, but full of flavour. ‘At least the food’s edible. We can find someplace to spend the night, eat properly, get some sleep, then come back here tomorrow.’

  Mark considered the suggestion briefly. ‘You’re right. We have food. We just need a safe place to get some rest. I think-’

  Steven abruptly reached out to cover his friend’s mouth as several villagers hurried along the street away from the common. Mark was relieved to see one of them was black. Apparently he was not the only person with dark skin in the village. From the shadows, the Coloradoans could easily overhear their conversation.

  ‘Well, didn’t you see the smoke?’ a villager asked. ‘It was higher than the tallest spire at the palace, as if the whole place was on fire.’

  ‘I smelled it all the way down at the alehouse. It was burning pitch, I’m certain,’ another said confidently. ‘I know that smell from that stint I did in the shipyards. It may be Twinmoons ago, but it’s not a smell you forget.’

  ‘I hear there were grettans in the forest as well, and that ’s why the rutting horsecocks abandoned the siege.’ The first villager laughed, adding, ‘Their horses were tethered in the forest, a right perfect breakfast set out just for them.’

  ‘Grettans, Dakin?’ a third voice asked dubiously. ‘You’ve had too much wine again. There are no grettans in Rona and you shouldn’t go on spreading such rumours.’ The voices faded as the Ronans moved on and Steven motioned that they should begin heading back the way they had come, away from Greentree Square.

  They turned a corner into a dark street that ran between two rows of small businesses, all closed for the evening. This small street was much older, an indication of when Estrad Village had first been built: the buildings were similar to the house they’d burgled out near the edge of the forest, stone, with clay-tiled roofing, but here the foundations had sunk unevenly into the ground. In the darkness, they looked like a row of untended gravestones that had shifted haphazardly in a heavy rainstorm; several had sunk forward, as if t
hey were slowly falling on their faces. Steven looked up: their roof peaks nearly met over his head.

  Despite the darkness, Mark knew this street faced south because as soon as they turned the corner, he felt a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. It struck him in the face and brought some small relief from the humid evening.

  ‘Pass me another piece of that bread,’ he asked softly.

  His roommate complied. ‘The food isn’t too bad. That cheese is strong, but not so horrible if you eat it with something. Preferably a decent port. I wonder if they even have drinkable wine in this godforsaken pit?’ There was a short pause as Steven sniffed a piece of dried meat, trying to determine what it was. ‘I’ve no idea what animal this came from – I’ll wait for Brynne to tell us before I try any.’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe it’s grettan,’ Mark said, echoing the villager who happened by them earlier.

  In the distance, two figures entered the side street and turned towards them. One carried a small torch and Steven could see they were shadowed by a large, mangy dog. Even in the dark it looked undernourished. ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned.

  ‘It should be all right,’ Mark assured him. ‘We’re dressed the part. We can speak the language. We’ll wish them a good evening and continue on our way.’

  ‘You’re right, I guess.’ Steven was afraid. He had the hunting knife, but he already knew he would never be able to stab anyone. Firing a bow from a distance into a group of attackers, perhaps he could manage that, but just straight-out stabbing someone would be a more difficult undertaking. His life would have to be in immediate danger for him to use a knife in his own defence.

  As the two Ronans approached, Mark slowed his own stride noticeably.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Steven asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mark answered, staring into the evening wind. ‘Something seems strangely familiar.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing about this place that’s familiar to me at all.’

  Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the sea breeze. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled a sea breeze.’

  Steven sniffed the air as well, stopped and sniffed again. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘there is something.’

  The strangers were almost upon them when Mark turned suddenly and whispered, ‘The old man’s tobacco.’ He looked anxiously down the street to where the slowly advancing figures had begun to take on a more definite shape. ‘Shit, it’s Sallax and Gilmour.’

  Steven started twitching in fright. For a moment he thought of turning to flee, but Mark gripped his upper arm, holding him fast.

  ‘It’s okay, Steven. We needed to find them.’

  Sallax and Gilmour were about twenty paces away when Mark cried, ‘Wait right there!’

  Sallax drew his rapier in a fluid motion and was about to charge when Gilmour put a hand firmly on his chest, holding him back.

  ‘No, Sallax, put that away,’ he said calmly. The tall Ronan thought for a moment about defying the old man, then returned the blade to its scabbard.

  ‘We mean you no harm,’ Gilmour offered in near-perfect English. ‘Actually, as I started to mention this morning, I have been waiting for you for some time now.’

  ‘You speak their language?’ Sallax was in shock.

  ‘Of course,’ Gilmour answered, ‘although it is a difficult language to master: too many odd rules one must break too frequently.’ He turned back to the foreigners. ‘Please, let us approach,’ he asked in English.

  ‘Come on slowly,’ Mark called back, ‘but remember, we have Brynne.’

  ‘Of course, of course, my friends,’ Gilmour said genially, ‘I’m certain she’s fine. Please, let’s find a place where we can talk. I will explain as much as I can for you.’

  ‘Can you get us home?’ Steven asked, feeling more confident.

  ‘I can help you get started, but the path back home for you will be long.’ As the Ronans drew close, Gilmour reached out one hand.

  ‘I believe this is how you do it,’ he said, a little uncertain. Steven shook his hand. ‘That’s right… I’m Steven Taylor and this is Mark Jenkins.’

  ‘I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The old man shook hands with Mark as well. ‘I am Gilmour Stow and this is Sallax Farro.’ Sallax made no move until Steven reached out to him, then he grudgingly copied Gilmour.

  ‘Where did you learn our language?’ Mark asked, ‘Not that we’re not grateful.’

  ‘I have learned many languages, over many Twinmoons,’ Gilmour said, ‘but we are being rude.’ He placed a comforting hand on Sallax’s shoulder and switched back to Ronan. ‘We should speak Common.’

  ‘That’s better, Gilmour,’ Sallax growled.

  The dog following them up the street appeared to be a stray out looking for food. It sniffed at the cloth pack Steven carried and, obligingly, Steven gave the scrawny animal a piece of the unidentified dried meat. The dog devoured the morsel in a second and nudged Steven again with its nose.

  ‘Go on, now,’ Steven told him quietly, ‘go home.’

  ‘You shouldn’t feed him,’ Sallax spoke up. ‘He will follow you for days.’

  ‘Too late,’ Steven replied. ‘Well, he can have this meat. We weren’t certain whether it was safe to eat, anyway.’ Steven offered another piece to the dog, but surprisingly, the hungry beast didn’t take it. Steven offered again, pushing the meat towards the dog’s nose, but still the animal ignored him. Suddenly Steven detected a foul odour, a sweetish sickly smell emanating from the animal at his heels. He knelt down and found the dog frozen into immobility.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Steven asked, and leapt backwards as the stray began to decompose rapidly, rotting before his eyes.

  ‘It’s an almor!’ Gilmour cried in alarm. ‘Quick, you must run!’ He grabbed Sallax by the sleeve and shoved him roughly down the street. Neither Steven nor Mark waited around to discover what an almor was: they took off at a full sprint after the fleeing partisans.

  Steven had no idea what had just happened, but he was deeply unnerved. He ran as fast as he was able, and soon overtook both Sallax and Gilmour. Mud from the street splattered up his legs. He heard the old man calling, ‘Stay out of the water! It can catch you if you run in the water!’

  Steven’s mind raced and he muttered to himself, ‘Is he kidding? The whole goddamned street is mud. There is nowhere to avoid running through water. And what the hell is the “it” he’s referring to?’ He took a vital second to look back: Sallax and Mark were immediately behind him, but Gilmour, although still running, was lagging badly behind.

  ‘Turn left here!’ Sallax yelled and Steven obliged, running into a drier side street. He risked another look but didn’t see the elderly man make the turn. He started to slow, until he heard Sallax scold harshly, ‘Don’t worry about Gilmour. He’ll be along.’

  Steven was beginning to run badly out of breath when he was drawn up short by a blinding flash of light that illuminated the street around them. The brilliance was accompanied by a deafening explosion, the force of which slammed into him and nearly knocked him headlong into the dirt.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Mark cried, slowing to a jog.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Steven answered. ‘It’s as though a bomb went off back there.’

  ‘Hold on, my friends,’ Gilmour said as he emerged from the darkness. Steven was surprised at how much ground he had made up. ‘We need not run any more, but we ought to get away from this place as soon as possible. The entire Malakasian occupation force will be here shortly and we must be well on our way before they arrive.’

  He reached into his tunic and withdrew a pipe. Steven had seen Gilmour drop his pipe before beginning to run – he wondered how many the old man had inside his shirt. It was a little odd that Gilmour did not appear in the least bit winded, while he, Mark and Sallax were breathing heavily and sweating through their clothes.

  ‘What was that?’ Steven asked through painful breaths.

  �
��That was an ancient creature we call an almor,’ the older man told him matter-of-factly. He might have reading a feature in National Geographic for all the emotion he showed. ‘It is a demon that travels through a fluid medium and feeds by draining the life force from any living thing. Why it is here, I’m not certain. However, I do know it did not arrive of its own volition. It was brought here by a powerful force, an evil force, and it hunts someone in particular.’ He took a moment to light the pipe with a taper he drew from his riding cloak. A torch hanging from a wall sconce provided the flame. ‘I’m assuming it has been sent here to kill me,’ he finished then, thinking twice, he returned to the torch, pulled it from its sconce on the wall and used it to light their way along the street.

  ‘I thought they were legends,’ Sallax said. ‘Fabled monsters that lurked in dark alleys or forests. I never imagined for a moment that they were real.’

  ‘They are very real, and they are the stuff of legends. There was a time, a dreadful time, long before King Remond’s reign, when Eldarn was overrun with almor. It took the combined efforts of numerous forces to rid the world of them.’ Gilmour sighed. ‘Obviously they weren’t all disposed of. An almor will continue to hunt until it finds its target, and nothing will stop it. Time means nothing to it. We will have to beware every moment of every day until we control the force that brought it here.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Nerak,’ Gilmour answered, drawing on his pipe.

  ‘What’s a Nerak?’ Mark was riveted.

  ‘Right now, that’s not what’s important. I will explain when we have time.’

  ‘Well, what was that explosion then?’ Sallax was not willing to let the conversation end there.

  Gilmour eyed Steven’s cloth pack and, seeing the older man’s interest, Steven handed it over. Reaching inside, Gilmour withdrew a wine skin and a loaf of fresh bread. He took a long swallow from the skin and tore a large chunk from the loaf. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and turned to Sallax.