The Hickory Staff e-1

by Rob Scott

‘I had to throw the almor off our path. The only way to do that was to dry as much of the damp mud behind us as possible. It will not stop it, but it did cause it to lose track of us for the time being.’

  ‘Magic,’ Mark whispered to Steven.

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ Gilmour chided. ‘Explosions aren’t magic. Anyone can learn explosions. Come now, we must collect Brynne. Daylight will soon be upon us.’ He gestured for Steven and Mark to lead the way.

  Despite her fury at having been lashed to a tree all night, Brynne remained calm while Gilmour explained what had happened.

  ‘Then they were telling the truth?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘They really are from some distant land?’

  ‘We are,’ Mark said, but once again she refused to look at him, as if he were especially guilty of angering her.

  The small group made their way cautiously through the predawn light towards the orchard and their rendezvous with the other partisans. They took cover in the underbrush from time to time to avoid Malakasian patrols. There appeared to be soldiers everywhere, yet in a certain amount of disarray, still confused by the events of the previous day. The failed siege at Riverend Palace, the searches throughout the village and the devastating blast in the neighbourhood near Greentree Square had platoons running back and forth across the area in disorganised chaos.

  As they approached the orchard, with its trees lined up neatly like sentries on picket, Gilmour, despite Steven and Mark’s incessant badgering, refused to elaborate further on the almor, his apparent use of magic in creating an explosion, or the sinister force he had called Nerak, promising to explain as well as he could as soon as they were safely out of Estrad.

  ‘You must trust me,’ the old man told them. ‘I will explain as we go, but right now the most important task we face is getting out of here undetected.’

  They found Garec and Versen waiting near a large, crooked tree, with seven horses tethered nearby. Heavy dew coated trees and grass alike and clouds of thick fog blew between the trees like shapeless wraiths hunting for lost souls. Versen waved to the small company while Garec, apparently oblivious to their arrival, aimed carefully into the upper branches. He let an arrow fly and a large red apple tumbled to the ground, pierced cleanly. Garec had retrieved apple and arrow and taken a bite before he realised his friends were on hand.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful and eyeing Steven and Mark with curiosity. ‘I took the liberty of fetching your horses as well,’ he told Sallax and Gilmour. ‘Brynne, I chose a particularly fiery mare for you. She’s been chasing Renna around Madur’s farm for two days.’

  ‘That seems appropriate,’ Mark commented under his breath and was rewarded with an angry glare from the Ronan woman.

  ‘I thought so, too.’ Garec nodded at the two foreigners before adding, ‘This time we meet on better terms, I think.’ He showed the Coloradoans to their mounts.

  Steven was given a large brown mare with a white patch around one eye and along both forelegs. He patted her affectionately, then picked up a windfall apple and offered it. The mare plucked it nimbly from his outstretched palm; Steven felt they could be friends. He fixed the cloth pack to her saddle, removed his tweed jacket and tied it fast with a leather thong.

  Mark stood watching Steven and waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Steven asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know anything about horses,’ Mark answered. ‘I’ve never even been this close to one before – well, unless you count the pony at the Nassau County Fair.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Steven laughed. ‘Look, it’s easy. Be nice to him, develop a relationship with him and he’ll take great care of you.’

  ‘A relationship? I don’t even know how you know he’s a him.’ Mark looked doubtful, but gingerly patted the horse’s neck. ‘Okay, I’ve been nice. Now what?’

  ‘Now you get on him!’ Steven grinned. ‘It’s honestly not as bad as you think. Just put your foot in this thing – it’s a stirrup, you’ve heard of them, right? – and haul yourself up. You’ve seen enough Westerns; use the reins, use your legs, and make the rest up as you go along.’

  He turned to Gilmour and asked, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘North,’ the older man replied, and then to everyone added, ‘We mustn’t travel by the Merchants’ Highway; it will be too heavily patrolled.’ He looked about on the ground and found an apple, but instead of feeding it to his horse, bit into it himself. ‘We’ll pass through the Blackstone Mountains into Falkan. From there, it will be up to our new friends which direction we take.’

  ‘Up to us?’ Steven asked. ‘How will it be up to us?’

  Gilmour was suddenly quite serious. ‘Do you have Lessek’s Key?’

  ‘Key?’ Mark asked, fighting to heft himself onto the horse’s back. ‘What key? What are you talking about? We fell through that cloth rug, landed on the beach and then ran into Garec and Sallax. We don’t know anyone named Lessek – do we, Steven?’ On his third attempt, Mark managed to heave himself into the saddle. He sat there wondering what would happen when the horse started to move.

  ‘Lessek has been dead for many, many Twinmoons,’ Gilmour replied, ‘but his key is critical. If we don’t retrieve it, we are already partially defeated, perhaps even completely.’

  ‘Defeated in what, Gilmour?’ Garec asked. ‘You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘It will make sense, Garec,’ Gilmour said sadly. For the first time, he looked and sounded like an old man. ‘There is much to discuss along the way, but you will need a history lesson before our current plight and mission will come fully into focus. But that’s for later.’ He peered furtively around the orchard before giving the order: ‘All right, let’s go.’

  ‘What about Mika and Jerond?’ Versen interjected. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for them? Although no one had commented on their absence, the partisans were all thinking the same thing: Mika and Jerond were late, and that could mean they had been captured, or even killed.

  ‘We need to get moving,’ Gilmour repeated. ‘Mika and Jerond will catch up. They know we’re going north, and it’s many days’ ride to Falkan.’

  ‘What are our options once we reach Falkan?’ Garec asked, climbing easily onto Renna’s back. He scratched the mare affectionately between her ears. ‘You said it was up to Mark Jenkins and Steven Taylor. That must mean there are multiple options.’

  Steven reached out and tapped Garec’s arm. ‘It’s just Mark and Steven. That’s all. Not “Mark Jenkins and Steven Taylor”. It looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so let’s drop the formality, shall we?’

  Garec shrugged, unconcerned, before turning back to Gilmour. ‘Without Lessek’s Key, we have only one option.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Brynne was listening intently.

  Gilmour tied his riding cloak tightly around his shoulders, as if he felt a sudden chill in the heavy Ronan air. ‘Welstar Palace in Malakasia.’

  OUTSIDE SOUTHPORT, PRAGA

  Hannah’s joints ached with the dull, throbbing pain of dehydration. The day was hot and the road beneath her feet dusty: tiny clouds of dirt billowed about her ankles with every step and her trainers were coated with a thin brown film. She had only been walking for half an hour, but having nothing to eat or drink for two days was taking its toll. She felt it first in her knees – it was always her knees; they invariably let her know when she had pushed her body too far – but determined to practise equal opportunity abuse this afternoon, Hannah kept walking.

  Soon her ankles, shoulders and neck were crying for mercy as well.

  The road flanking the copse where she had slept appeared to wind its way casually into the village along the water. The trip was taking longer than she had anticipated. ‘No crows flying along this route unless they have a learning disability,’ she groaned. Twisting back into a narrow draw between two hillocks sitting like twin camel humps above the harbour, Hannah could no longer see the city. She assumed the ro
ad would follow the valley’s curve before dropping down into town. Hoping a stream might flow through the draw at the far end of the gorge, she made her way doggedly into the defile, imagining cool spring water tumbling over smooth rocks and into gentle pools.

  ‘I’ll drink a gallon,’ she promised herself, ignoring the fact that any number of pernicious bacteria might be lurking, just waiting for her to come along. ‘Screw it. I’ll take whatever they’re serving – Montezuma’s worst nightmare, chicken pox, malaria, nitrogen narcosis – I’m beyond caring. As long as it’s on the daily special, I’ll have an order… with fries.’ She wiped a sleeve across her forehead and pulled off her jacket.

  ‘Too hot. How did that happen? Not only was I transported through the floor of Steven’s house, but I was transported to the desert, too.’ She tried not to think about it. There had to be a rational explanation. Unwilling to accept the fact that she had been the victim of something supernatural, Hannah clung to her no-nonsense, everything-can-and-will-make-sense views with all the determination she could muster. But it was a tiring charge, and only the steady, repetitive pace of her forced march into town provided her with any comfort.

  ‘I’ll figure this out when I get to town. I have some money. I have my credit cards. I will call a cab, take a bus, charter a frigging plane; I don’t care.’ She was chanting to herself, almost a mantra. ‘I will get out of this and things will be fine.’ Her muscles ached and she was forced to stop for a moment, but as she almost fell to the ground, insecurity began to creep over her.

  ‘I should keep moving… keep going, before I start thinking too much about this again. There were two moons, no mistake about that. And buses? I don’t suppose they’ll have buses going quite that far.’ A strange feeling snaked along her spine and teased her with the notion that perhaps this was real, she had fallen into someplace new, someplace different – possibly even someplace unfriendly.

  ‘Steven might be here, too. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called.’ She shook her head. Why hadn’t that occurred to her earlier? Just the thought of finding Steven energised her and after taking a minute to estimate the distance around the valley’s bowl, Hannah got to her feet and started out again.

  She rounded a lazy bend and came face to face with three men walking along the dirt road away from town. Hannah was struck by their dress: all three were clad entirely in black and despite the heat, they wore boots, form-fitting leggings, hip-length pullover tunics belted at the waist and thick leather vests adorned with an ornate gold crest. At their belts each wore a short knife and what appeared to be a rapier or a sword; Hannah didn’t know the difference. She couldn’t imagine how warm they must be in such heavy costumes; she assumed, as she had earlier, that some sort of mock-Renaissance celebration was under way in the town.

  ‘Am I glad to see you guys,’ she started – as far as Hannah was concerned, finding anyone at all on the bone-dry roadway was a blessing, even if they were dressed like something out of a TV adaptation of Ivanhoe.

  ‘Do you know where I can find a 7-11, or maybe a supermarket? I need a payphone and I want to get some water.’ Suddenly afraid of how they might respond, she added hesitantly, ‘And can you tell me where we are? I mean… I know that sounds silly, but what town is that over there?’ She gestured towards the harbour.

  The three men stared at her, apparently speechless. Hannah, remembering she was alone, endeavoured to keep her distance while remaining polite. She smiled and waited, the smoke-like tendrils of insecurity chilling her bones once again.

  The tallest of the three, who towered over his companions by six or seven inches, spoke first. At first, Hannah thought she had misheard him, that his words had been lost on the breeze brushing through the gorge, but then she realised he was speaking a different language, a strange language, one she had never heard before. It was guttural and full of left-footed consonants, a little like Welsh after a few drinks. More curious, though, was the fact that she understood him. She comprehended every word.

  A dream, that’s what this is, just a dream… maybe you hit your head. Just ride it out and you’ll wake up eventually. Relaxing somewhat, Hannah searched across the hillside, looking for a purple giraffe, a whale reading a comic book, or the collective faculty of the law school clad entirely in Victoria’s Secret underwear.

  Her throat closed slightly when the young man spoke again. His words formed phrases in her mind after a two- or three-second delay. ‘-too far from town, my sweet little morsel,’ he said lasciviously. ‘No one will hear you out here.’

  The men closed on her swiftly. Hannah, stunned by their attack, remained frozen in place. Her limbs filled with concrete and she went down without a struggle. They were tugging at her, fumbling with her clothing and arguing with one another about who would go first when she finally realised what was about to happen.

  An alarm clamoured in her head: Get up! Fight back! But she was trapped now, their collective weight too heavy for her to move. She overheard snatches of what they were saying – given her panic at what was happening, Hannah was amazed that she could understand the thick, hacking syllables at all…

  ‘-strange rutting clothes on her-’

  ‘-look at these hose-’

  ‘-just pull them off her feet, rutting whores’ sake, can’t you do anything?’

  It’s happening. Oh Christ, it’s happening to me- Hannah had read about rape victims, women who wished they had been trained in self-defence, that they had been carrying mace or pepper spray or a Tomahawk missile, but she had never joined the ranks of those who claimed, ‘If that ever happens to me, I’ll-’

  Instead, she had just prayed it never would happen to her. Now she realised that was not enough. Keys. Someone once told her they were an excellent weapon against a sexual predator. She could scratch a face, open a jagged wound across a cheek, or claw an eye out. She could even use them to rip a hole in his scrotum, gouge out his balls. Where were her keys? Her jacket was tied around her waist, but she knew the keys were not in the pockets. She knew that because she remembered putting them down beside a half-eaten pizza on the counter at 147 Tenth Street.

  Finally she screamed, scratching wildly at her assailants – maybe she could jab an eye with her fingernails… but Hannah Sorenson didn’t have long or especially sharp fingernails; she had never been one for high fashion and her fingernails had been filed down so they didn’t get in the way. She was useless.

  She tried kicking, and wailing for help, mercy or forgiveness, until one of the men rammed his knee up violently between her legs, sending a sharp pain across her abdomen that paralysed her from the waist down. Another gripped her breasts, squeezing and twisting them violently.

  She leaned forward, catching a finger between her teeth. Biting down, trying to gnaw the digit off and spit it back at him, she tasted blood. Heartened by her progress, she continued to grind her teeth through flesh and on into bone.

  She heard the rapist scream in agony and her breasts were momentarily forgotten in the interests of retrieving his hand before she did any more damage.

  ‘Rutting whore!’ he screamed. The first punch glanced off her temple; compared with the agony in her groin, she barely felt it. Hannah wished it had broken her jaw or crushed her nose, because then the worst would be behind her, but as a harbinger of brutality yet to come, the blow to her temple was about the cruellest thing her attackers could have done.

  The breast grabber leaned back, free fist aloft, ready to pummel her into unconsciousness, but she maintained her death-grip on his ruined finger. As his warm blood trickled into her mouth she promised herself she would not let go, no matter how hard or how often they beat her, that finger was never going back.

  The punch never landed.

  Churn Prellis took the first Malakasian in a full sprinting tackle. The would-be rapist was rearing back to slug Hannah across the face; an easy target. Churn’s body blocked the sun for an instant before he carried the soldier – and most of his finger – across the road in
a tangled pile of limbs. Horrified, Hannah spat an irregular chunk of flesh into the dirt before lifting her head hesitantly.

  The remaining two attackers rolled from her body, stumbled to their feet and hurried to assist their companion. While Hannah self-consciously adjusted her clothing, fastening her jeans and pulling down her shirt, she caught sight of the tangle of flailing arms and legs; although there were three of them, it looked like her assailants were not having an easy time of it.

  She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and came away with a thin smear of blood that ran from her wrist to her fingertips. Suddenly she started shaking. Convulsions began in her bloodstained fingers, moving up her arms to her chest. Wave after wave of rattling shudders wracked her thin form and she started panting breathlessly. Her throat felt raw from screaming.

  Ignoring the melee going on beside her, Hannah, still hunched in a foetal position, tried to focus her tear-filled eyes on the smooth leather tops of her Nikes. They were dusted in pale beige; she thought she might reach out and scribble a message across each one: ‘This is only a dream,’ or ‘No more spicy Kung Pao, silly.’

  Struggling to sit up, she wrapped her shivering arms around her knees. She feared the pain in her groin would force her to lie back down or, worse, to pass out, but she was terrified of what might happen if she retreated into unconsciousness. Her would-be rescuer was one man against three, after all. She bit her tongue until she tasted her own blood, then pushed her palms against the gritty dirt road and wrestled herself to her knees. Pale yellow flashes of light burst and faded before her eyes and she felt tears begin to carve thin streams through the dirt on her cheeks.

  Hannah drew several stabilising breaths, then turned to watch her saviour battling her three assailants. She felt sorry she could not help him, but she was both surprised and delighted by what she saw: the big man, the one who had so deftly dragged the breast-grabber from his perch on her stomach, was winning handily. Two of the three would-be rapists were already motionless, their bodies sprawled in awkward, unnatural positions on the far side of the road. The third was hanging on the larger man’s back, looking comically like a child getting a piggy-back ride; he held both arms firmly about her saviour’s neck, trying with all his might to strangle his muscle-bound opponent.