The Hickory Staff e-1

by Rob Scott

  ‘Our time draws near, Nerak,’ he said almost to himself as he raised one hand above his head. ‘I am coming.’

  With inhuman speed, Gilmour brought his arm forward in a crooked, throwing motion, releasing the full force of his anger in a focused magical stroke. As he did so, the Malakasian was lifted from the ground and thrown several paces back into the underbrush. It looked as if he had been hit in the chest with an invisible boulder, a shattering blow that audibly broke bones and punctured organs. There was no need for anyone to confirm that the last of the attack party was dead.

  Without speaking, Gilmour moved to the soldier Steven had killed with the broken branch and withdrew the short length of splintered hickory from the dead man’s neck. More blood ran from the wound; Mark wondered briefly how that could be possible since the man’s heart had stopped beating. He was distracted by Gilmour stepping over the body to retrieve the shattered pieces of the rough staff Steven had used to fight off the Malakasians. Turning to face the forest, the old man fit the shaft together piece by piece until each section was back in its original place. His hands glowed a warm red in the dim light of early evening as he ran them along the length of wood, magically reshaping the hickory staff.

  When he had finished, the Larion sorcerer recited a barely audible spell. The glow from his palms grew bright for an instant, then faded to match the surrounding darkness.

  Steven had calmed down somewhat; like the others, he was watching the old man with great curiosity. Gilmour handed the remade hickory bough to him and said, ‘Take this. You wield it well.’

  Steven felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘I killed people today. I don’t know if I can-’

  ‘You must.’ Gilmour’s look was one of warmth and genuine compassion. ‘We would have lost Garec, Mark and Brynne as well as Mika if you hadn’t intervened.’ Again, he pushed the staff to the younger man. ‘Take it.’

  Steven found himself accepting the weapon. It felt strange in his hands: just a bulky length of wood. He hoped he would never have to use it again. Near the top, where Gilmour had magically melded the shattered pieces together, the grain was stained with blood from the soldier he had killed.

  Not killed, Steven mentally corrected himself, murdered. You murdered an incapacitated soldier. He stared hard at the bloodstains left by the dying man. The dark rivers of colour had soaked into the grain pattern like a work of abstract art. Steven was afraid to touch it. He feared it might sear an indelible brand on his soul, mark him as a murderer for all time. He knew he would carry this burden with him back to Idaho Springs, and even there, home, surrounded by everyone he loved, he would for ever be a murderer.

  Garec broke the silence. ‘What were they?’ He hooked the toe of his boot under one dead body and rolled it over. ‘They look human, but they’re not. They fought like animals, scratching and biting.’

  ‘They are human, or I should say, they used to be human,’ Gilmour said grimly. ‘They are called Seron. I have not seen one in more than five hundred Twinmoons.’

  ‘Where do they come from?’ Brynne asked as she helped Mark dress Garec’s head wound.

  ‘They are the product of a sickening process Nerak employs. He tears the souls from the bravest soldiers, those most skilled in combat, and replaces them with the souls of rabid, furious animals – wild dogs, or even grettans. He breeds them for several generations, all the while torturing them to foster intense hatred for mankind. He trains them to become fearless assassins, his personal pack of ravening wolves.’

  Gilmour started to gather up fallen pine boughs and stacked them neatly in a small clearing near the trail. ‘He can command large numbers of Seron from afar,’ he went on. ‘They always fight to the death, but they rarely use weapons. Like animals, they use surprise and ferocity to overwhelm their opponents. They’ll often eat the remains of their enemies – whether they’re dead or not.

  ‘I think Nerak is sensing our coming conflict, because he hasn’t dispatched Seron warriors in hundreds of Twinmoons.’

  Steven, feeling a growing pain in the pit of his stomach, asked, ‘Why were we not attacked?’

  ‘Who?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Gilmour and me,’ he said, ‘we weren’t attacked. At least, I wasn’t attacked until I made a move to help Garec. I wonder why.’

  ‘Because they need you, Steven.’ Gilmour had filled his pipe and was now smoking contentedly. ‘You arrived in Eldarn via the far portal Nerak hid in your bank. I imagine he thinks you have Lessek’s Key.’

  ‘But you said he would just go there and find out where the key is hidden by taking over the minds of my family and friends,’ Steven said bitterly.

  ‘That’s true, he can, but if he has you, Nerak doesn’t need anyone else. You or Mark can tell him everything he needs to retrieve the key to the spell table.’

  Versen chimed in, ‘So why weren’t you attacked, Gilmour?’

  ‘I think someone else out there wants to kill me himself.’

  ‘Nerak?’ Brynne asked, suddenly fearful.

  ‘No, I would sense Nerak coming,’ Gilmour assured her, handing a bandage strip to Sallax who was dressing an injury on his forearm. ‘This is someone else, a cunning someone who has been tracking us since we left Estrad Village. The Seron who came for us tonight were created and sent here by Nerak, but tonight they were obeying that someone’s orders.’

  ‘Should we push ahead then?’ Versen asked, hoping they could move beyond their vulnerable position in the ravine.

  ‘Yes,’ Sallax suggested quietly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Gilmour interrupted. ‘We must give Mika his rites, and we should burn these Seron bodies as well.’

  He glanced about the clearing again, almost sniffing the air to detect threat. Sensing nothing, he returned to his work collecting pine boughs for Mika’s funeral pyre. ‘We’ll see no more trouble tonight.’

  Jacrys Marseth murmured a string of curses into his fist as he watched Gilmour destroy the last of his Seron warriors. Although he was certain the old man’s magic was focused entirely on killing the injured soldier, the spy felt a curious energy ripple through the forest and up the hillside where he lay hidden. The attack had failed miserably: only one of the pathetic ‘freedom fighters’ lay dead. Communicating with the filthy and unpredictable Seron was an unappetising task, and watching them fail to dispatch the Ronans threw him into a brooding rage.

  He had planned to kill Gilmour himself, to take the old man while he grieved for his fallen comrades, but now that pleasure would have to wait. His teeth clenched tightly together, Jacrys fought the urge to charge down the wooded slope and run the old man through with his rapier.

  A throbbing pain began in his temples, spread across his forehead and lanced down the back of his neck. He had been tracking Gilmour since the attack on Riverend Palace and the constant vigilance and pursuit had left him on edge. He was hungry and tired, and furious that his carefully orchestrated ambush had gone so awry.

  Jacrys breathed deeply and rubbed his temples vigorously in an effort to calm himself down. Meticulous planning, a level head and a ruthless nature had always been his most effective weapons. He could not afford to fly into an uncontrolled rage this close to such a dangerous target.

  He fastidiously pulled evergreen needles from his tunic as he watched Gilmour gather boughs for the dead man’s funeral rites. Malagon would sense the magician’s continued presence in the Blackstones; he would know Jacrys had been unsuccessful in this assassination attempt. His life would be worthless if he did not see the job finished before Gilmour arrived at Welstar Palace. Malagon would certainly send more Seron, and perhaps another herd of grettans. The almor continued their hunt, but he had no idea where the closest demons were now.

  He bit off an obscenity. Swearing wouldn’t help now. If he failed to get ahead of the travellers once again, he might be forced to make his way into their camp and kill the old Larion Senator in a more traditional fashion.

  Jacrys turned his attention back to t
he band of partisans. From this distance they looked battered and bleeding, ragged and worn threadbare, like a handful of third-generation dolls. Only the pale stranger had a sense of strength about him. It was difficult to see, because the foreigner knelt weeping near the trail. But he had fought bravely, an unexpectedly deadly foe, especially as he was armed only with a length of wood he had picked up off the ground.

  Jacrys was rarely surprised by the actions of his enemies. This one surprised him. For some reason, Malagon wanted him and the South Coaster alive, transported to Welstar for torture and interrogation. Jacrys had no idea why they were so important, but he silently promised he would discover more about the foreigners before he brought them to Malakasia.

  Wiping his palms dry on the front of his tunic, he moved slowly up the hillside and out of sight.

  Later that night, Brexan struggled to locate a trail in the darkness. Straining her eyes in an effort to pick out overturned or disturbed ground, she considered giving up until dawn. A light breeze blew down from the north. She took a moment’s respite, turned her face into the fresh air and inhaled deeply. Flesh. Somewhere beyond the next ridge, someone was incinerating bodies. Resolutely, Brexan turned her horse towards the sickeningly sweet aroma. Certain Jacrys was somehow responsible for the lingering smell of death above the foothills, she spurred her mount into a brisk canter.

  Rob Scott

  The Hickory Staff

  BRANAG OTHARO’SLEATHER GOODS ANDSADDLERY EMPORIUM

  In the days since her arrival in Praga, Hannah Sorenson had seen nothing of Southport; except for a few nervous glances around as Hoyt and Churn led her hastily to Branag Otharo’s Leather Goods and Saddlery Emporium, she had no idea what Southport was like. She had seen the harbour from the hilltop where she spent her first night, but since then she had been sequestered in the storage area at Branag’s. Her deadly dull routine was occasionally enlivened by having to duck inside a hidden antechamber tucked artfully between the saddler’s workshop and the cold room adjacent to the Seaweed Inn, a tavern catering for the more reprehensible of Southport’s wharf rats, sailors and dockside whores. Those were the worst moments: Hannah nearly gagged every time Branag or Hoyt adjusted the replaceable planks to create a space for them to crawl inside. Hannah was becoming increasingly certain nothing but rancid meat and spoiled beer were ever served at the Seaweed, and that every single patron in the dilapidated waterfront structure chain-smoked something Hoyt called fennaroot; in an effort not to breath in the foul stench she kept her face pressed against the ancient boards forming the back wall of Branag’s storage room. From that position, she could at least imagine the tangy aroma of tanned leather and heavy polish breaking through the miasma.

  The drill was always the same. A riotous clamour would begin at the far end of Branag’s narrow street whenever a Malakasian patrol was conducting a house-to-house search for the fugitives who had allegedly murdered five – or perhaps even seven – soldiers in a surprise attack outside the city. With each search the brutality worsened as the number of supposed Malakasian casualties grew. On their first night in Southport, a squad of black-clad soldiers burst through the entrance of Branag’s store looking for the murderers who might have killed one soldier somewhere along the coastal highway east of town. They were especially interested in finding a young woman dressed in odd, brightly coloured clothing, wearing white cloth slippers and heavy breeches.

  Several days later, the number of Malakasian dead had increased, as had the fugitive band of killers, now a veritable brigade of well-armed, half-crazed homicidal monsters who at any moment might turn against the peaceful citizens of Southport.

  The din was a reaction, people crying out, shouting for family members, children, even pets to come inside, but in actuality, the noise was nothing more than a warning that the patrol was coming. Anyone who needed to be hidden had better get hidden quickly, to ensure the Malakasian scrutiny passed harmlessly over the otherwise quiet street.

  Branag’s response was always the same as well. Hustling back into the storage area, he whistled a quick warning to Hoyt, who in turn scurried behind the rows of tanned cowhides dangling loosely from the ceiling like macabre curtains to pry open two planks leading to the hidden chamber. Once inside, the trio would sit absolutely still, saying nothing, avoiding positions that forced them to shift their legs or arms, and counting the moments until the platoon moved on to the next block. Hannah would bury her face in her hands and listen to the shuffle and scuff of heavy Malakasian boots as they made their way through Branag’s building. She would try to slide deeper into the shadows, shrinking and folding her thoughts down into the darkest parts of her mind, sitting stone-like, somehow closer to death every time those boots stopped shuffling about. Had they seen something? Did they notice a plank askew? Had one of them finally seen that this building was slightly narrower inside than out? There would be no escape; they were trapped in a closet.

  But the soldiers never came. They never noticed. With their departure each time, Hannah would slowly raise her head and bright fireworks of yellow and white light would dance about where she had pressed her eyes too tightly against the hard surface of her knees.

  The first night in Southport, Hoyt insisted they remain in the foetid chamber as random searches continued until dawn. Teams of soldiers burst in and tossed saddles, leather harnesses, belts, half-finished boots and even untreated hides aside in hopes of turning up evidence that the saddler was harbouring criminals. That night had been the worst of Hannah’s life. After a while Hoyt, sensing her burgeoning anxiety, lit a thin paraffin taper to bring the tiniest, muted half-light to the foul closet. In the candlelight, Hannah saw weapons, hundreds of primitive axes, swords, daggers and bows, hanging from hooks and wires along the narrow interior of the hidden chamber. Behind her were five bloated hemp bags; one, slightly open, revealed thousands of silver coins.

  At that moment Hannah realised she had been rescued by two members of some kind of organised militia. If she were found in this place, with this cache of weapons and money, she would most likely be interrogated, tortured and killed. Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, she tried not to think about how they might try to extract information – information she didn’t have and couldn’t give them. ‘Steven,’ she whispered, too low even for Hoyt to hear, ‘where are you, Steven?’

  When not huddled together and holding their collective breath in Branag’s secret hidey-hole, Hannah, Hoyt and Churn were confined to the storage room. While the two men planned their trip to a town called Middle Fork, they passed the time working on some of Branag’s leather creations. Hannah, bored, discovered she was quite skilled at polishing and buffing saddles to a mirror shine; she beamed when the saddler complimented her work. Branag managed to spirit them food and beer in wooden crates draped with untreated hides or leather goods in need of repair. He was renowned locally for his titanic appetite, and did not think occupation soldiers were scrutinising his behaviour so closely that he would be questioned for having an abundance of food on the premises – but he had learned never to take risks. Preserving his anonymity while protecting the weapons and silver stashed behind his store was of paramount importance, so all their food tasted faintly of leather.

  In spite of that, Hannah found the food acceptable. Some of it was delicious, though she elected to pass on a few items: some were unidentifiable, others frankly so disgusting she couldn’t manage, even for politeness, to force herself to eat the gristly morsels. Her jacket and sweater were traded for a wool tunic with a leather belt and, despite her pleas, Hoyt demanded she give up her trainers and blue jeans for sturdy homespun leggings and a pair of newly sewn boots – at least they were Branag’s finest.

  Churn cut her hair. Motioning for her to turn around and sit on a short stool, he used a pair of Branag’s sharpest shears to slice off the flaxen tresses. After six or seven deft snips, any evidence that Hannah’s hair had ever reached below her shoulders rested now in a clump at Churn’s feet. He whistled for Bran
ag, who must have known Hannah’s impromptu shearing was on the agenda because he came into the storage room stirring a palm-sized ceramic bowl with a fine horsehair brush. A heavy-bodied dog, a wolfhound, Hannah guessed, padded along beside him.

  ‘This won’t be permanent,’ Branag told his apprehensive customer. ‘It’s a mixture of berries, tree bark and thin sap, all boiled down with fish oil to make it smooth.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Hannah looked around the room for the most appropriate corner in which to wretch. ‘Uh… what colour are you- Well, not to be picky, but what colour-’

  ‘Light blue.’ Branag’s face was stone, the dog at his side, silent. Hannah blanched. ‘How about if we look into a hat or something?’

  The big Pragan’s icy countenance broke and his bright smile warmed the room. ‘Brown, Hannah Sorenson. I thought we would dye it a darker shade of brown.’

  Hannah sighed with relief. ‘Oh, well, brown shouldn’t be-’ She craned her neck to get a view inside the bowl; for a moment she’d worried that Churn might forcibly hold her down while Branag painted the top of her head the colour of a cloudless summer sky. The leather craftsman tilted the mixture towards her and Hannah calmed noticeably when she saw the grim-smelling amalgamation. It smelled like a fisherman’s socks, but at least the colour would pass.

  When they were through, Hannah’s face wrinkled into a grimace she feared she might wear for the rest of her life. ‘How long will it smell like this?’ Even Branag’s wolfhound had moved to the other side of the room, his nose buried beneath two enormous paws.

  ‘Not long,’ Hoyt assured her, ‘eight or nine days at the most.’