The Hickory Staff e-1

by Rob Scott

  ‘Brexan,’ she tried again, but he stared straight ahead, ignoring her and Versen entirely. With a shiver, Brexan wrapped her arms around Versen’s chest and buried her face in the folds of his cloak.

  The leader, Karn, spurred his mount toward a break in the trees. Rala followed, nodding to the scarred creature and grunting, ‘Haden.’

  The Seron with the ruined face turned to stare at the prisoners. ‘Ah,’ he growled, pointing towards Rala’s mount.

  Versen nodded and nickered Renna into line. They rode off southwest with Haden bringing up the rear.

  After breakfasting on the last of their provisions, the travellers made their way down Seer’s Peak and back into their former base camp. It was an aven past midday by the time they reached the forest floor. Steven purposely averted his eyes from the area where the almor’s remains were scattered. He found it odd a demon would be comprised of flesh, albeit rank and putrid flesh, and he had no wish to see what was left of it.

  Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the Blackstones while contemplating the next dilemma facing them: getting safely to Falkan before winter set in. He and Mark were the only experienced climbers in the group; although Gilmour had shown uncanny agility, it would be up to them to get the band of freedom fighters safely over the passes and into Orindale.

  Steven gripped the hickory staff and breathed deeply. He felt reborn. The air smelled fresh and clean; the earth felt familiar under his feet and the evergreens were starkly outlined against a flawless blue sky. He wasn’t certain if he felt better because he could summon a mysterious and powerful magic, or because he had faced his fears and emerged unscathed. Either way, he had to admit to being almost excited about their journey to Welstar Palace – and the inevitable confrontation with Prince Malagon.

  During the descent from Seer’s Peak, Steven allowed his mind to wander, not along memorised trails in the impossibly distant Rocky Mountains this time, but along the path he imagined his life taking in the future. Looking back was safe but humiliating. Looking forward was terrifying but exhilarating and he was determined not to make his old mistakes again, not here in Eldarn, or back home in Idaho Springs.

  He had been both victim and coward for too long; now he could see with more clarity; he could feel with more compassion and genuine concern. His only regret was that Hannah was not there with him.

  The remains of the camp punctured Steven’s mood. Seron and grettan tracks crisscrossed the area in a confusing jumble. Splatters of blood disappeared south and west and numerous footprints ran into the canyon and along the western edge of Seer’s Peak.

  Sallax went immediately to the grove where the almor had first attacked. Garec could hear him moving about in the fallen leaves. Everyone held their breath in anticipation of the grisly report, but their immediate fears were unfounded.

  ‘No sign of Versen,’ he started, pausing as a collective sigh ran through the group. ‘Except for the remains of Brynne’s horse, the other mounts are gone – saddles too.’

  Garec snapped into action. ‘Then one of these blood trails might be Versen’s. Mark and Steven, you follow the blood south. Brynne, you and Gilmour follow to the west.’

  They all nodded as Garec warned them, ‘Remember, a wounded animal is always dangerous and a wounded grettan is worse: it will be an angry nightmare. If Versen is injured, it was most likely by the Seron, not the grettans, but that doesn’t matter right now: the loss of blood might mean he doesn’t have much time left.’

  They drew weapons and, crouching close to the ground, followed the tracks into the forest.

  Garec was already wishing Versen were there to help him decipher the clues hidden in the footprints. They had, between them, managed to work out that a large group of Seron had stormed into camp, probably expecting to take the Ronans by surprise. Finding the camp deserted, it looked as if the Seron had pillaged the abandoned packs and saddlebags, drinking – and spilling – the wine and eating the last of the food. They had taken time to re-saddle the horses before setting off again, although Garec could see from the hoofprints that several mounts were missing. His stomach turned: he feared he would never see Renna again.

  The grettans had come from the west, so not the pack Gilmour had summoned to the Merchants’ Highway to raid the caravan. Thin telltale ruts running through the clearing showed where the ravening beasts had dragged their hapless victims; Garec wasn’t sure if he hoped that Versen were still alive at that point. He even felt a little sorry for the Seron.

  Most of the grettan tracks then left the camp together and headed east, though a couple disappeared into the canyon, most likely in pursuit of fleeing Seron warriors.

  Steven and Mark’s prompt return confirmed Garec’s suspicion.

  ‘It looks like a grettan dragged one of those Seron soldiers off about a hundred paces,’ Mark told him, ‘and ate it. We couldn’t find any blood beyond the large stain where it tore the body apart.’

  ‘Are you certain it wasn’t Versen?’

  ‘Yes,’ Steven said, grimacing. ‘It left the boots there.’

  ‘And any tracks?’ Sallax asked.

  ‘They moved off east,’ Mark confirmed.

  Gilmour and Brynne had found a similar scene, but the grettan they had tracked headed south into the foothills after feeding on an injured Seron. Brynne carried what was left of a thick hairy forearm. She dropped it into the ashes of their forgotten campfire where it settled, a mutilated stump half dusted in black and grey.

  ‘We ought to make camp in the canyon tonight,’ Sallax suggested. ‘If we can get to higher ground that would be even better. We only have about a half aven before it’ll get dark so we had better get moving.’

  ‘I wasn’t able to find Versen’s boot prints,’ Garec explained, ‘so we should assume he is alive and that he rode out of here on one of the horses.’

  Gilmour chimed in, ‘Hopefully, he has ridden into the canyon and has a head start on us.’

  ‘He knew we couldn’t get far up the first pass with the horses, so if we don’t find him in the next two days, there’s a good chance he rode south or west,’ Mark added.

  Sallax interrupted, saying, ‘It doesn’t matter. We have to clear out of here and get as far up that hill as possible before it gets too dark.’

  ‘I’ll get us some fish for dinner,’ Garec said as he drew several arrows from his quiver and hurried off towards the river.

  ‘And I’ll fill the skins,’ Brynne said. ‘We don’t know how far into the mountains we’ll go before we find a stream.’

  ‘Good,’ Sallax agreed, then turned to Steven. ‘See what you can salvage from the packs and saddlebags strewn about here on the ground.’

  The evening grew cold as the group navigated the twists and turns of the narrow canyon. Passing the Seer’s Peak trailhead, Gilmour became lost in thought once again. Garec guessed what troubled his friend. The almor, the Seron and the grettans had found them at the base of Seer’s Peak shortly after their arrival. They were being watched, tracked. Malagon knew where they were every step of the way.

  Garec was not sure why the Seron would be battling grettans when they had both been sent to kill the Ronan partisans; perhaps Nerak simply didn’t care if they killed one another. Perhaps the use of all three killers was designed to bring as much deadly force down upon the band of travellers as possible. It appeared to be a pretty safe bet that as long as Gilmour and the others were killed, Nerak was indifferent to his servants getting killed themselves in the process.

  Snaking through the canyon, Garec thought again of his dream, watching as the land died, turning into an arid wasteland as the Estrad River slowed to a trickle. He hoped Lessek’s vision was not one of an unavoidable future. He remembered ghostly wraiths moving between trees in the forbidden forest, a thousand eerily silent souls floating effortlessly above the ground. Garec had no idea who – or what – the spirits sought. And he pondered the significance of the strange pair coupling furiously on the woollen carpet of a Riverend Palace apartm
ent. Garec did not understand why such an exquisite woman would be willing to engage with such a partner.

  If it had been a final effort to carry on the Grayslip family line, maybe there was an heir to the Eldarni throne somewhere in Rona. Garec was still confounded by the fact that Lessek had shared such a vision with him. Was he destined to seek out and serve Eldarn’s next king or queen, to remain in Rona while his friends continued north? It might take hundreds of Twinmoons to locate the great-great-great grandchild of an unknown woman who had been impregnated by a dying prince so long ago.

  And if it were true that Prince Draven of Malakasia was not Prince Marek’s father, then the Malakasian line was ruling Eldarn illegally. Perhaps that was his mission: to restore to Eldarn its true king.

  Garec realised suddenly that he, like Gilmour, had fallen into deep thought. Looking around at his companions, he guessed they were all sorting out difficult questions for themselves as they slogged dejectedly north.

  The canyon ended in a slight draw running between two imposing peaks, the beginning of a pass over which the travellers would climb the following day. It was nearly dark now and Sallax suggested they make camp and eat the meagre supplies they had been able to salvage. Garec immediately backtracked down the canyon to a rock outcropping that provided an aerial view of the narrows in both directions. Maybe there was light enough for him spot and shoot any unwary animal in search of a safe place to bed down for the night.

  A half-aven later he could no longer see far enough for an accurate shot. He returned to camp empty-handed, tired and hungry.

  *

  Versen stretched his stiffening muscles in an attempt to alleviate cramp: they had been riding without a break all day and he was feeling the strain. Their Seron escort had paid them scant attention, other than to ensure they kept moving. Karn led the way southwest along a narrow path through the foothills which would eventually reach the Ravenian Sea. Renna was between Karn and Rala and the scarred Seron, Haden, brought up the rear. Although Karn and Rala conversed in grunts and odd phrases, Haden did not communicate with anyone.

  The company ate an unappetising midday meal on horseback: day-old fish, stale bread, and a few pieces of welcome tempine fruit. Later, Versen tried to recall its sweet orange flavour. Behind him, Brexan appeared unaffected by the long ride and poor food. The Malakasian soldier was obviously very fit, for she rode all day without complaint. Versen marvelled at her stamina.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked, shaking his hands to get some feeling back in them.

  Brexan smiled. ‘Thirty-five Twinmoons of dance lessons, Ox. I have better posture than you.’

  ‘So you’re aching a bit too?’

  ‘I think my bottom fell off an aven ago,’ she responded, grinning wryly.

  Versen laughed aloud for a moment, quieting quickly when Karn glared at him. Leaning back, he whispered, ‘I’m sure you have some part of it left down there.’

  Brexan whispered back, ‘Thank you for not peeking, Ox. I meant it about the posture, though.’

  The Ronan woodsman sat upright in the saddle, straightening his back and holding his head high. ‘There, how’s that?’

  ‘You’ll make a fine dancer.’

  Versen scoffed. ‘Dance lessons? Only in Malakasia. Ronan kids have to learn those things in secret, dancing in basements or barn lofts, thanks to your occupation.’

  ‘Oh lay off, Ox. I never had dance lessons.’ Brexan scowled. ‘I’m a better rider than you, that’s all.’ The scowl vanished as she added, ‘And I didn’t grow up planning to occupy Rona; I just wanted to be a soldier. My division was sent to Rona. I wasn’t happy about it and I left without permission because I realised how unfair our occupation had become. I’m a criminal in my own country now. I’ll be executed the moment they find me. So you should be more pleasant to me.’

  Versen slouched forward and muttered, ‘I’ll give you the better posture, but you are not a better rider than I am.’

  Refusing to back down, Brexan retorted, ‘One day, we shall see.’

  Smirking, the big Ronan teased her, ‘Well, I can certainly sing better than you.’

  ‘Love arias? Songs about the many intelligent and engaging women you meet in taverns?’

  ‘Maybe a little of both.’

  ‘Well, I can’t wait to hear your “Ode to Capella of Capehill”.’

  Versen feigned surprise. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Stop it, Ox,’ she said as she poked him in the ribs.

  ‘ She never minded my peeking.’

  At that Brexan laughed and rested her head between his shoulder blades. Her cheek still ached; she longed for the healing power of querlis leaf. Periodically Versen asked how she was and periodically she answered, ‘I’m fine.’

  She had been too embarrassed at her obvious fear of the Seron to discuss the incident with Versen earlier, but now that he had seen her as low as she could possibly get, she brought it out in the open. Drawing away from the comfort of his broad back, Brexan said quietly, ‘I am sorry about this morning.’

  ‘Why?’ Versen said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. We were surrounded.’

  ‘No-’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more-’

  ‘Brave?’

  ‘Well… yes.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You were brave enough.’

  ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘I thought they were going to kill us.’

  ‘Had we been more brave, they probably would have.’

  ‘I wanted you to think I was a good soldier.’

  ‘I am quite certain you are a good soldier and I am also quite certain all good soldiers are afraid when under attack.’ He turned slightly to look into her swollen face. ‘You deserted your platoon to pursue a spy and murderer. You followed him halfway to Falkan, alone. You risked everything to bring justice to a dead lieutenant you didn’t particularly like.’

  Versen reached down and squeezed her knee gently. ‘You’re one of the bravest people I have ever known.’

  Brexan inhaled sharply and held her breath. She did not want him to see her cry. It was somehow important to keep her emotions under control.

  Versen sensed her discomfort and changed the subject. ‘How’s your face now?’

  Brexan’s voice caught in her throat. ‘It hurts. It really hurts.’ This time she couldn’t stop the tears.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Versen said, trying – and failing – to think of anything comforting. ‘I’ll look at it when we stop.’

  ‘I don’t want them to hit me again,’ she said, crying openly now.

  ‘I won’t let them hit you. I promise. Why don’t you try to get some rest? I won’t let you fall.’

  Brexan muttered a thank-you and rested her face against his shoulder again. Talking with him helped.

  Versen, trying to take Brexan’s mind off the pain, said, ‘The first caravan we raided along the Merchants’ Highway, I was young, maybe one hundred and ten Twinmoons. It was heavily guarded, but we went in anyway.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I never drew an arrow or lifted a sword. I just stood there until an escort soldier, a Ronan mercenary hired to protect the shipment, came at me with an axe. I pissed myself, right there in the road.’

  ‘How did you get away?’

  ‘My friend Garec killed him – a miracle shot, right through the neck, dropped him in mid-stride.’ Versen’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Garec was even younger than me, maybe eighty-five Twin-moons. He was already the best shot I’d ever seen, and I’ve still not met a better. He killed six people that morning, saving my life and others… it was the day Sallax started calling him “Bringer of Death”.’

  ‘You were so young.’ Brexan lifted her head. ‘You shouldn’t have been there.’

  ‘That may be true, but my point is that I learned early how to hide my fear.’

  ‘I’ll work on that for next time.’

  ‘Up to you, but not necessary.’ Versen
took her hand. ‘I’ll never judge you – or anyone – for being afraid during a battle.’

  ‘What happened to your friend?’ Brexan asked.

  ‘He’s even more deadly these days, a real virtuoso with a longbow. It bothers him to do it, though.’

  ‘To kill?’

  ‘Right. He hates it. He may be better at it than anyone in Eldarn, but he hates it. Every arrow he fires saps the strength from his soul.’

  ‘Perhaps he should stop.’

  ‘Perhaps he should.’

  With that, Brexan snaked her arms around the Ronan’s torso and once again buried her injured face in the folds of his cloak until she fell asleep. Something had changed between them in the last half-aven; each felt easy with the other’s touch.

  Versen revelled in the knowledge that the young woman felt comfortable enough with him to sleep soundly against his back, but, no longer distracted by their conversation, he realised just how much he still ached.

  ‘Dance lessons,’ he laughed to himself, ‘well, it can’t hurt to try.’ Moving carefully so he didn’t awaken Brexan, he adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter and lifting his head. Rutters. She was right. It helped.

  A half-aven later Karn motioned for them to rein in and dismount. Unsure what to do next, the captives remained standing next to Renna. Brexan, whispering meaningless phrases, ran her hands along the mare’s neck. She wished she had an apple or some oats to offer the tired beast.

  Rala pushed them both out of the way and led the mare off the trail to a small clearing. She looped the reins over a low-hanging branch, leaving the horse free to graze.

  Karn motioned for Versen and Brexan to join him. He tossed them each a blanket, then gestured for Versen to gather wood for a fire.

  Versen, mindful of his promise and unwilling to leave Brexan alone with the Seron, demanded, ‘She comes with me.’

  Karn lumbered over to him and the Ronan winced in anticipation of another painful blow. Instead, the Seron surprised him by smiling, flashing him a mouth filled with discoloured, crooked teeth.

  ‘Na, na,’ the foul soldier insisted and indicated that the young woman should retrieve his saddlebags.