The Hickory Staff e-1

by Rob Scott

  ‘Because he’s afraid you have grown too powerful?’ Brynne asked.

  ‘Perhaps, but more likely because Kantu and I represent the only real threat to his dominion. With us out of the way, he could take a hundred thousand Twinmoons to master the magic necessary to release his evil master from the Fold.’

  ‘So having you around forces him to rush his studies and perhaps make a mistake.’ Mark ran a hand over the battle-axe in his belt. ‘And he has no idea how much you have learned already.’

  Gilmour nodded.

  ‘It’s an interesting dilemma,’ Mark went on. ‘He knows you’re coming to confront him so he unleashes all the demons and slathering homicidal misbegotten creatures he can conjure. He has that luxury, because he couldn’t care less what level of destruction his minions do on their way to find and kill you-’ Mark nodded in the direction of the thicket, ‘-even if they kill each other.’

  ‘And he cannot rush his studies too much for fear that the spell table will take him.’ Gilmour nudged a group of yellow aspen leaves aside with the toe of his boot. ‘The pressure is on him. He has the greater task ahead.’

  ‘Opening a rip in the universe?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Gilmour’s voice brightened. ‘That is an amazingly dangerous endeavour that will probably cost him – it – its very existence.’

  Mark frowned. ‘That may be true, but in the meantime, you can’t use magic to send your own devils out to hunt him down, because-’

  ‘Because he would immediately know both where I was and how powerful I have grown.’ Gilmour smiled at each of his companions in turn, then gestured towards the underbrush.

  ‘So you’re right. He has every terrifying and insidious resource at his disposal and I have-’

  ‘Us,’ Steven chimed in dejectedly.

  ‘Grand,’ Mark echoed with an equal lack of enthusiasm. ‘And,’ Gilmour interrupted their emotional tailspin, ‘we have a certain degree of surprise on our side as well.’

  ‘How is that?’ Garec looked up from skinning the deer; he’d been following the conversation with interest.

  ‘Nerak believes we are on our way to Sandcliff. Though he may suspect you two came here without Lessek’s Key, he cannot be certain.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mark brought the issue full circle, ‘because with it, we would head right for the spell table.’

  ‘Exactly. So the fact you ignored the most powerful talisman in Eldarni history as a worthless piece of stone may help us before this is finished.’

  ‘It didn’t look like much at the time,’ Mark said. Garec grinned up at him.

  ‘So, how do we mask our approach to Welstar Palace?’ Brynne changed the subject.

  ‘We avoid using certain forms of magic,’ Gilmour settled into lecture mode. ‘Common tricks and spells should be fine, because lots of people employ them, but I will try to avoid using any incantations Nerak would recognise from Sandcliff.’

  ‘He can hear it?’ Even Sallax was interested now. He had moved slightly closer while still watching the thicket, his battle-axe in one hand.

  ‘He can sense it. Magic has a rippling effect on energy planes in the immediate vicinity. The greater the spell’s impact, the greater the ripple. Those with some training or knowledge of sorcery can sometimes feel the change in energy level. Nerak can detect these changes from quite a distance.’

  ‘So that puts us at an additional disadvantage,’ Sallax mused. ‘We have to enter Malakasia and make our way to Welstar Palace without benefit of your skills.’

  ‘That’s true to some extent,’ Gilmour confirmed. ‘But it’s not all bad news. I have yet to detect even the faintest disturbance when Steven summons the power of the hickory staff – even when I’ve been standing next to him.’

  Mark put a hand on his roommate’s shoulder. ‘So Steven will have the full force of the staff at his disposal.’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  Steven blanched. ‘But wait. I don’t know what this thing can do and I certainly don’t know how to summon its magic at will.’

  Gilmour beamed. ‘Well, that adds some complexity to our predicament, doesn’t it? Now, how’s breakfast coming along, Garec? I for one could eat a deer.’

  The company broke through the tree line just after midday. Brynne felt the abrupt change in temperature through her riding cloak. The Blackstone peaks, although picturesque – in a menacing way – stretched on for ever and Brynne could not yet see much north beyond the slope they ascended. A nervous tension that began in the pit of her stomach had burgeoned into cramp as she made her way up the trail; she had no idea how she would be able to summon the fortitude to continue if the view north mirrored the vast expanse of craggy and inhospitable-looking mountains to the east and west.

  By sunset they were only a few hundred paces below a ridge that appeared to mark the upper rim of the pass. With daylight fading quickly, Garec pointed at a narrow depression in the rock: cramped but adequate shelter for the night. Everyone had carried or dragged as much wood as they could manage from the tree line; now Sallax set about building a fire. With darkness clawing its way up the slope behind them, the high altitude air had grown frigid. Sallax silently hoped they would be spared rain or snow overnight.

  Brynne dropped the tree limb she had dragged along for most of the day and scrambled hand over foot up the steep final slope: a fanatical pilgrim finally reaching a holy place on the far edge of a vast desert. The anticipation of seeing out above the peaks to the north had nearly driven her mad; she had spent much of the day engaged in an animated conversation with Mark and Steven just to avoid thinking about what awaited them beyond the pass. Now, with the end in sight, she moved as quickly as she could manage in the thin mountain air. Try as she might to control her anxiety, she felt her breath coming in ever-shorter gulps. Her vision tunnelled and her legs buckled weakly as she reached for the rocky ridge.

  Mark saw her go and sighed. Having lived in the mountains, he knew what she would discover. He smiled sadly to himself and hustled after her.

  He was halfway there when Brynne reached the summit. Her body became rigid for a moment, as if she had been met by an unexpected cold wind and then she slumped, her shoulders collapsed and her knees gave way. She appeared to age fifty years in one breath. Worried she might fall, Mark hurried the last few paces to catch her. When he reached her side, he was breathing heavily from the effort. He estimated they had climbed to an altitude of nearly thirteen thousand feet – the peaks on either side of the pass were far higher than the tallest mountains he and Steven had ever tackled back home.

  He took the last few steps slowly, uncertain how Brynne would respond to him, but when she looked back and saw him there, she opened her cloak, inviting him inside its thick woollen folds.

  She laid an arm over his shoulder and Mark reached one around her waist. Together they stood, taking comfort in the shared warmth. Brynne rested her head on his shoulder and stared into the distance. ‘We’ll never make it before the snows come.’ The panic attack had passed as quickly as it had arrived. The tough, knife-wielding tavern owner was back.

  ‘You’re right.’ Mark gazed out across the endless range of forbidding peaks and high-altitude passes. In the waning sunlight, the Blackstone Mountains were utterly beautiful. They would be unmerciful. Loose shale, glacier ice and sheer rock faces would force the travellers to double back, wasting valuable time. Mark would not have wanted to traverse this range in the best conditions. Moving into the sea of valleys, peaks and passes with winter only days away verged on the suicidal. Resting his cheek against Brynne’s soft tresses, Mark realised he was looking on the place he would most likely die.

  Turning, he felt her body press against his beneath the cloak. Constant travel with little food or rest had hardened them all. Mark felt her lean body as Brynne pulled him closer; her scent aroused him unbearably. Burying his face in the fold of her neck, he ran his hands across her back and pulled her tightly against him. She kissed him with such urgency Mark wa
nted to carry her away someplace safe, someplace where they would be uninterrupted.

  ‘We can’t go back south,’ she said quietly. ‘They’ll be looking for us all the way to Estrad.’

  ‘Steven and I have no choice. We must push on if we’re ever going to get home.’ He ran one hand through her hair, letting it glide between his fingers. ‘We’ll just have to hope the weather holds.’

  He tried to chart a course north in the fading light. Each morning he and Steven would map each visible peak, noting the shallowest passes and picking out secondary and even tertiary routes, in case the way was blocked or impassable. For tonight, however, there was the promise of fresh venison and the solace of Brynne’s woollen cloak.

  ‘Hey, come and eat,’ Steven shouted, ‘dinner is about ready.’

  ‘On our way,’ Mark replied.

  Brynne took his hand and led him back down the rocky slope.

  At first light, Mark rose carefully, trying to avoid waking Brynne. Covering her with his blanket, he joined Steven and Garec as they stared out over the Blackstones from the ridge above.

  Garec had saved enough wood to heat water for tecan. He handed Mark a steaming mug.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mark said.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t left those pens in Estrad,’ Steven said. ‘We could really use one to sketch out these passes.’

  ‘Pens?’ Garec asked curiously.

  ‘Writing instruments,’ Steven clarified. ‘I felt guilty robbing someone’s home and I left him two pens from my bank. I thought he might find them fascinating.’

  ‘Of course, he was probably illiterate,’ Mark added dryly. ‘So right now he’s probably using them to pick his teeth, or perhaps to scratch his backside.’

  ‘Great,’ Steven said dejectedly. ‘Although they wouldn’t do us much good without any paper.’

  Mark perked up. ‘I have some paper.’ He reached into his jacket, then checked his jeans. Finding nothing, he groaned. ‘I must have lost it. I found it at Riverend, tucked behind a rock in the fireplace. Remember?’

  ‘I do. You had it at the river when you washed your clothes.’

  ‘I guess I left it there. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, we still don’t have a pen. I suppose we’ll just have to commit as much to memory as possible.’ Steven sipped the tecan, exhaled loudly and added, ‘I don’t like the idea of going through there without a map. It could take all winter.’

  ‘I have a leather saddlebag,’ Garec suggested. ‘We could scratch a map on it with a stone.’

  ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ Steven agreed and turned to follow him back to camp.

  STRANDSON

  Brexan lost count of the days they had been riding. Always south and west, towards the sea. Karn did not drive them hard and they rarely pushed their horses faster than a gentle canter, but save for a short break during the midday meal, the Seron escort did not allow the prisoners to dismount. From time to time Versen toyed with the idea of spurring Renna into a full gallop and taking their chances with the almor… but without knowing where it was, he was afraid he would just drive Garec’s beloved mare straight into the demon’s waiting maw. Periodically, he or Brexan would catch a glimpse of a nearby tree or bush withering to dust; the knowledge that such a terrifying adversary flanked them day and night made them both feel sick to the stomach.

  On they rode. Sometimes Brexan sat behind him and other times she rode in front. The Seron paid them little heed, so at least they were able to talk freely during the interminable avens in the saddle. They were fatigued to the point of imminent collapse and their bodies ached cruelly, until the steady rhythm of Renna’s stride numbed feeling. It wasn’t long before emotional exhaustion exacerbated their physical pain and began to sap their strength and, worse, their hope.

  Versen no longer looked forward to their evening break. Gathering firewood took too long; often he could carry only a branch or two at a time for fear the pain in his back would overwhelm him. He was in constant fear of being struck down on the spot. Brexan, on water duty, struggled to fill a pot and several wineskins, then she would open a bag of the crushed oat and herb mix they had eaten every night since their capture, mix it with hot water and serve it in wooden trenchers.

  After dinner, the two prisoners would collapse onto their blankets, no longer even bothering to remove their boots and cloaks, but exhausted though they were, cramping in their backs and thighs combined with hard, uneven ground robbed them of sleep.

  And the following day the nightmare began all over again.

  Late one day, as the shadows lengthened in front of them like folds in a landscape painting, Brexan dozed against Versen’s back. He in turn allowed his head to slump forward on his chest, shifting slightly every twenty paces to break up the monotony and alleviate the pain. They had moved south of the Blackstones and back into the Ronan lowlands. Despite the coming winter both captives found the heat and humidity oppressive. Versen sweat openly beneath his cloak; he thought he might never be dry again, and the rivulets of perspiration that soaked him attracted no end of biting insects. He spent much of the day fruitlessly swatting at tiny stinging invaders.

  Brexan didn’t appear to be bothered by Versen’s flailing, but she did chide him about his aroma. Without lifting her head from its place between his shoulder blades, she said ‘You smell like grettan flatulence.’

  ‘You have such a special way of putting things,’ he replied. ‘You really must have to beat the men away with a stick.’

  ‘This isn’t about me, Ox. You smell bad.’ She winced as Renna stepped over a fallen log. Maybe a bit of playful banter would lift Versen’s spirits.

  ‘Well, okay, I suppose I have no excuse – but look at it this way, you’ve definitely seen me at my worst. Imagine how attractive I’ll be after a day-long bath.’ As if to emphasise his point, Versen crushed a gargantuan fly, leaving a trail of blood and insect gore down his cheek. ‘Yuck.’

  Brexan licked the fleshy part of her thumb and scraped the carnage from his face. ‘Make it two days and you have a deal.’

  But Versen was not listening. Instead, he sat sharply upright, forcing Brexan’s head back and sending sharp bolts of pain down her already stiff neck.

  Angry at first, she scolded, ‘Hey, that hurt!’ Then, worried her jesting might have injured his feelings, she added, ‘You know I was just kidding before.’

  ‘Do you smell that?’ Versen craned his neck forward.

  ‘What? Karn?’ Brexan laughed. ‘Oh yeah, he smells much worse than you. Good point. I take it all back.’

  ‘No, no.’ Versen was serious. ‘The breeze. Can you smell that breeze?’

  Brexan inhaled deeply – then distant but clearly evident through the scents of trees and pounded mud, she caught it: the ocean.

  Adrenalin coursed through Versen’s body as he sniffed the air: an onshore breeze, there was no mistaking it. Now his ears were attuned, he could hear, faintly, seabirds cawing boisterously to one another. He imagined them diving along a town wharf, battling for scraps as the fishermen cleaned and filleted their day’s catch.

  ‘We must be near the end of the line,’ he announced quietly.

  ‘That could be good or bad news; I suppose.’ Brexan, her pain momentarily forgotten, sat tall in the saddle. She looked nervously about for Haden.

  ‘It may be an opportunity for us,’ Versen pointed out. ‘If they wanted us dead, they would have killed us long ago. If we get near a town, we might be able to lose the almor, confuse it in a crowd-’ although even as he said it, Versen doubted it could be done. The almor would not be shaken off like a half-drunk pickpocket. Their only hope would be to escape to someplace dry, a rooftop or a tall building maybe.

  Strandson had thrived since the Malakasian Navy closed down most commerce in the southern and eastern cities five generations earlier. The northernmost port on the Ravenian Sea, Strandson was the closest Ronan trade centre to Eldarn’s central markets and commercial emporia in Orindale. Although Prince Malagon’s n
avy kept a tight customs blockade outside the harbour, vessels carrying all manner of consumables – textiles, lumber, grain, Falkan wines and even livestock – were granted passage to the docks, where the army controlled the waterfront traffic.

  There were strict rules for vessels hoping to use Strandson Harbour: blockade-ship captains ensured safe passage for legitimate trading fleets, but were quick to prevent illegal or smuggled goods docking. Smugglers’ transports were burned to the waterline; the flames could be seen as far away as the heights above the city.

  This public display of Prince Malagon’s control in the Eastlands was intended to quell Ronan traders’ complaints at the consistently heavy tariffs on imported goods. Citizens of Strandson were well aware that they were better off than most other Ronan, Pragan and Falkan ports. Limited paperwork, easily bribed customs officials and well-policed roads leading east through the Ronan countryside made for prosperous businesses. Trade had expanded over the Twinmoons and merchants were used to the unwritten rules that kept the city turning like a well-oiled wheel. Agreements had been established between Strandson and Malakasia and many of the port’s businessmen had grown wealthy thanks to their symbiotic relationship with the occupation force.

  Strandson folk were never alarmed when Malakasian soldiers appeared in the city, even though most patrols covered the surrounding forests and roads. From time to time soldiers policed the harbour as a reminder of Malakasian strength, but they rarely made arrests and, unlike parts of southern Rona, murders in Strandson were the exception rather than the rule.

  Despite the city’s familiarity with occasional Malakasian interference along the waterfront, Seron warriors had not been seen in northwest Rona in five hundred Twinmoons; and the arrival of Karn’s party created an uneasy stir among Strandson’s citizens.

  They had already caused a bit of excitement as the Seron marched their captives through a Malakasian checkpoint leading into the port. Two occupation soldiers appeared, swords drawn, and demanded identification. Karn barked at the confused sentries, showed his Malakasian tabards and motioned them aside. When they hesitated, Haden rode up from his position at the rear, dismounted and began striding towards the soldiers. He did not draw his weapons, but growled, low and menacing. The soldiers looked at each other, then decided discretion was the better part of valour and backed into the trees. As Karn led the party onwards, one soldier made a feeble attempt to recover some of his dignity, squeaking a broken, ‘Proceed!’ as they passed.