The Hickory Staff

THE RONAN PIEDMONT

Next winter

Steven woke to cramp, and the sound of the river rolling by. He rolled over and, without thinking, checked his watch. It wasn’t there. It took a few seconds for him to remember giving it to Garec two days earlier. He could see Mark, already up and kneeling at the water’s edge. ‘What time is it?’ Steven called without moving.

‘I don’t know.’ Mark splashed cool water on his face. ‘The time here has my internal clock running like a drunk Pamplona tourist. The sun is up, so I guess it must be daytime.’

‘Insightful of you,’ Steven grunted as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He looked around: Brynne was dousing the vestiges of the evening’s fire with a pan of river water. Everyone else was missing. He pulled a clean tunic over his head and asked, ‘Where did they go?’

‘Good morning, Steven.’ Brynne waved, moving towards him. ‘They’ve gone to check traffic along the Merchants’ Highway. It’s not far from here; they’re concerned there may be soldiers moving north to search for us.’

‘Terrific. I was hoping we’d have another day of fleeing for our lives. I’m just beginning to get skilled at it.’ He crawled to his feet and went to join Mark by the river.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Brynne called after him, ‘it’s still about two avens before midday.’

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked Mark. ‘It’s about seven o’clock.’

‘First period is just about to start.’ Mark stood up and used his T-shirt to dry his face. ‘I bet my substitute is making a mess of the Industrial Revolution right now.’

‘Don’t feel bad about it,’ Steven teased. ‘With any luck we’ll have you home in time to teach your students about the Yalta Conference.’

‘Grand.’ Mark looked back towards the campsite. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

‘I don’t know,’ Steven shook the excess water from his hands and stood beside his friend, ‘but I can leave the two of you alone if you want to make your peace with Brynne.’

‘I’m not sure she wants to,’ Mark said, his face solemn. ‘I think she’s still angry that I tied her to a tree.’

‘Wouldn’t you be?’

‘Good point,’ he said as he slipped into his tunic and belted it around his waist. ‘All right, here goes nothing.’

Steven watched as Mark wandered back to where Brynne was busying herself rolling blankets and packing supplies, then turned to the river. He reflected on Gilmour’s fantastical tale of evil demons and homicidal magicians possessing Malakasian royalty. He didn’t even like fantasy literature: he liked logic, things that made sense, not the utterly impossible. And this was impossible: here he was, standing by a river in a grove of trees so similar to dozens of rivers and groves he had visited over his lifetime, and yet he was in danger – the sort of danger he could not even have imagined a week ago.

He was facing a journey he might not survive: that fact was beginning to sink in, to become less an external reality rearing up periodically to frighten him and more an inherent part of who he was. This river was different. This river was haunted by the terror awaiting them in Malakasia.

Like the evening before, Steven began to feel a need to pack up and rush to Welstar Palace, to get there as quickly as he could. Kneeling once again, he took a long drink and splashed cold water over his head. ‘We might not make it,’ he repeated several times as the water ran across his down-turned face and dripped onto the smooth rocks below. Slowly, Steven began to get used to the idea.

Mark moved around Brynne’s horse to help tie down her bedroll and saddlebags. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,’ he said without warning, ‘it’s just that we weren’t certain what was happening. We still aren’t certain what’s happening, but I know you want to help us.’ He looked down at his feet before adding, ‘I was afraid and I thought you might lead us into town to-’

‘It’s all right,’ she interrupted, ‘I was taking you to Greentree Tavern because I knew there would be soldiers around. I was hoping to lose you in the confusion.’

Mark laughed. ‘So I was right.’

She smiled. ‘’Fraid so. I was planning an escape – but I was glad Sallax didn’t kill you at Riverend. I still am.’

‘So am I. It would’ve really put a damper on our relationship if your brother had shot me full of arrows or run me through with his rapier. I’m not certain I would ever have been able to build up the courage to ask you out after that.’

‘Out?’

‘Yes, out, on a date,’ he tried to clarify.

‘A date, like today or yesterday?’ She seemed confused.

‘No, not that kind of date!’ He searched for the right words in Ronan.

‘Mark, I would very much like to help you, but I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ she said.

Finally, he caught a glimpse of her smile. ‘You’re toying with me, aren’t you? You know exactly what I mean.’

‘I might be, but it’s always fun to watch you stumble over yourself,’ she said and reached across the saddle to give him a playful shove.

Grabbing her hand, he said sarcastically, ‘Oh, sure, mock the foreigner, why don’t you.’

‘Well, you did tie me to a tree.’

‘And your brother tried to kill me with an axe. I’d say that makes us even, wouldn’t you?’ He held her hand for as long as he dared, then released it to secure an errant leather strap to her saddle.

‘Even?’

‘Oh, don’t start that again.’ Mark moved to collect his bedroll while Brynne stored the last hickory trenchers in her saddlebag. With his back turned, the young teacher did not see her watching him from the fire-pit. Kneeling near the log Mark had dragged from the forest as an impromptu sofa, Brynne played with his watchband, turning it slowly around her wrist. Then, smirking, she started preparing the remaining horses for the day’s journey.

*

When the Ronans returned from the forest, it was obvious Gilmour and Sallax were engaged in an argument.

‘I understand why you want to raid them, Sallax,’ Gilmour said calmly, ‘but we cannot afford to bring attention to ourselves. Who knows how many Malakasians are already tracking us north?’

‘That’s exactly my point.’ Sallax was determined. ‘We have no choice but to flee. Why not hit that caravan before they reach port? You know it’s nothing more than yet another group of merchants and landowners buying peace from Malagon’s generals.’

‘That’s true,’ Gilmour conceded, ‘but our mission now is clear. The days of raiding caravans are behind us.’

‘Forgive me if I’m not as confident in your mystical solution to this very real problem. Raiding has worked for us for many Twinmoons, Gilmour, and a fat cat is lumbering by out there just waiting for us to play with it.’

‘Now that’s not exactly accurate, Sallax,’ Gilmour countered. ‘They are very well protected. We might lose people, or be slowed by injuries. It is too risky.’

‘One strike,’ Sallax mused aloud. ‘What if we hit them with one quick strike, bows from above and a slash-and-burn attack at a full gallop? Who knows what damage we might do?’

‘That might work, Gilmour,’ Garec said. ‘Versen and I can inflict a good deal of damage from the heights above the road.’

Versen agreed. ‘That’s true. We could certainly open a hole in their defenders’ ranks.’

Mark leaned towards Brynne and whispered, ‘What are they talking about?’

Leaning back into him, ostensibly to keep her voice low, she answered, ‘For Twinmoons now, we have been raiding Ronan merchant caravans riding north to the Falkan border to meet with Malagon’s occupation generals. They push their workers near death, pay them next to nothing in wages and hoard enormous sums of money.’

‘They buy the right to be rich in a dictatorship,’ Mark said. ‘It’s nice to see nothing’s really different here.’

Brynne put one hand on Mark’s shoulder and spoke directly into his ear. ‘So, we hit the caravans. We take silver and weapons to help fund the Resistance.’

‘That’s what you were hiding at Riverend Palace.’ Mark turned towards her, their faces only inches apart. ‘But with Riverend’s fall-’

‘Everything we worked for is lost, and worse, the Malakasians now know Estrad Village was the centre of the Resistance.’ She looked worried and Mark’s heart broke for her. ‘Who knows what horrors they’ll commit while combing the village for us? They’ll use it as an excuse – not that they need one – and I don’t like thinking about it.’

Gilmour dismounted and ran one hand across his balding pate. ‘You want to hit them?’

Garec, Sallax and Versen nodded, while Mika, less confidently, added, ‘Yes.’

‘All right, we’ll hit them.’ He walked to the edge of the river where Steven was standing listening to the earnest debate. ‘You should stand behind me, Steven,’ Gilmour said. Cupping his hands over his mouth, the old Larion Senator emitted a shrill cry into the forest on the opposite shore. It was pitched very high, almost beyond the range of their hearing, and Steven was glad he had moved back. As Gilmour’s call sounded, Brynne immediately covered her ears and Garec let out a cry of pain and pushed his hands firmly against his temples. Mark’s equilibrium was thrown off balance and he sat heavily to avoid falling down.

Sallax shook the dizziness from his head and asked, ‘What in a thousand Twinmoons of pestilence was that?’

The old man smiled and reached into his tunic for a pipe. He filled the small bowl and gripped it firmly between his teeth before answering, ‘You said you wanted to hit them. We just made arrangements to hit them.’

Versen was confused. ‘How? What did you do?’

‘I called the grettans.’ Gilmour exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that loitered around his head before dissipating. ‘We ought to move along right away. Once they get here, I’m not certain I will be able to control them.’ He pursed his lips and prepared to remount his horse.

Versen looked shocked. Mika wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead.

‘Riverend,’ Garec pointed accusingly. ‘I saw you from the palace. You called those grettans in to attack the Malakasian horses.’

‘Of course I did,’ he answered, as if it had been obvious all along. ‘I couldn’t have you all taken prisoner or killed. We have a great deal of work to do and I need you.’

Garec pursued the issue further. ‘Did you call them all the way down from Gorsk? What are they doing this far south? The rutting bastards almost had my hide for breakfast in the forbidden forest.’

‘I think that was Malagon, or I suppose I should say Nerak. I would guess he sent those grettans down here to kill me-’ he paused for a moment before adding, ‘-or perhaps each of you.’

Versen swallowed awkwardly. Mika looked as though he might fall from the saddle. Gilmour patted the youngest Ronan gently on the knee. ‘Malagon doesn’t realise I can communicate with these grettans as well.’

‘Communicate?’ Brynne asked.

‘Yes, I can call them around, or suggest they move off somewhere else – they can understand that much. But I can’t keep them from attacking us if they arrive while we’re still here jabbering on about them.’ He motioned for Mark and Steven to mount up.

Garec stared at Gilmour with mixed admiration and amazement. ‘So, it’s true.’

‘What’s true?’ The older man was impatient to get the group moving again.

‘You really are a magician.’ Garec searched for the words. ‘It was all true, everything you said last night.’

‘Of course it’s true. Did you think I was making it up?’ he answered with feigned indignity. ‘Come now, we must hurry.’ Before riding into the forest, Gilmour turned to Sallax and added, ‘The grettans will hit the caravan. I imagine they’ll hit it hard, rout the wagons and ensure that silver never reaches port.’

Sallax nodded grimly in response.

They rode through the day, always north, and Steven soon noticed a change in the landscape. Hardwoods gave way to evergreens and the rustle of leaves under foot quieted into a soft carpet of fallen pine needles. The climb in elevation was gradual, nearly undetectable, but by the end of the day they had reached the southern slope of what appeared to be a range of more substantial foothills that spread far into the distance as misty indigo swells along the horizon. From time to time the group came within sight of the Estrad River; the once-deep current had narrowed to a fast-moving stream.

Versen led the way, accompanied by Mika, who was eager to learn everything the more experienced woodsman could teach him. Steven could understand why Mika was so impressed with Versen: his knowledge of the forest seemed second to none.

Steven rode between Garec and Gilmour and the trio spent much of their time talking. Garec, always alert with his bow, felled several rabbits and a pheasant along the way; the small band would eat well again this evening.

As the new friends exchanged questions and answers about their different lands, Gilmour would periodically chime in with an explanation of Pragan, Falkan, or even Malakasian culture. Garec was astounded at the level of technology in Steven’s world; the young banker’s description of air travel, medicine and warfare had him transfixed. Steven was equally impressed by the complacency about magic that permeated the Eldarni populace. Garec talked about magical incidents, places and historic events as if they were as common as a spring thundershower.

Gilmour’s questions related to the history of various nations on Earth; Steven had to keep reminding himself that the venerable Larion Senator had been there to see much of it unfold. He was most interested in the American Civil War, and spoke in fascinating detail about troop movements and political decisions Steven had never known about. He rattled on at great length about the carnage at Sharpsburg, the accuracy of artillery fire on Henry Hill at Bull Run and the esoteric eating habits of General Lee.

‘I do wish I could have stayed on to observe the end of the war and the reconstruction that followed, but regrettably, my knowledge and leadership were sorely needed in Eldarn,’ Gilmour confided wistfully.

When he heard that President Lincoln had been killed before the Confederate surrender, his mood turned dark. He told Steven he was certain John Wilkes Booth had no sense of fairness and ran one hand thoughtfully through his whiskers before adding, ‘If they were going to kill him, they ought to have waited until after the war.’

Steven had taken a Civil War course as an undergraduate and promised to retrieve all his textbooks from a cardboard box in his basement if Gilmour could spare a few moments while in Idaho Springs. He thought the old man was going to actually kiss him, but Gilmour contented himself with slapping Steven hard across the back and shouting, ‘Outstanding! It’s a nine-hundred-Twin-moon-old novel I will finally get to finish.’

While Steven was trawling his memory for any Civil War trivia that might amuse his companions, Mark and Brynne were getting to know each other too. They rode together all day; occasionally Sallax would cast them a disapproving look. The Ronan partisan was slow to trust anyone, and he was still uncertain about Steven and Mark: were they truly refugees from another world? He had forced himself to believe Gilmour, so for the moment he decided to keep his doubts to himself.

Brynne had obviously put aside her fury at being carted round as a hostage and tied to a tree. The friendly banter she and Mark were exchanging had Brynne blushing and Mark grinning like an adolescent about to steal his first kiss. Sallax cringed each time his sister reached across to touch Mark’s hand or to give his arm an amiable punch, even though he thought he respected the foreigner: at least he had shown a willingness to fight, a tough resilience in the face of danger. He appeared to be extremely bright, and skilled at solving problems under pressure. Sallax supposed Mark might be his choice for Brynne – if he knew the two strangers could be trusted. Until that moment, though, he would look with caution on his sister’s new suitor.

They made camp that evening in the Blackstone foothills. Versen said the bulk of the great range was several days’ ride north and west; they would turn west in the morning, leaving the river and the Merchants’ Highway behind. Although there were a number of passes between the tallest peaks in the Blackstone range, the most commonly accessed trails would be patrolled, perhaps even guarded, by Malakasian sentries. If word of their flight had reached the northern border patrols, no passage through the mountains would be unwatched by occupation forces.

Versen was confident that their only safe route lay to the west, over uncharted peaks and through unmapped passes. Both Garec and Sallax were loud in their dismay at the prospect of navigating a new trail north this late in the season. The potential for bone-chilling cold and deep snow grew with each passing day, and none of the travellers knew enough about the northern slopes to speculate what lay beyond the westernmost peaks.

Gilmour tried to reassure them, telling them their turn to the west was necessary for another reason. ‘We must get to Seer’s Peak,’ he said that evening as they sat around the fire-pit. ‘I must try to contact Lessek before we set sail for Malakasia.’

‘Lessek, the founder of the Larion Senate?’ Garec asked.

‘That’s right. He sometimes visits me when I pass within the shadow of Seer’s Peak.’ Gilmour sucked the last bits of meat from a pheasant leg and tossed the bone casually into the fire. ‘Although this will be the first time I have ever tried to contact him. Usually he comes to me without warning.’

‘Can you do it?’ Mika asked, amazed that anyone could be able to summon a spirit.

‘I don’t know, Mika,’ Gilmour said honestly, ‘but I have to try.’ And, in an offhanded way that surprised everyone around the fire, he added, ‘So must Garec and Steven as well.’

Steven sat bolt upright. ‘Why?’ He looked around the fire hoping for an ally. ‘What could he possibly tell me? I’m not Eldarni.’

‘No, but you have brought Lessek’s Key back to Eldarn,’ Gilmour explained. ‘Your role in this endeavour may be more important than you think.’

‘I didn’t, though. I mean, it’s still there on my desk. I didn’t bring it anywhere.’ Steven tried to talk his way out of meeting with the long-dead ghost of the world’s most powerful magician. ‘I just stole it from- well, found it, really, at the bank.’

‘Without you, Steven, it would not now be within our reach.’ Gilmour glanced at Mark before continuing, ‘Lessek may expect more from you than you can imagine, perhaps from Mark as well.’

‘And why me?’ Garec asked quietly.

‘That will become clear in time, my friend,’ Gilmour answered. ‘But I know Lessek will wish to speak with you.’

Versen was sharpening a small axe against a whetstone. Slowing the rhythmic pattern, he commented, ‘You make it sound as though Lessek can control what will happen to us. Is that true?’

‘No,’ Gilmour answered. ‘I don’t believe he can have an impact on anything directly, at least, he hasn’t in a long time, which is why we must go to him and hope he communicates with us.’ The old man leaned forward and warmed his hands near the flames. The firelight danced off his bald forehead; it looked as though a small, flesh-coloured moon had risen over their camp. ‘Lessek has an important vantage point from which to observe the goings-on here in Eldarn, a view from the balcony, if you will. He has access to histories and ideas we cannot understand, and his insights are critical to our success. He may disclose much, or he may not come to us at all, but we must endeavour to tap that resource before making plans for our assault on Welstar Palace.’

‘Welstar Palace,’ Steven said, ‘Nerak’s stronghold.’

‘Malagon’s,’ Garec corrected.

‘What do we call him, Gilmour – or should he be it?’ Mark was looking a little confused.

‘Nerak and Malagon: right now, they’re essentially interchangeable,’ Gilmour said.

‘Great,’ Mark grinned, ‘so we’ll agree on shithead, shall we?’

‘Works for me,’ Steven agreed.

‘I’m not sure what a shithead is,’ Brynne pronounced the English word awkwardly, ‘but there are more important things to worry about right now.’ She turned to Versen. ‘How far is it to Seer’s Peak?’

‘I don’t know,’ the tall woodsman answered. ‘I’ve never been there myself. We have about three days of rolling foothills to traverse before we come in view of the Blackstones.’

‘That’s correct,’ Gilmour confirmed, ‘and making good time, we will clear the range and be on the down slope into Falkan before winter hits with all her fury. But now my friends, let’s get to bed. We have far to travel tomorrow.’ He dropped several small logs on the fire before announcing, ‘I will take the first watch tonight. Mika, I will wake you in an aven.’

Late that night, Steven stirred in his sleep. He rolled over and pulled his blanket tight around his shoulders, trapping a loose corner between his knees. Still half-asleep, he hoped being bound as tightly as possible, with nothing exposed to the night air, would help warm the relatively small spaces between the contours of his body and the unruly wool blanket. Adjusting his position on the uneven ground, Steven knocked his jacket off the stone he had been using for a pillow. The cold rock against his face slapped him fully awake.

The night was silent, and except for a dull glow from the last embers in the fire-pit, he could see nothing. Nearby, Mark’s even breathing lent a stately rhythm to the darkness. Slowly Steven’s eyes grew accustomed to the night. Versen stood watch near the fire, sitting up with his back propped against a large stone, but Steven could see the woodsman’s head had fallen forward on his chest. He slept soundly.

Footsteps… coming through the forest behind him, Steven could tell that whoever approached was trying to come unnoticed. He thought about crying out, but he was afraid an arrow hurtling unseen through the Ronan darkness would silence him for ever. His stomach tightened in fear and, almost without thinking, he curled his legs up under him, preparing to leap to safety. He reached for the hunting knife still secure in his belt but it was awkward in his hand; he knew he would be ineffective against any would-be attacker. Without breathing, he craned his neck to peer across their camp.

The footsteps were closer now, just beyond the rock where Versen slept. Straining his eyes, Steven saw a bulky form emerge from the darkness, stow something in a saddlebag, pull back the blanket of an abandoned bedroll and lie down in the fire’s dying light. It was Sallax.

Steven breathed easier, assuming the big man had sneaked away to relieve himself outside the periphery of their camp. Half-awake, he didn’t think to wonder what Sallax had placed in his saddlebag. Soon sleep reclaimed Steven for the night.

For the next three days, the company made their way further into the Blackstone foothills. Scrub oak and evergreen trees grew in abundance; Steven noticed that with the ever-increasing altitude, the hardwoods that had been common in Rona’s southern region were scarce. The scrub oaks were clumsy trees, growing close to the ground in a confusion of twisted branches and oddly placed leaves.

The temperature had dropped significantly as well and for the first time since their arrival, Steven was glad he had worn a tweed jacket to the bank that Thursday. The coat fit tightly over his Ronan tunic, giving him an ungainly appearance, but he didn’t care about Mark’s ribbing that he looked like a university professor visiting a Renaissance festival: it kept him warm.

Though chilly, the weather was clear, and periodically there was a break in the trees that allowed them to see far into the distance. It was late on their third day in the foothills when Versen pointed towards the horizon and, squinting into the slowly setting sun, they could finally make out the distant peaks of the Blackstone Mountains. Ominous, even from this distance, Steven thought. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The Blackstones were much taller than the Rocky Mountains surrounding his home, and their jagged ridges and deep valleys promised a hard, treacherous journey ahead. Steven loved looking up at the Rockies from the Colorado prairie: you could see the Front Range stretching from north to south in a picturesque combination of green foothills, red stone cliffs and snowy granite peaks. For anyone driving west, the Rockies were a welcome sight, a majestic end to a long journey across the endless flat fields of wheat and corn. Steven cherished that view; he could never tire of looking at the mountains back home.

But the Blackstones were different. Nothing about them made Steven feel welcome. They rose from the foothills at a steep angle, as if the gods themselves had thrown up a sheer granite wall to keep travellers out of Falkan.

‘Have you ever been through this way?’ Mark asked Versen, who was still peering into the distance.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘I’ve crossed over the eastern peaks, but never this far west. These mountains are very different to those out near the Merchants’ Highway.’ He looked at Gilmour as he added, ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’

‘Which one is Seer’s Peak?’ Steven asked, still shielding his eyes against the setting sun.

Versen shrugged. All eyes turned to Gilmour who pointed towards the tallest mountain in the range. ‘You see that tall peak there in the middle?’

‘Is that it?’ Mark asked, ‘the big one with glacier snow on top?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘instead, look immediately east of there. It’s difficult to see, because it’s not a very tall peak, but if you look really hard you can spot it. It’s a much shorter mountain, with a long narrow ridge opening out onto a nearly flat surface at its west end.’

‘I see it,’ Brynne exclaimed. ‘It doesn’t look like much, Gilmour.’

‘I suppose it doesn’t,’ he answered, ‘but there is something powerful about it, something that makes it possible for Lessek to visit us in that place.’

Sallax, as ever, was all business. ‘Well, let’s get there. We still have a good half-aven of light left. We might be able to clear the next hill if we push on now.’

Without answering, Versen spurred his horse forward and led them down the north slope of the hill, picking his way through the trees, careful in the fading daylight.

Near the bottom of the shallow valley, the woodsman noticed what looked like a game trail winding around the base of the next foothill. Turning in the saddle, he called to Sallax, ‘We ought to follow this. It may lead to fresh water.’

‘I don’t like the idea of being on trails,’ Sallax said tersely.

‘There are no signs that any riders have been through here in a long time,’ Versen countered. ‘I think we’ll be fine.’

‘All right, let’s keep moving,’ Sallax agreed grudgingly, adding, ‘Garec, stay alert through here, we might find something for dinner.’

As the sun’s last rays gleamed through the evergreen boughs high above, Garec imagined the forest atop the hill in flames. For a moment he felt unaccountably glad that Versen had elected to seek refuge here on the sheltered valley floor. Turning his eyes from the luminous orange rays he allowed them to readjust in the semi-darkness, then began scanning the forest for wildlife: rabbits, game birds, there might even be deer. The quiet rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the pine needle carpet was the only sound he could hear. Hunting in a pine glade was more challenging; with no telltale autumn leaves on the ground his quarry were able to move about in near-silence. He tuned his ears to the forest.

Then he heard it: a faint rustle. Craning his neck to pinpoint its direction, he heard it again: scratching, like the sound of a boot crushing a few shards of broken glass. Garec didn’t recognise the sound; he thought it strange any animal would make such a noise, calling attention to itself and then moving again before freezing to scan for predators.

Garec suddenly realised what he’d heard, just an instant later, but it was already too late. Before he could cry out, a group of Malakasian soldiers attacked from the underbrush, coming all at once in a howling blur from all sides. They were taken entirely by surprise.

Strangely, the attackers did not strike at them with weapons; instead, they pulled the riders from their mounts and grappled furiously with them on the ground.

Having a heartbeat’s warning gave Garec time enough to draw and fire at point-blank range into a charging soldier’s chest. The man had no shield and Garec’s arrow killed him almost instantly. Not slowing for a moment, the bowman nocked another shaft and felled a second warrior who had Mika pinned beneath his horse. He was beating Mika’s face with his fists, and the arrow took him in the neck, showering the youngest partisan in blood.

These were not normal soldiers; there was something different about them, something dark, almost apelike. Garec wished in vain for more light as he released a third shaft into the ribs of yet another of the curious assailants; in spite of the rapidly increasing gloom of twilight, the arrow found its mark. The Ronan bowman was reaching into his quiver again when strong leathery hands finally pulled him to the ground.

As the attack started, Steven watched dumbstruck as Garec felled several enemy soldiers with lightning-fast bow-fire. A moment later, two of the warriors burst from the underbrush and wrestled the Ronan from his horse. Garec blindly fought to ward them off as they clawed at his face. In the distance Mark struggled to pull one of the attackers away from Brynne as Versen and Sallax hacked at their assailants with battle-axes. Mika lay still beneath his horse. The scene was surreal.

Through his fear, Steven felt time begin to slow. He and Gilmour were the only members of their party not yet fighting; it looked to him as if they had been spared, maybe because they had been riding at the end of the line. He remembered the feel of cool water cascading across the back of his neck and his own words, repeated over and over: ‘We might not make it.’

In slow motion he dismounted, stooped for a moment to pick up a length of hickory from beside the trail. We might not make it. A Malakasian soldier emerged from a thicket to his right and with effortless grace, Steven turned, bringing the staff around violently in a deadly arc that crushed the unsuspecting soldier’s skull. The man’s face was animal-like; he had a wild look, almost brutal.

Steven paid him no more heed and moved instead to where Garec lay, still fighting to free himself from the two soldiers ripping at his flesh with clawed fingers. We might not make it. Steven released his anger in a crushing blow that took one soldier under the chin and broke his neck cleanly. Thrown backwards into the brush along the trail, the Malakasian’s body continued to twitch reflexively as Garec’s second attacker turned his attention to Steven. Seeing the now-bloody hickory shaft, he tried to tear it from Steven’s hands.

‘We might not make it,’ Steven heard himself cry, and then laughed inanely as he punched the Malakasian hard across the face. The soldier lost his footing and Steven brought the wooden staff down across the outside of his knee, shattering it beneath him. The warrior screamed, it sounded like an ancient, primaeval curse, and flailed wildly as he fell to the ground.

Steven ignored him and moved to help Mark and Brynne. Mark was fighting to escape from the iron grip of a brutal soldier pounding away at him with sledge-like fists and granite elbows. Moving with mercurial quickness, Brynne ducked and closed in on the enemy soldier. Her short blade in one hand, she spun, took a glancing blow on the side of her face and rammed her knife to the hilt in the big soldier’s chest. She gave a guttural shout of satisfaction when the blade broke through the sinewy muscles above the Malakasian’s breastbone.

Steven made his way around the injured soldier and took aim. Swinging like a lumberjack felling an ancient redwood, he splintered the hickory staff against the small of the enemy’s back, breaking his spine. The man collapsed like a pricked balloon.

Brynne helped Mark to his feet and the couple scurried away from the now disabled but still vicious Malakasian. ‘Steven, get back!’ Mark shouted when he saw his roommate standing over their fallen attacker.

‘We might not make it,’ Steven cried in a voice that sent chills along Mark’s spine. And he watched in terror as his best friend raised a short, jagged piece of hickory and drove it deep into the soldier’s neck, killing him.

Steven, sprayed with the explosion of blood from the soldier’s carotid artery, fell to his knees and began to sob. The world caught up with him: now time moved at breakneck speed. He felt alone, terrified, and certain he would die in this strange land.

Mark wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulder and led him away from the bloody aftermath of the fight.

‘We might not make it,’ Steven cried against Mark’s chest.

Versen and Sallax had dispatched their assailants in a flurry of deadly axe blows; now they moved towards Gilmour, who was sitting in the mud beneath Mika’s horse, cradling the young man’s head in his lap. Mika was dead. His head had struck a rock when the Malakasian wrenched him from the saddle. He died as the soldier battered his already fractured skull. Over the din of Steven’s sobs, and the raging screams of the injured soldier dragging his ruined knee through the forest underbrush, Sallax heard Gilmour say quietly, ‘He was just a boy.’

When she saw Mika’s broken form lying still in Gilmour’s lap, Brynne began to cry. Versen, white, brushed a hand over his eyes, trying not to give way to emotion, and Garec too fought back tears as he held a patch of cloth against a large gash across his forehead.

Then Gilmour’s face changed. Shock and sadness were wiped clean, to be replaced with cold, calculating rage. Gently he rested Mika’s head on the ground, where it lolled awkwardly to one side. He rose to face the last surviving soldier, still doggedly dragging himself to freedom despite his shattered knee. The Malakasian grunted malevolently and spat at Gilmour as the Larion Senator glared back at him.

‘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 the 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