The Hickory Staff

THE MEADOW

Versen and Brexan were moving north along the coast. They had no waterskins, so they drank from every stream they passed. The jemma fish was finished, leaving nothing but the smell – they’d stuffed their pockets full of the cooked flesh and the fisherman’s generous gift had seen them through to the second day. They were happy to be alive and their spirits were high: they held hands while they walked, and chatted amiably. Brexan talked about Malakasia; she was pleased to dispel the myths that the entire nation was shrouded in ghostly fog, and that strange and horrible creatures wandered freely committing gruesome acts of dismemberment or murder.

‘Except around Welstar Palace,’ she added as a caveat. ‘No one goes there by choice – unless they’re stationed there, of course. And Prince Malagon’s generals are very selective about that: only the Home Guard, his own personal security force, are permitted in the palace, or even on palace grounds. I understand it’s very dangerous.’

‘Outstanding,’ Versen said sarcastically. ‘That’s where our group is heading.’

Brexan frowned. ‘You’ll never make it inside. You might not make it through the forest surrounding the keep. I was only there once, for a short time before we were deployed to Rona, but Ox, there must have been a hundred thousand soldiers massed around the palace.’

‘Why?’ He was dumbstruck. ‘What does he have to fear?’

‘Fear? Prince Malagon? Nothing.’

‘Then what’s he planning to conquer?’ Versen tugged at his whiskers. ‘You don’t have an army that size unless you’re about to defend or attack something. It’s too expensive to keep them all fed, and an idle army is a terrible thing.’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘but it was a sea of warriors, stretching across the valley and blanketing the hillsides leading up to the palace.’

Walking through a grove of scrub cedar in bare feet, stinking of fish, nothing to eat other than a few bits of jemma stashed in his tunic pocket, Versen really didn’t feel up to the task of invading Malakasia and storming Welstar Palace. He sighed. ‘This may be hopeless. We’re a lifetime – ten lifetimes – away from being ready to battle that army.’ Suddenly tired, he sighed and said, ‘I don’t even have a pair of boots.’

Flashing a sexy grin, she pulled him towards a sandy patch of sunlit ground just off the narrow trail. ‘All the easier for me to get you out of your clothes,’ she laughed.

‘Incorrigible hussy,’ Versen cried with feigned disgust.

‘Trying to get me excited, Ox?’

Resisting for a moment, Versen asked, ‘What about O’Reilly?’

‘I haven’t heard from him all day, have you?’ She continued dragging him towards her chosen spot. ‘And if he is around, let him watch. He’s been dead for more than nine hundred Twinmoons, after all.’

Versen gave up trying to be sensible and grasped Brexan around the waist, pulling her to the ground. His tongue flicked over her full lips and she responded with a low growl as she slid her own tongue playfully into his mouth. As they sank into a tangle of arms and legs and sighing and moaning and deep breathing, a ghostly figure took position on the trail ahead. Gabriel O’Reilly was on sentry duty.

Had anyone observed the translucent figure standing vigil, they might have noticed that the spirit’s attention was focused on a small hillock behind a meadow that stretched outward from the cedar grove’s edge. The almor was waiting. The spirit could detect its putrid stench defiling the air, overlaying the crisp scents of autumn with the dank smell of death, rotting flesh and disease.

At least one Seron waited as well, but the wraith did not think twice about him. The lovers would have to deal with that one – he would be too occupied with the demon. Waiting patiently for the sun to come up, he reflected on what he could recall of his life. A lot had faded since his death, but he could still remember sensations, often more distinctly than events or people: the heat and humidity along the Warrenton Parkway at Bull Run, the pain of the rifle slug in his leg and the worry that it would have to be amputated; the excitement at beginning life again in Colorado. These memories wandered through his mind as he stood at his self-appointed post. He remembered what it had felt like to be loved; that was the recollection he wished to immerse himself in for the few moments he had before battling the demon. He could not now recall any specific scripture, but he had believed most faithfully that Jesus Christ would ensure that his soul ascended to heaven. But He had not.

Just after dawn, O’Reilly detected the almor moving closer and wafted over to where Brexan and Versen lay sleeping beside the trail.

‘You must wake up now,’ the wraith urged.

Versen stirred. ‘What? What is it?’ He sat up and pulled his wrinkled tunic on.

‘A Seron,’ O’Reilly said. ‘Be ready.’

‘Oh, demonpissing rutters,’ Versen spat, suddenly lucid, and shook Brexan hard. ‘Up, quick,’ he ordered, scanning the copse for anything he might use as a weapon. Brexan still had the knife she had managed to swipe before leaping into the ocean, but he had nothing. ‘No boots. I can’t believe I don’t even have a pair of boots,’ he muttered to himself as he picked up a short but sturdy length of cedar.

Versen turned back to Brexan, who, ever the soldier, stood silently beside their sandy bed, her tunic adjusted and trim, her hair pulled back neatly with a leather thong and her knife held loosely in one hand. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

Brexan nodded. ‘It’s worse.’

‘What could be worse?’

‘He has the almor with him.’

Versen held his breath. ‘Can O’Reilly-’

‘He says he’ll try.’

‘Right.’ Versen swallowed, fighting the dryness in his throat. He hugged Brexan hard, then pointed through the trees. ‘Let’s go.’

Neither was surprised to see the Seron was Haden. ‘I knew that horsecock would never give up,’ Versen muttered. The Seron was standing alone in the centre of the meadow. He didn’t move as they left the woods and came towards him: his ruined face grim, he seemed to stand even more rigidly, as if preparing himself for the coming battle.

‘Him again,’ Brexan groaned. ‘I was hoping it was Karn or Rala. Where do you suppose the almor is waiting?’

‘We’ve got enough on our plate; let’s leave the almor to O’Reilly and hope to all the gods of the Northern Forest he’s powerful enough to keep it off us while we deal with this one.’

‘He’s got no weapons,’ Brexan observed as they emerged onto the meadow. Thick morning dew coated the knee-deep brush and her feet were quickly soaked wet and growing cold.

‘Gilmour said they sometimes like to attack with their hands, feet and teeth. The ones who attacked us in the foothills didn’t have weapons.’

‘So you had the advantage?’ Brexan asked hopefully.

‘Not exactly. Sallax and I managed to kill one each, but he had a rapier and I had an axe. Steven Taylor dealt with the rest. A friend of ours was killed, beaten to death, before Steven could save him.’

Despite her cold feet, Brexan felt herself begin to sweat. Suddenly, she wanted to let the battle begin. ‘C’mon Ox, let’s go. It’s two of us against him, and I have a knife. Let’s get started.’

‘I hope O’Reilly’s dealing with the demon, otherwise this might end up being a very short engagement.’

Brexan blanched as her feet slipped on the wet grass. ‘It could be anywhere out here.’

Gabriel O’Reilly moved like autumn wind. He could sense the almor’s presence everywhere: it felt as if it had blanketed the entire meadow. The wraith couldn’t decide where to engage – he wasn’t even sure the monster would be vulnerable to his assault – but he knew he would have to act quickly, if only to distract the demon while his friends battled the Seron. His friends. Were they his friends? He had almost forgotten what it meant to have friends, but a recollection of Milly and Jake Harmon, and Lawrence Chapman, and his friends from Idaho Springs brought him up short. Versen and Brexan were weak and essentially unarmed, ill-equipped to survive the season, never mind an attack on Welstar Palace. Yes, they were friends, like Mark, and there wasn’t much he could do to help them in their mission, but he was determined to see them safely past the Seron. That’s what friends did. He spiralled up into the morning sky. As he cleared the tops of the tallest trees he caught a glimpse of the Ravenian Sea and the Falkan countryside. It was beautiful in the bright gold of the rising sun, though not nearly as breathtaking as Clear Creek Canyon. The former bank manager readied himself for battle and plunged headlong into the meadow.

Versen stumbled as the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift suddenly. ‘That was O’Reilly,’ he said with a burgeoning sense of confidence. ‘He has the almor.’

‘How can-?’ Brexan’s question was interrupted by a desperate wail that shattered the morning; she could feel its resonant vibration underneath her bare toes. If they survived to reach the opposite side of this meadow, they would owe their lives to the wraith once again.

She looked up to see the Seron had lost his balance as well. As a look of surprise passed over his face, Brexan seized the moment and rushed forward, crying, ‘C’mon Ox, he wasn’t expecting that!’

‘I’ll go low,’ he whispered, hoping she’d heard him.

Ahead, the Seron stripped off his tunic and threw it to one side. ‘Smart,’ Brexan mumbled: less for his assailants to grip. Haden’s upper body was a mass of lean muscle tissue crisscrossed with thin, pink scars.

Brexan felt adrenalin warring with terror inside her and she forced herself to continue running. She was a soldier. It wasn’t right to let Versen lead the way. She was still embarrassed that she had hoped he would be first to drown so he could be a comfort for her in death. Now they’d face the Seron together. As she and Versen pounded along, side by side, a coldness filled her mind and washed over her body. Her vision narrowed down to encompass the Seron alone as Versen dropped from her peripheral sight.

Haden crouched, awaiting them stoically, a low growl in his throat and rage on his face. Versen had a plan; it was too late to discuss it with Brexan so he’d just have to hope she would pick it up as he went along. This was it: he’d have just one chance to disable the giant Malakasian. Using the wet grass as an impromptu slide, he threw himself feet-first towards Haden, slipping beneath the Seron’s outstretched arms, and swung his cedar staff in a vicious blow that shattered one kneecap.

The Seron bellowed in rage as he felt his leg buckle beneath him and lashed out as he fell, catching Brexan solidly in the ribs.

As Haden collapsed under Versen’s bone-crushing swing, Brexan went into action, but she misjudged how quickly Haden was toppling over and instead of driving Karn’s knife deep in the Seron’s neck, her thrust ran into his shoulder. It was a painful cut, but Brexan had over-extended her arm, which allowed Haden the opportunity to land a vicious punch that sent her tumbling.

Rolling to a stop, Brexan winced as she struggled to draw breath. She pulled herself onto her hands and knees, then collapsed face-first into the grass as agonising pain gripped her side: she recognised broken ribs. Get up, her voice commanded from somewhere deep inside, there’s no time for this. She stumbled to her feet and turned back to the fray, the bloodied knife clenched in her hand.

Versen had suffered badly in those few moments she was down. Haden rained blows down on him, but the woodsman was fighting back, repeatedly punching the Seron’s fractured knee. Haden cried out, an unnerving mixture of agony and rage, but still the scarred warrior continued to pummel the Ronan.

Now Versen was hanging onto the Seron’s leg with one arm and punching with the other; though he was causing the enemy soldier almost unendurable pain, his own face and neck were receiving vicious blows from the Seron’s massive fists. Versen was clinging on in pure desperation, praying he could last long enough for Brexan to come back and finish off the Seron with her knife. As he watched her rise awkwardly from the grass he realised she had been injured herself; for a moment he forgot his own pain and worried about the young woman instead, until a solid kick to his chin brought him back to the present.

A primitive survival instinct was all that was keeping Versen going, but he was exhausted, and fading fast. In a final burst of energy he violently twisted Haden’s broken leg, causing the Seron to throw his head back and bellow in agony.

The Seron, momentarily paralysed, had just realised that irreparable damage had been done to his knee by the irksome Ronan when the equally aggravating woman came at him from above, landing hard on his chest and driving her blade deep into his left lung. The meadow began to tilt back on itself, leaning as if to discard the three combatants into the Ravenian Sea. Haden knew he was about to lose consciousness, and in a final act of vicious rage, he raised one arm above his head and brought his elbow down against the woman’s already damaged cheek. The blow tapped nearly all his strength, but it was worth it as he felt the woman go limp and slide off his chest onto the ground.

Versen nearly released the Seron’s mangled leg to applaud as Brexan drove the knife into Haden’s chest. He grinned despite a crack in his jaw, a broken nose and a swollen, maybe even ruptured eye socket: they were going to win. They were bloody and battered, and they might not survive the journey to Welstar Palace, but at least there would be one less Seron to terrorise Eldarn.

We’ll thin the rutting herd by one, Versen thought, but that image wavered as he fought to maintain consciousness. ‘Finish him,’ he tried to shout, but only a wet gurgle escaped his throat.

As the Seron smashed his elbow into Brexan’s poor damaged face, Versen’s rage erupted anew. ‘I’ll finish you myself, you dog-rutting half-human piece of ganselshit,’ he screamed, reaching towards the knife, but with one arm wrapped around the Malakasian’s injured leg and the other stretched out, Versen realised he had made a fatal error.

You’re exposed! The warning blared in his mind, but it was already too late. The Seron was too strong and too malicious: not even fatal injuries would get in the way of this victory. Versen’s eyes bulged as he saw the Seron’s boot coming towards him. As it struck, consciousness faded. He and Brexan were at the mercy of the scarred warrior.

Brexan awakened to the sun high in the sky; she watched as a pair of greyish-white birds winged lazily towards the ocean. Thick grass had provided a soft bed and she was sheltered enough to enjoy the sun’s warmth without being chilled by the autumn breeze. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious; for a moment she contemplated going back to sleep – then she remembered Versen and the Seron.

She sat up too quickly and nearly passed out from the pain in her face and ribs. With her vision tunnelling, she was forced to slow her breathing and to close her eyes while she fought the nausea and marshalled her strength. Rolling to all fours, she crawled the few paces to where Versen lay beside the body of the Seron. There was no doubt the Ronan was dead. His face was bloody, and brutally beaten, and his throat had been torn out by the Seron’s bare hands.

Tears welled up at the thought of how much pain he must have suffered. Brexan ran one hand through his shaggy brown hair and her fingers came away dripping with his blood. It had pooled around his battered body before being absorbed into the Falkan ground.

She turned away from her lover and vomited repeatedly until the pain in her ribs and face caused her to pass out once again.

Later that aven, Brexan sat by Versen’s body. She was too weak, too damaged and too tired to find enough wood for a pyre so she turned him onto his back and folded his arms across his chest. Using her tunic as a cloth, she cleaned the blood from his face and closed his eyes. It was at that moment she finally lost hope. She no longer cared what was to come.

She curled up on the ground beside Versen’s cruelly desecrated body and sobbed uncontrollably. As she wrapped herself in her grief and despair she nearly missed the guttural moan that came from the Seron lying behind her. Convinced he was dead, she hadn’t given Haden a second glance when she woke earlier. Now her sobs waned immediately. She pulled herself to her knees, ignoring the arcing pain in her ribs, crawled over to the Seron and slowly withdrew the knife from his chest. A trickle of blood ran from the wound. He was still alive.

Brexan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again,’ she said in a flat monotone, then shouted, ‘Wake up! I’m talking to you!’ She punctuated her commands with kicks – she hoped each one would break a few more ribs.

‘Come on now, my friend – I want to know that you are aware of what’s happening to you.’ She grinned devilishly when she saw his eyes slit open slightly, then gulped as she realised this evil, murdering, inhuman beast had eyes the same colour as Versen’s. She flinched as she recalled Versen’s light-green eyes gazing at her face while they made love hungrily in the sand.

The cold wave washed over her again and this time Brexan allowed the unbridled homicidal hunger to take her.

‘Can you see me? I want you to remember me. I want you to know who is doing this to you.’ She leaned in close.

A threatening murmur emanated weakly from the Seron: he was lucid, perhaps not ready to ponder life‘s ironies – pale green eyes, for example – but certainly aware of his condition. ‘You are in hideous shape, my friend,’ she observed. ‘You may not live through the day-’ she began rolling up her tunic sleeves, ‘-but then again, you just might.’ She wiped the knife blade clean on her leggings, pushed her hair behind her ears and began cutting.