Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

One afternoon Garec brought back a crate of Falkan beer and they sat around their small fire eating from the old man’s daily catch and drinking heartily from ceramic bottles.

Swallowing a mouthful of sudsy brew, Mark commented, ‘The one thing I have yet to see is a bookshop. I would love to read some Eldarni history.’

Garec and Brynne both quieted at that.

‘What did I say?’

Steven got it. ‘No books?’

‘Only outlaw copies,’ Garec replied. ‘Ancient books, those that survived the initial razing of all libraries and bookshops nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago.’

‘When Prince Marek took the throne.’

‘That’s right,’ Brynne answered, ‘and closed the universities.’

‘There’s no school?’ Mark was stunned.

‘We all attend school until we’re one hundred Twinmoons old.’

‘Do they have books there?’ Steven asked.

‘Yes, but our history books only cover the period since the five lands of Eldarn were seized and ruled by Prince Marek’s descendants. Even in school we don’t have many books, so many people are illiterate.’

Mark looked glumly out the window and placed his bottle gently on the plank floor. ‘No school. That’s not right.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Brynne agreed. ‘And it’s one of the first things we would change should we win back Rona’s freedom.’ She stopped herself. ‘I suppose now I should say Praga’s freedom too – Eldarn’s freedom.’

‘What about religious leaders?’ Mark asked. ‘Don’t they act as teachers? Do they instruct in reading, writing and basic skills?’

Garec and Brynne exchanged glances before Brynne said, ‘Our temples and sects were all destroyed by Prince Marek. For five generations we have had no organised religion.’

Garec added, ‘We’re told some religion survives in the north; many people worship the gods they believe inhabit the Northern Forest. But our religion is an oral tradition; it always has been. Now most Eldarni people grow up, raise families, grow old and die and never know – or discuss – religion in any way. It’s safer.’

‘Where do your core values develop?’ Steven asked. ‘Are there no institutions that help preserve a system of beliefs or traditions to define them over time?’

‘Some are dictated by the Malakasian prince or princess.’

‘Values can’t be dictated,’ Steven growled. ‘They have to be fostered by – well, by family, the local community, the faith-based organisations, even the government, I suppose.’

‘I don’t know that this is a function of any institution in Eldarn,’ Garec tried to explain, ‘as much as it is the evolution of ideals passed down from the days of the Larion Senate. Our values, traditions and beliefs may change according to the evolving make-up of any group, so one city’s values may change as its populace ages. We’ve grown used to living this way because no one alive now has ever known anything different.’

‘Most people wouldn’t know the benefits of an organised religion,’ Brynne said, ‘because none of us can remember what it was like. That’s why so few religious traditions have survived the occupation.’

‘And as you’ve seen over the Twinmoon you’ve spent with us, war, death, violence, closed-mindedness, hatred and an assortment of other nasty behaviours have permeated our culture and been allowed to flourish here,’ Garec continued on, ‘and I’m a microcosm of that reality. I’m a skilled killer; it’s one of my greatest strengths – and it is the one thing about myself that I deplore, more than anything else.’

‘So why continue to do it?’ Steven tried to work his friend into a corner.

‘Because I must. I am a member of the Resistance – by choice – and however hideous, it’s a necessity.’ He upended the beer bottle and drank deeply. ‘I just hope the right leadership will emerge to help us all heal when this business is through.’

‘I hope so, too,’ Mark added, trying not to sound condescending.

‘I know it must happen all the time, but it seems strange that a world so diverse as Eldarn would have gone so long without a faith – or faiths – impacting and shaping your culture.’ The lack of religious beliefs and values still left Steven a little incredulous.

‘When you don’t know what you’re missing, I suppose you don’t miss anything,’ Brynne said.

Mark’s eyes grew wide and he stood suddenly, spilling his beer in a foamy puddle. ‘Say that again.’

‘What part?’ Brynne asked.

‘What you just said to Steven.’

She thought for a moment. ‘When you don’t know what you’re missing, you don’t miss anything?’

‘Sonofabitch.’ Mark turned to look out the window.

‘I don’t suppose that word translates into Ronan,’ Garec grinned. Mark ignored him. ‘Nerak. That’s it.’

‘What’s it?’ Steven stood as well.

‘It is not what Nerak knows that is his weakness; it is what he doesn’t know.’

Brynne took him by the arm. ‘What doesn’t Nerak know?’

Mark pointed towards the hickory staff leaning against the far wall of the shack they had been calling home. ‘He doesn’t know what’s in there, for a start.’

On the morning of their fifth day in the shanty, Garec and Steven journeyed into town together. By now they had determined that Prince Malagon was indeed holed up in the old Falkan palace, although Steven had not yet summoned the courage to move far enough into the city to actually see the grounds. Somehow he knew Nerak would recognise him if he got within ten yards of the estate.

This morning, he and Garec were determined to get a better look at the Prince Marek. They didn’t want to draw any attention to themselves, so they left their weapons in the shanty. Garbed in dark woollen cloaks, they looked like brothers striding together along the waterfront, heads down, deep in conversation.

Crossing the wide inlet via the stone bridge separating the northern and southern districts, Steven inhaled the ubiquitous aromas: woodsmoke, sewage, the harbour and the ocean. A fierce wind assailed them off the water. To their right, the river wound its circuitous path back through Orindale and south to the forests, Meyers’ Vale and the Blackstone Mountains. To their left, it widened as the river coursed through the final leg of its interminable journey to the Ravenian Sea.

Steven remembered dreaming about this place, this very spot, and he turned his face towards the sun to bask for just a moment in the success of having made it this far.

Garec looked at him quizzically and asked, ‘Anything wrong?’

Steven reached over and removed Garec’s saddlebag from where it rested on his friend’s shoulder. He unfastened the clasp and allowed the soft leather flap to fall open across his forearm, displaying the rudimentary map of the peaks they had made at the top of the first pass they had traversed. Running his thumb over the drawing scratched into the leather, he said, ‘We’ve come a long way, Garec.’

The bowman pointed to a narrow groove running northwest across the cowhide atlas. ‘That’s the valley, the headwaters of this river.’

‘We made it this far.’

Thinking of Versen, Gilmour, Sallax and others, Garec added grimly, ‘Some of us did, anyway.’

Steven put a hand on Garec’s forearm. ‘Making it this far means we have a chance to set things right, to avenge our friends, maybe even to bring an end to Eldarn’s nightmares. Mark’s pretty convinced that Malagon will find the staff’s magic a surprisingly adequate foe. I may not be as confident, but I’ll do my damnedest. I have to. Getting Lessek’s Key to Kantu is our only hope.’

‘Let’s hope that boat Mark’s rigging will get us across then.’