Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

Steven felt his stomach roil. ‘Yes. Tonight.’

The two men returned south through the waterfront. Steven was hungry, anticipating a hearty last meal before setting out to board the great black ship. The trip seemed to take longer than it had coming into the city and by the time the two friends crossed the stone bridge over the inlet, the deep reddish-orange sun was setting across the Ravenian Sea. Above, dark clouds massed, heralding a coming storm. Garec and Steven pulled their hoods around their heads and held the folds tightly.

The normally bustling wharf was nearly abandoned and Steven mentally ticked off the final six warehouses as he and Garec passed them en route to a warm fire and a thick jemma steak.

Huddled in the shadows between the southernmost warehouses, the dark figure readied the walnut longbow, then withdrew a long black arrow and nocked it carefully. Chilled to the bone from his vigil, the archer breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling a forgotten crate of rotting fish. Rats scratched and clawed hungrily at the wooden slats lining the crate and he kicked them aside with the toe of his boot as he inched his way forward towards the warped plank walkway. His prey was approaching slowly; the bowman felt his heart thud in anticipation. Risking a glance around the corner, the hunter cursed in a hoarse whisper and retreated quickly into the shadows. The two men walking towards him had enveloped themselves within the folds of their cloaks and with the hoods drawn up, there was no way the archer could tell one from the other. Pulling his own hood back slightly, he glanced around the corner once again. They were much closer this time. Think! he commanded himself. I’ll never get off a second shot; the customs men will be mustered and out here in a whore’s breath.

Grimacing, he spat another curse at the rats beside his feet and then, watching as they scurried away, his mouth curled into a sly, tight-lipped grin.

Steven tallied warehouse number three before pulling his cloak tighter about him. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain tonight.’

‘I don’t think it will, but it’s going to be cold.’ Garec shrugged his own cloak closer. ‘We’ll need to stay dry if we hope to-’

A dull thud emanated from the insignificant space between the two men and Steven stopped, thinking Garec had accidentally dropped his saddlebag. In a heartbeat he knew what the sound had been. Garec was on his knees, an arrow protruding from his ribcage.

‘Garec! Oh Christ, Garec-!’ Steven dropped beside his friend, who exhaled a great sigh and fell over onto his side.

‘Steven, bloody demonpiss, Steven, I’m shot! Someone shot me!’ His voice trailed off as he struggled to draw breath. With each raspy inhalation, Garec emitted a thin wail of pain. ‘It hurts, Steven-’

‘I know. I know.’ For a moment Steven had no idea what to do. ‘Try to relax. I’ll get some help.’ He stood up and roared out, ‘Who did it? Where are they?’ He felt as though he had been sprinting. Strangely, he thought he could sense the staff’s magic swirling through his body, encouraging him to find Garec’s assailant and rip the man’s arm off. ‘Who did this?’ Steven cried again, throwing his head back and allowing his hood to fall across his shoulders.

His shouts brought help as people came quickly to offer assistance, a small group of Malakasian soldiers included. Once he could see the injured man was being looked after, a portly Malakasian soldier, a sergeant, Steven guessed from the uniform, demanded Steven tell him what he had seen.

‘What?’ Steven replied brusquely, then more calmly, added, ‘Nothing – no one. The shot came from over there.’ He gestured between the last two warehouses on the wharf. ‘But you won’t find anyone.’

‘How do you know?’ the sergeant asked.

The question gave Steven a moment’s pause. Somehow he was certain their attacker had fled south through the forest behind the shanty village. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see the man, tall, wearing a dark robe and carrying a longbow, sprinting through a tangle of brambles. But there was a problem with the image. It was more than the forest or the warehouses. His mind’s eye filled in the missing spaces: dark areas where he assumed shadows fell between trees or at the base of the great warehouse. Steven saw things, bright things, he finally recognised as neon illuminated signs, COLD BEER. That was across Tenth Street in the front window of Abe’s Liquor Store, and OIL CHANGE $ 26.99, the ten-minute oil place on the corner. The yellow, green and orange letters were a shock of colour against the fading hues of the Orindale forest at twilight and Steven watched as the tall man who had just shot Garec fled between the trees. The neon blinked another time or two then faded.

Steven shook his head to clear the images and looked back at the soldier. ‘I’m sorry, sergeant, I don’t know what I was thinking – of course I can’t be sure. He was tall, I think, and cloaked, of course. Not much help, I guess.’

The soldiers hustled off to search for the attacker and Steven walked slowly back to where Garec lay, a bundle of black robes in a growing pool of black blood.

‘Excuse me,’ he said calmly to the crowd gathered about. ‘We live quite close by and our brother knows something of medicine. Please, excuse me, I need to get him home.’ Steven knelt beside his friend. Garec’s eyes had glazed over and his breathing was shallow and wet. It sounded to Steven as if his lung was filling with fluid and had most likely collapsed. There wasn’t much time.

‘I had this coming, Steven,’ Garec managed in a strangled whisper.

‘Bullshit, Garec.’ Steven tried hard to sound assuring. The English obscenity sounded harsh.

Garec laughed weakly, then winced. ‘Bullshit – turkey – what a strange-’ His head rolled lazily to one side.

As soon as he touched the injured man, Steven knew the staff’s magic was alive inside him, even at this distance. With the strength of twenty, Steven lifted Garec as easily as he might have carried a bag of flour. The magic crackled sharply along his muscles and danced about across his back. Running one hand over the Ronan’s chest, he read his friend’s condition: he was right, one lung punctured and collapsed, heart rate weak and slowing, breathing shallow and difficult. If he were to save his friend’s life, he had to get him back to their shack immediately. Calling out thanks, Steven ran as carefully as he could down the wharf, then leaped from the plank walkway into the sand and along the beach towards the fishermen’s village.

‘Curse, that wretched, rutting horsecock!’ Jacrys cried as he ran through the coastal forest. ‘They traded boots! Why in the name of all things would they trade boots?’ Even at this distance, he knew he was at risk if Steven chose to unleash his magic. He could not turn back. Lessek’s Key had been in his grasp and he missed the opportunity to retrieve it. His most powerful bargaining chip, the one thing that would save his life – and he had lost it because two fools had traded boots. ‘Aaargh!’ he screamed in a wild rage before disappearing south towards the Malakasian army pickets.

*

Garec was nearly dead by the time they reached the shanty. Brynne and Mark had been working on the sailboat, packing supplies, an extra sheet, ropes and several balls of sturdy twine beneath its gunwales when Steven sprinted into view. ‘Come quickly, Garec’s been shot!’ Steven cried.

They jumped into the frigid shallows and hurried up the beach, calling questions as they ran.

‘Great northern gods, this is bad,’ Brynne said as she gingerly opened Garec’s cloak.

Tears welled up in Mark’s eyes. ‘Who the hell did this? Who in God’s good name even knows we’re here?’