Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

Now she could hear voices, crying out in warning, or shouting orders. She was right on top of them. An arm reached out – too late. She slashed with her hunting knife, slicing the man’s arm across the wrist in her trademark half moon. A muffled cry echoed out of the small rectangular opening as she slammed the hatch closed and set its bolt.

She sprang to her feet and assessed the main deck as the men below pounded on the locked hatch. She could see six more open, and she was pretty sure there’d be others further forward. There was no hope. She’d never get to all of them in time.

‘But I might get to some. I might delay them for a moment or two,’ she cried and sprinted towards the next hatch, trying not to think that this might be the last thing she would ever do.

Mark was so startled by the prolonged rumble of distant thunder that he nearly fell overboard. He nocked his arrow again and braced himself against the transom. It would be a pretty one-sided fight, but he would make a memorable stand.

A cacophonous roar bellowed out from the city. ‘That has to be Nerak,’ he groaned. ‘Okay, I’ll stand my post. I am not leaving without them,’ he said aloud, as if to convince himself.

Brynne got four more hatches closed before the first sailors emerged from below, spilling out of the narrow opening like a roiling mass of insects. She was greatly outnumbered, but they hadn’t spotted her yet: if she took up a defensive position outside Malagon’s cabin she’d have a better chance. And if they hadn’t seen her, they might not come all at once; for all they knew, the Prince Marek was being attacked by a large force of Falkans, not just one woman with a few knives. She waited for them to come.

As she reached her chosen position she was about to huddle down, to hide for as long as possible, when she spotted the lone sailor above on the quarterdeck, armed with a bow: the sentry. How had they missed him? Where had he been – and how had had he managed to get behind her? He was working his way towards the stern rail; she guessed he had no idea they were on board. He probably thought the muffled explosion was enemies trying to break through the stern bulkhead. She had surprise on her side, but he had a bow. Then she remembered Mark.

Ignoring the potential threat behind her, Brynne hurried back to the quarterdeck: get to the guard before he fires at Mark. She did not muffle her steps, nor disguise her approach. Her lips were pressed together in a grim half-smile, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her hair was tucked beneath the collar of her tunic. She held a knife loosely in each hand and rolled her fingers along the hilts, as if searching for the perfect grip. She watched as the sailor reached the stern rail, saw the look of surprise as he saw the skiff tied to the stern line, and inhaled sharply as he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and took aim.

Brynne, unconcerned for her own wellbeing, cried out to the Malakasian bowman, but he didn’t appear to hear. He was focused on his target. He drew the bowstring taut and sighted along the shaft.

Mark saw the Malakasian appear above the stern rail: he’d been spotted. For an instant his thoughts flashed to Brynne. Was she hurt? Had this man killed her? He felt anger burgeon inside himself and suddenly he wanted very badly to deal with this man, this enemy, one-on-one. He drew an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, took aim and fired.

A startled look of surprise passed across the Malakasian’s face as Mark’s arrow flew wide over his shoulder and into the night. Mark drew again. This time he closed one eye, placed the arrowhead in the centre of the man’s chest and fired. The arrow leaped from Garec’s bow, sped towards the sentry and embedded itself in the wood of the stern rail.

‘Come on!’ Mark shouted up in English, ‘take your best shot. Go ahead and kill me, you chickenshit asshole!’

Too angry to feel afraid, he drew another shaft as the sailor nocked his own arrow and prepared to fire. Mark turned his attention skywards for his final attempt.

The sentry peered down at him along the thin black arrow as Mark, crying out, loosed his third shot and watched his arrow sail up and out of sight. It missed the man by a good fifteen feet.

‘Here it comes,’ Mark whispered, and braced himself. He started shuddering as he imagined the burning sensation of the thin obsidian arrowhead ripping through his muscles and maybe piercing a bone. For a fraction of a second he thought of Garec lying immobile and glassy-eyed on the ground in front of the fisherman’s shanty.

The Malakasian drew a breath, held it and fired.

Mark didn’t see the arrow rocketing towards, him nor did he see Brynne as she reached the man an instant later. A dull wooden thud resounded as the Malakasian arrow sank deep into the bench not six inches away.

‘He missed,’ Mark cried in disbelief. ‘You missed, you blind bastard!’ He started laughing maniacally in relief until a splash of cold water snapped him out of it. ‘What the hell?’ He stared into the dark water. His first thought was that the man had leaped over the side to engage him in close combat. Brynne had his axe; now he searched fruitlessly for a weapon until his hand fell on the arrow embedded in the seat beside him. He tugged it free and brandished it menacingly above his head.

The corpse bobbed to the surface; the dead man’s face bore a look of surprise. Almost placidly the body rolled over and sank beneath the waves.

Mark looked up at the stern rail. Brynne looked down at him, brandishing her bloodstained hunting knife.

‘I love you,’ he called out in English.

‘Speak Common, vile foreigner,’ she teased and disappeared.

The old sorcerer met her halfway back to the starboard stairs. ‘Watch your back,’ she whispered, ‘half the crew is coming out of a forward hatch.’ She moved past him, knives at the ready, preparing to leap into the fray.

‘I know,’ he said, grabbing her arm. ‘I met them as I came out of the main cabin.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘They are… resting.’ He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. ‘I’m afraid they’ll all have terrible headaches in the morning. At least they’ll be alive, though.’

‘You’ll give us revolutionaries a bad name,’ she teased as she climbed back to the deck.

‘Nonsense, my dear. I did not come here to kill sailors.’

‘That loud rumble?’

‘The old royal residence is probably going to need a few new windows.’ He looked towards the flickering lights that marked the docks and the city beyond. ‘Nerak knows we’re here.’

She couldn’t repress the look of fear that passed over her face, but she braced herself and banished the feeling of terror. ‘All right then. Bring him on.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said as he checked the knot holding the stern line in place, ‘but your part is done.’ He gestured her over the side.

‘No, I’m staying.’

‘My dear child, you have no weapons to fight him. He is dead already. And I need not to be worried about you.’ He looked back at the dock and, a little impatiently, ordered her, ‘Quickly now, over you go.’

Brynne knew when she was beaten. She sheathed her knives, wrapped her arms tightly about the old man’s neck and whispered, ‘Please be safe. I don’t want to have to go through the rites again.’

He hugged her, and said comfortingly, ‘I have spent half my life preparing for this. I’ll be fine. But please, Brynne, you must go now.’

Brynne nodded, and slipped over the rail.

Steven ignited a small fireball to bring some light to the dark prince’s private chambers, but as its soft glow banished the shadows, it also banished the opulence: the lush decor, the rich tapestries, the brocaded silks and velvets were all an illusion. When the hickory staff had breached Nerak’s magical defences, it had also shattered that spell. The thunderous eruption from across the harbour confirmed that Nerak was coming – how long did he have? A minute? Two? Twenty? Steven tried not to think about it and instead set his mind to finding the far portal.