Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

For an instant, Nerak’s pursuit of Steven came as such a shock that Gilmour nearly stepped into the portal himself, but rational thought intervened. Even that brief span of time before Nerak followed him gave Steven ample opportunity to close the portal at his home in Idaho Springs. Nerak would be elsewhere, cast somewhere at the whim of the portal, maybe whole worlds away from 147 Tenth Street in Idaho Springs.

As Gilmour smiled to himself, the Prince Marek came apart beneath him. The remaining masts cracked and collapsed, smashing through the upper decks. The forecastle snapped off; thick beams burst asunder and heavy planks warped and splintered, a barrage of cracks that reminded the old sorcerer of rifle-fire at Gettysburg. The dark waters of the Ravenian Sea started to rush into what was left of the Prince Marek ’s hull and the great ship began to list heavily.

Taking a final look around the wreckage, Gilmour breathed, ‘Good luck, Steven Taylor.’ Moving with a speed and grace that belied the old fisherman’s age he crossed the deck and collected the tapestry then dived for Steven’s hickory staff, which was rolling dangerously close to the broken edge. Finally he removed his cloak and wrapped the tapestry and the leatherbound book of Lessek’s spells in its protective folds.

Gilmour took one swift look around what was left of Nerak’s cabin and hustled up the now steeply sloping deck until he was perched on an uneven ledge. The former Larion Senator held fast to the cloak-wrapped bundle and the hickory staff and leaped into the chilly water below.

Charleston International Airport

David Mantegna ran an index finger up the smooth leather of the holster. It still felt strange – he and his partner, Sandra Echols, had been wearing their 9mm sidearms for just a week and were still getting used to the idea of carrying guns in the airport. In the wake of the ongoing threats to commercial airliners, the Charleston City Police now had officers stationed at the security gates to provide support for those airport staff operating the detectors and checking for weapons or incendiary devices stashed in passengers’ carry-on baggage.

Funding cuts meant no extra police officers, so the airport’s security detail had been put through exhaustive – and embarrassing – background checks, followed by eight weeks of surprise urine tests, then two months’ intensive training at the State Police Academy. Thanks to a creatively inexpensive political manoeuvre on the part of the Charleston City Council and the Mayor’s Office, he and Sandra were now licensed deputies of the city police force, and could be called upon as law enforcement officers in crimes ranging from breaching airport security, to drug trafficking, to terrorism.

Of course, they still had to do their fair share of gate security, checking bags, examining X-rays and basically ensuring nothing threatened the passengers and planes scheduled through Concourse B, gates 1 through 5. Thousands of bags passed through the X-ray machine every day and Mantegna was desperately hoping the city economy would improve enough so he could complete his studies and join the force as a fully fledged city officer.

‘I’m bored,’ he sighed, reviewing the black-and-white image of an elderly woman’s cosmetics case. Sandra smiled at him briefly. He liked her smile. She had one tooth that lay just slightly over another, giving her a bright but crooked grin that he found endearing. He teased her mercilessly about her uniform. Sandra’s blues had been well tailored and fitted her contours closely: she was fit and athletic, and obviously aware of her body and how attractive she looked in the wide leather belt and Kevlar vest. He openly ogled the curves of her lithe form as he remarked that she should stop showing up for work in her younger sister’s clothing. Sandra could give as good as she got, judging by the off-colour comments about the calibre of Mantegna’s weapon. ‘Only nine millimetres, David?’ she’d respond. ‘That’ll simply never do!’

‘I said, I’m bored,’ Mantegna repeated. There were only two flights scheduled out in the next hour and most passengers had already come through the security checkpoint.

‘Well, stop whining and go help that woman,’ his partner suggested. ‘Might as well earn your pay today.’

He looked beyond the upright rectangle of the metal detector to the near-empty terminal. A young woman was approaching, pushing a baby stroller and carrying the sort of bag common among new mothers. This one was lime-green, adorned with small pictures of Peter Rabbit, and jammed full of baby kit: bottles, plastic toys, clothes, Pampers, and a dog-eared novel. It started to slip off her shoulder as she reached in to remove the sleeping infant.

Hoping a show of gallantry might impress his partner, David Mantegna hurried to assist the young mother. ‘Let me help you, ma’am,’ he said, picking up a couple of toys that had fallen from the bag.

‘Oh, please don’t call me “ma’am”. I can’t possibly be a “ma’am”, I’m only twenty-seven,’ she laughed before adding, ‘but thanks, I could do with a hand.’ He pushed the stroller through his security checkpoint, then looked into the empty storage area under the seat and felt the cushions for any hidden items. As he’d anticipated, he found nothing.

While the Peter Rabbit bag rolled through the X-ray machine, Mantegna saw what he expected to see: bottles, clothes, toys and a book. He returned the stroller and watched as the young woman walked down the concourse towards her gate, B4, and the morning flight to Washington, DC.

An alarm went off in Mantegna’s head as he turned to see a young man walk through the metal detector. He seemed nervous and uncomfortable, and his clothes were badly wrinkled, as though he had slept in them – or worse, showered in them. He had several days’ beard growth and carried no bags, just a ticket. Mantegna squared his shoulders and unconsciously patted his 9mm pistol. This was it. This was what all the training was about. He hustled back towards the security station, expecting the metal detector to sound any minute, but nothing happened. The dishevelled passenger simply walked through and hurried down the concourse towards Gate B4. Mantegna let his shoulders relax, almost disappointed. Just a bum with money then.

‘Did you catch a whiff of him?’ Sandra asked as she absentmindedly adjusted a focus knob on the X-ray machine.

‘No, I try to avoid smelling the passengers as they come through,’ he joked and was rewarded with a short laugh and a flash of her sexy crooked tooth.

Steven Taylor boarded Express Airlines Flight 182 to Washing-ton, DC at 10.25 a.m. He had a connection to Denver International Airport scheduled to depart Reagan National at 1.20 p.m. He’d gain two hours on the flight west and be in Idaho Springs by early evening. His ticket had been expensive – $1200 – because he was flying at the last minute, and he silently thanked God he had remembered to pay his Visa bill that night outside Owen’s Pub, so long ago. And at least he still had his wallet, even if it had been soaked and dried out so many times since his arrival in Eldarn that he had been forced to covertly resign the signature block on the back. With his Colorado driver’s licence in hand, he purchased the ticket, checked in and waited for the gate attendant to call his row number for boarding.

Thanks to the careless behaviour of Arthur Mikelson, a banker from Charleston currently suffering from a nasty hangover – and probably sunburn by now – Steven was dressed in an unprepossessing pair of sweatpants and a decade-old T-shirt from Gold’s Gym in Hilton Head. He had also had a ride to the airport courtesy of Arthur’s very comfortable Lexus sedan. Mikelson’s gym bag had a pair of Nike trainers inside, near enough Steven’s size, but he had turned them down in favour of Garec’s boots, which he was still wearing. Steven had every intention of returning them.