Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

The handsome merchant who had visited Greentree Tavern rode slowly into camp. ‘I need to see Lieutenant Bronfio immediately,’ he told the sentry.

‘And who are you then, my pretty?’

With blinding speed, the merchant reached out, grabbed the sentry’s left ear and began turning it violently, as if to tear it from the side of the guard’s head. Blood spurted from the wound and ran between the merchant’s fingers to the ground. The sentry, shocked by the merchant’s unexpected attack, found it impossible to move, or even speak. Slowly the merchant leaned over in his saddle and spoke calmly to his writhing victim. ‘I need to see Lieutenant Bronfio now – my pretty. Move it, or I’ll gut you like a freshly killed pig.’

Inside Bronfio’s field tent, the merchant berated the lieutenant. ‘You need to maintain better discipline among these men. I want that sentry punished. These people are on the verge of attacking our outposts. We cannot put down insurrection with behaviour like that.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the lieutenant answered, ‘I’ll see to it right away, sir.’ Then, frowning, he asked, ‘Did you discover anything at the tavern, sir?’

‘Yes, I did,’ the merchant answered. ‘I can confirm that the partisan group is using the abandoned palace as a meeting place and storage facility for their weapons and stolen funds. Thanks to your work this morning, they believe we are searching for three escaped raiders.’ He looked out between the tent flaps to where the captured criminals had been hanging since early that morning. ‘They will not suspect an attack as long as they believe we are otherwise occupied.’

He paused a moment, then continued, ‘Lieutenant, we will attack at sunrise of the Twinmoon. Send a runner to Lieutenant Riskett. Have his men join you here. I’ll be back the evening before, or I will contact you in the village with my orders.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Bronfio hesitated before asking, ‘Did you discover any news of the whereabouts of Gilmour, sir?’

‘That is none of your concern, Lieutenant,’ the merchant answered icily. ‘I will deal with Gilmour in my own good time. You are a promising young officer. Don’t ruin your career worrying about things that have nothing to do with you.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that there are rumours floating about that Prince Malagon is using… well, “other” means to locate Gilmour, sir,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘I don’t care for one instant what that rutting dog bastard is doing,’ the merchant said, his voice quiet but undeniably menacing. ‘ I will find Gilmour; I will kill Gilmour, and I will eat his heart from a hickory trencher at Malagon’s breakfast table. Do I make myself quite clear, Lieutenant?’

Bronfio hastily replied, ‘Yes, sir, of course. I will contact Lieutenant Riskett and have both platoons ready for your orders by Twinmoon’s Eve, sir.’

The merchant smiled, gave the younger man a friendly pat on the upper arm, and said, ‘Excellent, Lieutenant. The men are in your charge until I return or contact you with additional orders.’ Without waiting for a response, he left the officer’s tent, ignoring the stares of the Malakasian soldiers gathering outside, and rode back towards Estrad.

Malakasian master spy Jacrys Marseth adjusted the cuffs of his silk shirt as he rode back into the village. He had made a mistake referring to the prince in such profane terms with an entire platoon of soldiers listening outside the tent. He knew of many instances in which similar behaviour had been punished by hanging, or much worse… the prince did not take criticism from anyone. He would need to rid himself of this platoon fairly soon. He didn’t know how many would survive the coming attack on Riverend Palace, but those who did would never make it back to Malakasia. To start with, he would return to the camp this evening and slit the throat of the sentry who had spoken so sarcastically to him. Perhaps that would teach his comrades to see the value in holding their tongues and following orders.

Jacrys enjoyed his time in the field: it was time away from Malagon, and that meant time to enjoy being alive. Those who remained close to the prince risked death far more frequently than he did searching Praga and the Eastlands for rebels like Gilmour and Kantu.

Jacrys Marseth was the best espionage specialist Malakasia had, and he considered it his greatest accomplishment that he had succeeded in remaining away from Welstar Palace for so long. It was safe out here. He was in control. He took lives when he needed to, but otherwise he kept a low profile. Gilmour and Kantu were among the most dangerous men in the world, and he would kill them both. In the interim, however, if Prince Malagon were to pass away, or fall victim to a plot against his life, Jacrys would not mourn him long.

He soon passed Greentree Tavern but continued riding further into Estrad. He hoped to get a closer look at the terrain surrounding the long-abandoned Riverend Palace. He was sure that was where the Ronan resistance had their hideaway, where they stored silver, weapons, perhaps even horses. Any half-wit could memorise Bronfio and Riskett’s patrol schedule along the river: the fact that the Ronan resistance crossed into the forbidden forest to meet, stash weapons and plan their terrorist activities did not surprise Jacrys for a moment.

Continuing his reverie, the spy thought again of Malagon. There was something wrong with the prince, just as there had been something wrong with his father, and apparently – as Jacrys had heard from older members of the Malakasian armed forces – with his grandfather as well. Some virus or disease took them, one generation after another. One day they were young, strong and eager to lead, and the next they were paranoid and homicidal. Locals called it the Malakasian curse: the leaders and heirs of Eldarn had been mysteriously killed off in a matter of days those many Twinmoons ago, and Prince Draven’s Malakasian family had been left to lead, but only and always in madness.

Jacrys feared it was something worse, something profoundly evil.

Young Lieutenant Bronfio was correct as well. Rumours were flying around the Eastlands that Malagon had developed the ability to summon demonic creatures of unimaginable power to aid in his mission to find and kill his enemies. It did not surprise Jacrys; the spy knew that his services were rapidly becoming obsolete. Were he ordered back to Malakasia now, it would be to his death. He grinned slyly to himself: perhaps, for self-preservation, he would make his way west and kill Malagon himself.

Meyers Antiques had a floor plan that looked like a Biedermeier salon after a thorough cannonade. A seemingly random collection was strewn about the large front room in a way that would make even the most liberal decorator uneasy. Walnut, oak and mahogany furniture was piled together against one wall while bookcases, china closets and credenzas crowded another. Across the centre were lone chairs and tables, orphans from broken sets. Included in this mix were tables, chairs, sofas and recliners, paired according to Meyers’ best guess at what would work together in a customer’s living room or kitchen, stepchildren organised by matching wood or colours. Among these were several juxtapositions that caught Steven Taylor’s eye: a juke-box from the 1940s with a large cigarette ad pasted across the front panel was draped with cables from three gas lamps that would have provided just enough dim light for Jack the Ripper to gut an unsuspecting East End prostitute. Also odd was the uniform from a Union Army lieutenant adorning a headless mannequin. Across one shoulder the soldier wore his sheathed sabre; across the other he carried four brightly coloured Hula Hoops, artefacts from the future he had fought so bravely to preserve.