The Hickory Staff

GREENTREE TAVERN AND BOARDING HOUSE

Garec Haile rode hard through the village towards Greentree Tavern. He had taken a few moments near Danae’s Eddy to clean the claw wounds on Renna’s hindquarter, but the injury needed stitches. Garec thought Sallax had some herbal concoction to help the mare sleep while Brynne stitched her up; for now, the bleeding had slowed enough for Renna to carry him back to Estrad. He hurried to spread the word that there were grettans in the southern forest. Careening into Greentree Square, Garec suddenly reined Renna to a slow walk, a spray of mud about her feet marking the abrupt change in tempo. There were nearly a dozen Malakasian soldiers tethering their mounts to a hitching post in front of the tavern, their black and gold uniforms unmistakable. Some remained outside, encouraging interested passers-by to continue on with their business, while others entered the tavern through the front and rear doors. The platoon would have been no match for an organised group of Estrad villagers, but the Eastlands and Praga had been under Malakasian occupation for so long – several generations now – that few would even think of spontaneously taking up arms against Prince Malagon’s forces.

Fighting his fear, Garec rode to the mercantile exchange across the square from the tavern owned by Sallax and Brynne Farro and hitched Renna there, not wanting to lose her to the Malakasians should trouble arise. Lashing his bow and hunting knife to his saddle, he limped across the common and attempted to enter the building. ‘Hold there, son,’ a burly sergeant called, ‘we won’t be long.’ The soldier was an older man; he looked like he’d been hardened by many Twinmoons’ service in Malagon’s army. He stood a full head taller than the other soldiers and corded muscle bulged in unlikely places.

‘I’m unarmed,’ he replied. ‘I have friends inside.’

‘I said hold here, boy,’ the sergeant directed. ‘If your friends are smart, they’ll have no trouble this morning.’ Garec watched as one of the soldiers moved to block the front entrance. These men were more heavily armed than the Malakasian patrols that regularly crisscrossed town and covered the north bank of the river. Something was wrong.

‘You don’t look like normal patrolmen,’ he ventured, ‘is something wrong?’

‘Mind your business, boy,’ the sergeant told him sharply, then softened and admitted, ‘Actually, you’re right. We’re looking for a group of raiders who took a caravan last night along the Merchants’ Highway north of here.’ He fingered a short dagger in his belt. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, boy?’

‘Uh, no sir,’ Garec began, ‘I haven’t-’ He was cut short by the sounds of a struggle erupting inside the tavern and started to move towards the door, but before he could enter, he was seized roughly by the guard posted near the entrance and felt a strong blow to his head. Stunned, his vision blurring and his head swimming, Garec fell backwards and managed to sit heavily on the wooden stoop.

‘Now, you’re lucky, boy,’ the sergeant told him calmly. ‘I could have you killed for that, but you caught me in a good mood today. You stay smart and stay put, because you come at one of my men again and I’ll run you through, armed or not.’ Garec did not believe he could stand if he wanted to, never mind fight. Through the ringing in his head, he listened for sounds from the tavern but heard nothing. Soon thereafter, the remaining Malakasian soldiers emerged, mounted their horses and prepared to ride away. Among them was a young lieutenant who gave several sharp orders, then scowled at Garec before waving his platoon northwards out of town.

Garec tried to shake off the queasy feeling and struggled to his feet.

‘Have a good morning, young man,’ the old sergeant said and cuffed him once, hard, before riding away.

The scene in the tavern was not as bad as Garec had feared; he remembered much worse from any number of Twinmoon celebrations. One well-dressed patron he recognised, Jerond Ohera, lay unconscious near the front windows; others helped to right tables that had been overturned during the search. Sallax and Brynne Farro were behind the bar; thankfully, both appeared unhurt. Versen Bier, a woodsman and Garec’s close friend, was kneeling to help Jerond. Garec knew all the remaining customers except one, a travelling merchant from the look of his boots, silk tunic and brocaded wool cloak.

‘So what was that about?’ Garec asked as he made his way to the bar.

‘Lords, what happened to you?’ Brynne asked, hurrying around to help him to a seat. She took his face in her hands and began cleaning the blood from his temple with her apron.

Sallax answered Garec’s question. ‘They said they were looking for three men, part of a group who raided a caravan along the Merchants’ Highway last night. Apparently three were killed, but three managed to escape.’

Looking up into Brynne’s eyes, Garec could see her concern. He whispered so only she could hear, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t him.’

A tear began forming at the corner of one eye and she quickly wiped it away on her sleeve.

Garec leaned forward to ask Sallax, ‘Why search here? Why this place?’

‘They’re after something else. This stinks. You saw them. They rode right out of town, no other stops, no other questions. I don’t buy it.’

‘And why’d they get after Jerond?’ Garec asked, motioning towards the unconscious man lying nearby.

‘Ah, he’d had a few already this morning,’ Sallax answered, ‘and some left in him from Mika’s Twinmoon celebration night. He ran his mouth off about Malagon’s virility and that rutting lieutenant had at him with the flat of his sword.’

Brynne interrupted, ‘We need Gilmour back here now.’

Garec nodded in agreement, then turned to the woodsman, who had sat down beside him. ‘Verse, you’ll not believe this, but I ran into a pack of grettans in the-’ He caught himself and glanced at the stranger sitting near the fireplace. He lowered his voice and continued, ‘They were in the forest near the river this morning, eight of them.’

‘Nonsense, Garec,’ the woodsman replied with an amused chuckle. ‘Were you at the beer last night too? They’ve never been seen south of the Blackstones before, and it was a rutting feat they ever made it that far.’

‘Well, they’re out there now. Take a look at Rennie’s hindquarter if you need proof. We barely made it out with our hides intact.’ Garec shuddered and went on, ‘I killed one with a miracle shot, and one chased us right into the river. Lords’ luck for us they don’t swim well.’

‘Swim?’ Versen teased, ‘you had to swim away? Some Bringer of Death you turned out to be, huh?’

‘What do they look like?’ Brynne asked.

‘Like the unholy marriage of a mountain lion, a horse and a bear,’ Versen replied. ‘And they’re big, bigger than most horses. If they’re really about, we’ll have to let people know to be careful of their livestock, get them in at night and all.’

The well-dressed merchant stood and walked towards the bar. He was handsome, somewhat older than the small group of friends, and Brynne tried to avoid staring at him as he approached. Placing a few coins in front of Sallax, he commented, ‘I saw a group of them eat a farm wagon in Falkan once. They were so hungry – or so angry – I think they had it half-finished before they realised it wasn’t edible.’

He paused, then added to Brynne, ‘Sorry about the mess here this morning. Thanks again for that breakfast. I loved the local beer as well, my dear. Good day all.’ Brynne blushed and stole another glance at the good-looking stranger.

‘Do come again. We’ll try to provide a touch less violence next time,’ she said as he walked towards the front door. Before exiting he righted an overturned chair, gave a last smile to Brynne, then left without looking back.

‘Who’s he?’ Garec asked, watching through the window as he crossed Greentree Square.

‘I don’t know,’ Sallax answered, ‘he came in late last night. We stabled his horse out back. Big saddlebags. He must be peddling something in the city.’

Few travelling merchants came through Estrad any more. Prince Marek had closed the port and the southern forest five generations earlier and Estrad’s shipping activity had trickled away, unlike the other port towns around Rona. The rumour was that the prince had closed ports in Praga and the Eastlands because his navy was not extensive enough to patrol all the shipping lanes around the southeast peninsula – although some believed Marek just wanted to put a stranglehold on Rona because King Remond had chosen the southern nation as his home and established Estrad Village as the seat of the Eldarni monarchy. Marek’s Malakasian homeland lay far to the north and west, and shutting down Ronan trade helped shift loyalty to the new Eldarni capital in Pellia.

Today Malakasia was the only nation with a navy; even so, Estrad’s port had never been reopened. The lack of seagoing commerce had become a way of life.

Holding a compress to his swollen temple, Garec thought of the occupation army; he had a sense of foreboding. Something terrible was coming, and his anxiety grew as he pictured Gilmour out along the Merchants’ Highway. He was the one who had convinced them to build a partisan force, to start raiding caravans and amassing arms: to fight for control of their homeland. He was the one with the knowledge of Malakasian politics and Malagon’s armies. He was also the one who would know why the Greentree Tavern had been singled out this morning by a heavily armed platoon of Malakasian soldiers.

Garec looked out the window across Greentree Square: Renna was still tethered safely to the post in front of the mercantile exchange. With a quiet word of goodbye he rose to retrieve her. As he left the tavern, he felt a cool breeze blowing in from the coast. The southern Twinmoon was coming, and with it, strong winds and high tides.

Without thinking, he pulled his vest tight and felt a sudden sharp pain in his ribs. He had told Brynne he was certain Gilmour was not among the highwaymen killed last night. As he stepped out to cross the square, Garec hoped that was true.

North of the village, the Malakasian platoon made camp in a glade near the river. Their horses rested, cropping the grass, while the smell of hickory smoke and frying meat wafted through the camp. Oddly juxtaposed with the idyllic setting were the rigid and broken forms of six dead men, three in the bed of an open wagon, arrows protruding from their bodies, three others hanging from the limbs of a large oak tree on the edge of the glade, their necks neatly broken. The hanging bodies were motionless save for the gentle rocking of the great tree by the wind from the south.

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.