Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "Put Whistler away before you cut yourself,” Shudonn chided without glancing up from his sheaf of parchment. Soldiers affectionately dubbed a favorite sword with a fitting name much like a preferred riding horse.

  Garrich unhappily returned the sword to its sheath and shoved the secured weapon back on the uppermost rack. He slumped into his chair and moaned, “Father, why train me in the fighting arts when you won't allow me to be a soldier? I fail to see the point of mastering such skills and not putting them to proper use."

  "You'll one day find a use for your swordsmanship, my boy. But not in military service to the principality."

  "Maybe as a mercenary then,” quipped Garrich.

  Shudonn lifted his stern countenance. “Swords for hire are a detestable lot who bring disrepute to legitimate soldiery. Have you learned nothing from me?"

  Suitably abashed, Garrich studied the wood grain patterning the tabletop.

  Setting down his quill, Tylar clasped his hands before him in repose. “Every person, I believe, is given a particular destiny to fulfill. Mine was soldiering. Yours Garrich is, I suspect, something entirely different. I have been preparing you to face whatever future lies in store for you educated with the necessary life skills, such as reading and writing. Swordplay is merely a useful addition to those, and not a substitute for using your noggin."

  Garrich raised his eyes, a questing looking haunting his face. He silently mouthed the inquiry Tylar had been dreading since the moment the boy learnt to talk: Who am I?

  The oldster extended his calloused hand to pat the youth's arm reassuringly. “The same boisterous tad I've raised all these years, only a little bigger."

  Garrich found his voice. “Why won't you tell me, father? What are you hiding?"

  Tylar searched his own tumultuous feelings. “It's complicated,” he tried to explain. “There are reasons—Garrich!"

  The adolescent dashed impulsively from the cottage, rejecting Shudonn's call to stop. He stormed through the door out into the blustery night, sprinting headlong across the open ground encircling the cabin and into the inky wood to be swallowed by the depthless shadows. Garrich ran until he felt sure his lungs would burst, stumbling heedlessly through thickets whose branches tore at his clothing and scratched his bare skin. Breathless and disorientated, he fell to the damp ground and wept. How long the youth stayed like that was impossible to tell. When his fit of crying had run its natural course, Garrich sat up and dried his eyes. High overhead the gusting wind cleared the cloudy skies to reveal a dazzlingly starry night. He gazed in wonder at the splendorous heavens, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and his own life. No closer to finding the answers he sought, Garrich wandered through the dark forest, listening to the furtive scampering of the night-time critters. Without consciously willing it, he steered a course for home.

  Garrich froze. Through a break in the trees ringing Falloway Cottage he spied Tylar Shudonn seated in his rocker upon the porch. He was not alone. An orb of bluish light hovered in front of the old soldier and he appeared to be conversing with the unearthly, luminous sphere. The boy left the boles and crept closer to the cabin, moving noiselessly as his aged instructor taught, crouching behind a clump of shrubbery within hearing distance. The wind died down enough so that his father's anguished voice carried clear in the stilling night air.

  "...should tell the boy of his heritage."

  "All in good time,” a sonorous voice replied.

  Edging around the bush, Garrich risked a glance at the unknown speaker and was fittingly astounded. Unable to see the face due to the angle of his position, the boy nonetheless was looking at the back of the disjointed head of an old man.

  "We knew this day would eventually come,” continued Tylar.

  The apparition nodded in agreement. “I had hoped later rather than sooner, but Destiny moves at her own pace."

  "So I can tell Garrich the truth behind his ancestry."

  The eavesdropping boy held his breath.

  "No,” came the reply, “at least not yet. You've kept his roots secret from him thus far. A while longer cannot hurt the lad."

  "When then?"

  "I'll speak with Garrich myself as soon as I arrive at the cottage."

  "You're coming here?” Shudonn sounded incredulous.

  "Within the week. Events are shaping up pretty much as predicted. You're aware the Collective Shield Pact was redrafted into the Western Transgression Alliance."

  Tylar shook his head. “We're off the beaten track out here. News is hard to come by. When did that come to pass?"

  "Fifteen ninety-five at the Bridgewater War Convention."

  Tylar did the math. “Seven years ago,” he muttered in disbelief.

  "Aye. Prince Jannus attended, as did the King of Dwarfs and Merainor."

  "The Elf Queen herself? I've not heard of an Elven monarch journeying beyond the borders of Gwilhaire Wood for any reason."

  "An historic first,” admitted the bobbing phantom head. “Is the boy ready?"

  "What?"

  "The boy, Tylar. Have you readied him for the task that lies ahead?"

  "I've fully prepared Garrich as a warrior, as we agreed. But I hardly think him geared up to become—"

  "You've done well raising the lad, old friend. And I appreciate the effort. Now it's time to entrust his care back to me."

  "He's just a kid, Maldoch!” protested Tylar.

  "I beg to differ. He's a young man to whom you've understandably become attached."

  "I am not ashamed to admit I'm fond of the boy. Heck, Garrich is like a son to me."

  "Every fledgling must leave the nest one day and I need Garrich to fly. Have him packed and ready to journey by the time I arrive."

  "Are things reaching flashpoint?"

  Garrich heard a disconcerting note in his guardian's voice that sounded impossibly like dread, all the more frightening as his father constantly seemed the model of fearlessness.

  "That's what I'm trying to avoid. Signs remain vague, but do point to trouble brewing out west. Ghranu got deposed a few years back and Omelchor's chummy with Maratornuk's new chieftain. My biggest hope is that the race war I've spent my life working to impede can continue to be averted. I'll see you in a few days. Tell the boy nothing until then."

  The disconnected head and ghostly blue aura vanished as one. The familiar squeak of Shudonn's rocking chair punctuated the terse night as the old fighter ruminated over the peculiar visitation. The rhythmic creaking abruptly stopped. “You can show yourself now, Garrich,” Tylar called out.

  The teen stepped sheepishly out from his concealment and approached the cabin. “How did you know I was listening in?"

  "You are stealthy, my boy, but not entirely silent."

  Intensely curious about the apparition, Garrich asked, “Was that some form of sorcery I just saw?"

  "Magic abounds in many places and takes many guises,” Tylar answered cryptically. “How much did you overhear?"

  "Enough to know you're part of some conspiracy,” confessed Garrich, his tone accusatory. “Was that old geezer my grandfather?"

  The youth thought he caught the glimmer of a smile upon Shudonn's face in the starlight. “Hardly. He's more of a benefactor."

  Garrich sat on the porch step. “What have you been grooming me for, Tylar?"

  The familiarity startled Shudonn. Gone instantly was the respect a son held for his father. In a heartbreaking instant Garrich relegated the doting oldster to the hurtful status of foster parent. “It's complex,” was all he managed to say, adding, “Now is not the time to discuss the matter at length."

  "When is it ever the right time?” retorted Garrich, stomping away into the cottage and slamming the heavy door shut behind him. He paused at the window to coolly regard Tylar Shudonn resume his now irritating rocking, wishing his guardian would follow and finally reveal the hidden truth. Every creak of the rocker served only to widen the gulf that abruptly opened between the pair.

  Turning on his
heels, the angered boy tramped into the joint bedroom and slammed that door closed as well. Opening the topmost drawer of the scotch chest, peevishly pushing aside Tylar's cluttered box of shiny campaign medals, he pulled out the lifeline to his baffling past. The tattered pelt retained the musty smell of oldness about it that invariably clung to memorabilia. Garrich tucked the moth-eaten scrap of fur in his shirtfront, finding its silky touch against his skin reassuring as ever. Flopping despondently onto his cot, the troubled teen stared at the beamed ceiling and futilely wished for the past few hours to be erased from his mind. He lay awake for an unbearably long time until sleep finally claimed him.

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  Chapter Two

  Opening his bleary eyes, Shudonn sniffed. A delectable aroma of cooking wafted from the kitchenette, carrying with it mouthwatering images of frying bacon and freshly baked bread. Yawning, he turned over and eyed Garrich's empty and unmade bed.

  "You seem to have been forgiven for the moment,” he mumbled to himself, the clatter of utensils filtering from the kitchen confirming the boy's breakfast-making industriousness.

  Sitting up, Shudonn removed his nightshirt, the boy's prognosis yesterday sorrowfully right. Examining his aching shoulder in the sliver of daylight streaming from the crack in the slightly ajar bedroom door, purplish bruising a hand's span in width marred the blotchy skin blemished with age.

  The door swung fully open and Garrich entered with a laden tray. “Good, you're awake. How's the shoulder?"

  "Stiff,” grumbled Tylar, squinting in the glaring sunlight pouring through the doorway. “What time is it?"

  "Midmorning,” answered the boy, setting the tray down atop the drawers. “I thought you were going to sleep away the day.” Shudonn routinely rose at dawn with unfailing punctuality.

  "I was late getting to bed. Things on my mind."

  Garrich glanced pointedly at Shudonn. “I can sympathize. Sit up straight and I'll rub a fresh dose of ointment on your shoulder."

  "That burns!” yelped the old soldier, scowling as the boy massaged the liniment deeply into the wrinkly skin.

  "The heat means that it's working."

  Tylar grasped the teen's hand in hopefulness. His chore finished, Garrich pulled away and laid the breakfast tray before the old-timer. Looking at the plateful of crispy bacon, partnered by a side dish of warm bread with a spread of clover honey plus a mug of steaming herbal tea, Shudonn felt his appetite slipping away. “Garrich, about last night,” he haltingly began.

  "What is the training schedule for the day?” asked the boy, plainly uninterested in talking about the eventfully bizarre evening.

  "Son, we need to discuss the night's happenings."

  "So you can fob me off again? I'm not a child, Tylar. I can handle the truth."

  Shudonn was about to speak again when Garrich raised a hand to hush his mentor. Sitting on the bed, the perturbed youth said, “I gave the situation a great deal of thought when I turned in last night. Insomnia does that.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “You were told by your visitor not to reveal anything to me, so I'll not have you break your word on my account. I've waited this long to learn of my parentage. A few more days won't make much difference."

  "We will resolve this dilemma—together,” promised the old soldier.

  Garrich looked squarely at his attentive guardian. “It's obvious I'll soon be leaving Falloway Cottage and this forest on some venture I am destined to follow. I'll miss this old shack ... and you. The one thing I keep coming back to is the fact that you are the only family, the only father figure I have ever known. That won't ever change, papa."

  Overcome with affection, no words were needed to express the bond the misty-eyed veteran shared with the youngster, a renewal of adoptive kinship stronger than any blood tie. Shudonn cleared his throat as his military bearing reasserted itself. Dissuaded from showing emotion upon the parade ground, old soldiering habits were hard to break.

  "You'll practice with the axe today,” he decided before tucking into his cooked breakfast.

  Sipping his hot beverage as the boy left the room, Shudonn heard the telltale clack of weapons eagerly being removed from their rack. Garrich returned with a weighted throwing axe in one hand, while in the other grasped a long-hafted weapon topped with a crescent-bladed head from which sprouted a wicked downwards-curving hook.

  "The francisca or lochaber?” he asked Tylar.

  "Neither. Your workout shall be with the wood-axe."

  Garrich groaned.

  "Spare me your excuses, boy. My bones are telling me that we're in for an early winter this year and the woodpile out back is looking decidedly meager."

  Garrich shot the oldster a look of resignation and tramped from the bedroom. Shudonn chuckled and wolfed down a scrumptious slice of honeyed bread. Things had gladly returned to normal.

  Finished his morning meal, Shudonn dressed and entered the living room to find Garrich stuffing a cut lunch and waterskin into a knapsack. “Better pack the whet-stone too,” he advised. “The wood-axe is due for a sharpening."

  The youth did as he was instructed. “Do I really have to go out chopping wood?” he whined. “Wivernbush unnerves me."

  "Frightened by a bunch of trees?” upbraided Tylar. “Come now, son. You're no longer a toddler scared by the imagined bogeyman."

  Garrich huffily strapped closed his pack and marched from the cottage, calling over his shoulder, “I'll be back by sundown. Don't overexert yourself while I'm gone. You need to rest that arm."

  "Yes mother,” Tylar shouted back with a wry smile from the porch. “Thanks for breakfast. It was actually edible.” He watched his adopted son wrench the axe from the chopping block out front and load it into a handcart before waving goodbye and trundling off.

  Shudonn regarded the uncommonly sunny day enthusiastically. A blustering southerly swayed the treetops like puppets on a string, but patches of blue dotted the otherwise overcast sky to send streamers of sunlight earthward to cheer the gloomy land. ‘A good day for undertaking those roof repairs I keep putting off,’ he decided for himself. ‘But first things first.'

  Donning his army issue boots, the oldster ambled to the rear of the cottage and entered the outhouse. He missed the camaraderie of his soldiering days, but not the lack of privacy and luxuriated in the unhurried comfort of his own personal latrine. His ablution completed, Shudonn wandered over to the tool shed erected adjacent to the rickety lean-to serving as a woodshed and unlatched the door. Carpentry implements were arrayed in orderly fashion on shelves lining the sidewalls of the narrow hut, the back wall supporting a variety of farming tools standing at attention as if on parade; testimony to the regimented nature of their owner. Grabbing a hammer and pot of iron nails, he perused a stack of roofing shingles on a lower shelf and selected a half dozen slats before shutting the door to the grinding creak of rusting hinges.

  "Must get around to oiling them one of these days,” he absently said, forgetting almost instantly that longstanding chore as he cast about for the ladder that should have rested against the shed wall but annoyingly appeared to be missing. “Where did that confounded boy put the blessed thing?” Tylar cursed aloud.

  Recalling Garrich saying something weeks ago about moving it to a drier storage place, Shudonn looked under the porch and found the lost apparatus. Grunting from the effort, he hauled the wooden ladder out and leant it against the gable end of the cottage. Clambering up, Shudonn straddled the apex of the shingled roof and proceeded to locate the individual rotted slats responsible for the leaks that predictably dripped from the ceiling during heavy downpours. Sliding with care down the steeply pitched roof to prise the first of the unsound shingles free with the clawed head of the hammer, he nailed home a replacement before moving on to the next. Finding a great deal more defective slats than he bargained for, the old handyman spent the remainder of the morning repairing the leaky roof, making several trips in the process that steadily eroded his supply of backup roofing m
aterial.

  Feeling hungry, Shudonn slung the hammer from his belt and climbed down. The job of caulking the overlapping joints of the shingles with a waterproofing coat of pitch could wait until after he lunched. A discomforting twinge of pain plagued his shoulder and the old man knew he would later suffer for his day's labor. About to go indoors to fix himself a bite to eat, movement on the timberline caught his eye. The pensioned soldier paused and squinted. True his short field vision was unaffected by age, Shudonn's long-range sight progressively deteriorated with each passing year since retiring: a physical failing the energetic oldster found hard to accept. Two blurry figures emerged from the trees and only when the pair closed to within a stone's throw from him could Tylar make out their details.

  Unshaven, the two men were shabbily attired in patched and grimy ponchos. Their unkempt hair looked greasy, their boots shoddy and badly in need of attention from a competent cobbler. They walked with a measured cautiousness that set Shudonn on edge, their shifty eyes darting about furtively. Visitors to Wivernbush were a rarity that was part of the appeal settling at Falloway Cottage originally held for the then newly retired officer. A working lifetime spent in the constant company of hundreds of men resulted in an understandable yearning for seclusion. Army life, the latter half of which he spent molding raw recruits, also endowed Shudonn with the ability to instantaneously gauge people and this twosome smelt like trouble.

  "Hullo, pop,” the bigger of the strangers said in forced greeting. “Fair weather for the time of year, eh?"

  "That'll change soon enough,” responded Tylar, his tone purposefully unfriendly. Smalltalk was not on the agenda of the intruders.