Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "My, the animal speaks,” the fencer said in mock surprise. “And what a witty rejoinder it was. You have a gift of the gab to match my colleague with the meat cleaver over there—although he does appear to be suffering from a splitting headache that has frozen his tongue."

  Dashing forward, Garrich executed a series of overhand strokes, testing his opponent. He retired to a defensive posture upon failing to break through the cultured brigand's unyielding guard.

  Ezlah unexpectedly lowered his foil. “A thought just occurred to me, friend thief. Rather than bleed in this godforsaken wood over a few essentially worthless trinkets, why don't you join me?” The teenaged swordsman paused, prompting the deadly dandy to persist. “You've demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for killing. A man with your talent and daring would certainly prove useful in my line of work.” Glancing unfeelingly at his fallen comrades, he remarked, “I appear to have a couple of openings at the moment."

  "No thanks,” declined Garrich. “I wield my sword in the name of honor, not larceny."

  "Your loss, stranger,” Ezlah said with a shrug. “I seriously doubt a partnership with a Goblin would have worked out anyhow."

  Stunned by the revelation and slow to parry, Garrich took the brunt of Ezlah's accompanying thrust in his sword arm, the tip of the foil plunging deep into the extensors above his wrist. Reflexively kicking away his antagonist, the stabbed youth gasped as the blade slid out of his perforated forearm. Pain surged ahead of the oozing blood escaping the puncture wound. Coached by Tylar Shudonn to fight left-handed when necessary, Garrich responded by swapping his sword to the other hand: a useful trick to gain the element of surprise or, as in this case, carry on when injured. Lunging, he delivered a savage riposte that forced Ezlah to give ground to him.

  "Impressive technique, boy,” complimented the archer cum fencer, warding off a slashing stroke to his upper torso. “Whomever your instructor was taught you well."

  "You briefly met him, though I doubt introductions were made,” snarled Garrich, ignoring the sting of his injured arm as he renewed his assault.

  Ezlah parried expertly but continued his retreat, experiencing difficulty compensating for his adversary's crafty change in fighting style. “Really? I don't ever recall meeting one your breed before this morning."

  "You killed him!” accused the youth, feinting then snapping his blade whip-like across his opponent's thigh. The razor edge of the broadsword bit deep into the hose-covered flesh and slid free as Garrich wheeled away. Yelping, the struck bowman dropped to one knee, losing his foil in the process.

  "I'm really beginning to dislike you, friend,” Ezlah groaned, his face contorted in a grimace of pain and annoyance. A reddening stain started spreading across his yellowed tights. Trying to stem the crimson flow with his hands, the welling blood seeped freely through his taut fingers.

  "The feeling's mutual,” answered Garrich, kicking away the rapier.

  "So this attack is more than a simple case of robbery. I take it your motive is some sort of vendetta."

  "You got it in one, friend,” confirmed Garrich, slowly circling the wounded and disarmed bandit to disorient him. The upper hand was again his.

  Staring his own ugly mortality in the face, Ezlah suggested, “Why don't we strike a bargain then,” a hint of desperation in his offer. “You've clearly bested me and I'm in no mood to die this particular day. Take that fancy sword and scarper if you will."

  "And in return you'll do what?"

  "Forget this whole unpleasant incident. I'm not one to bear grudges."

  Garrich appeared unmoved by the proposition.

  Ezlah grew worried. “Come now, boy. Every man has his price."

  Made intractable by Tylar's teachings concerning probity, the wrathful youth avowed through clenched teeth, “I am not for sale."

  "Be sensible. You've won. My associates are dead and I'm out for the count, leaving you in sole possession of a magnificent example of metalworking worth a tidy sum. Sell the broadsword and show yourself a good time with the proceeds."

  Garrich stopped pacing in front of the frantic and perspiring brigand. “This sword rightfully belongs to me."

  "Whatever you say. Just take the weapon and let me be."

  "You don't understand. It is my inheritance,” Garrich explained in a dangerously quiet voice.

  Whipping his knife from its boot scabbard, Ezlah hurled it underhand at his would-be executioner in a single fluid motion. Dodging by a hair's breadth the thrown dagger zipping past his chest, Garrich reacted by slamming the pommel against the bowman's extended arm, cracking the humorous bone. His fury uncontainable, the blooded youth shoved the length of Tylar Shudonn's sword downwards into Ezlah's gut right up to the gilded hilt, slicing in two the abdominal aorta and severing his spinal cord. Erupting from the small of the bandit's arching back, the crimsoned tip embedded itself in the dampish earth below Ezlah, pinning him. Yanking the staked archer close, whispering fiercely into his ear as the other's dying body convulsed uncontrollably, Garrich declared while viciously twisting the blade, “The old man you took it from, the old man you slew, was my beloved father. Die knowing I avenged his murder."

  Eyes widening, Ezlah of Rolverton breathed his last with a profoundly befuddled look clouding his strained features.

  Jerking his sword free, Garrich gave voice to his unforgiving grief. Howling gutturally, he hacked unrestrained at the corpse of his father's killer, reducing the archer's finely clothed body to an unrecognizable lump of bloody and tattered threads. His rage vented, the blood-spattered teen stood numbly in the tiny clearing, letting the precious broadsword slip from his grasp onto the soiled ground.

  Expecting to feel jubilant upon slaying Tylar Shudonn's murderer, Garrich felt only sickened by his monstrousness. Killing these men did not bring his father back from the dead. The anguish crushing his soul was not lessening. The well of bereavement remained bottomless. His shocking act of retribution might as well have never taken place for all the good it did him. Horrifyingly aware of the carnage he wrought, Garrich gagged, emptying his stomach contents on the clearing floor after falling to his hands and knees. Having not eaten for a full day and a half, he vomited a foul reeking watery fluid that left him light-headed and queasy. Collapsing onto his side, his hate-fuelled strength ebbing, the boy-turned-man weakly curled up into a ball and lapsed into a fitful sleep haunted by the frightening knowledge that he remained inescapably alone in a world fraught with dangers. He only wished never again to waken.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Four

  "Get up, boy."

  Garrich stirred. Some rude sod none too gently nudged him awake from his stupor. “Go away,” he groaned uncaringly to whoever the intruder was. “Let me sleep—preferably forever."

  "Stop this foolishness and get up,” roused the voice, taking on a more insistent tone. “You're much too young to leave the land of the living and I have need of you."

  The sleepy youth opened a mildly curious eye. Rewarded with the blurry sight of an impossibly old man, sporting a beak of a nose jutting from an angular bearded face peering grumpily down at him, his gnarled hands set indignantly on hips as he knelt beside the teen after poking at him with a bony finger, the hazy-brained teen mumbled uncertainly, “I know you."

  "That's highly unlikely, young Garrich. We've never met."

  Opening his other eye, Garrich stared fixedly at the oldster. “Then how do you know my name?"

  "I'm well informed. Can you sit up?"

  "I think I can."

  'Then do so. The day is wasting.’”

  Grunting from the effort, Garrich feebly propped himself on his elbows.

  "You're hurt,” proclaimed the oldster, alarmed by the teen's blood splattered face and sleeve.

  "It's nothing, just a scratch,” shrugged the youth, instinctively clutching his forearm. In truth his untended stab wound throbbed horribly.

  "Let me take a looksee.” The elderly stranger carefully rolle
d back the fabric to expose the wound. ‘Superficial and treatable,’ he pronounced at the end of his perfunctory examination. Rummaging through a holdall that had plainly seen better days slung about his scrawny-cloaked shoulder, he unpacked a water flask, strips of white cloth, and a leather pouch. Cleaning the nasty puncture wound, once the caked blood was gently scraped away and washed off he loosened the drawstring of the purse.

  "What's in there?” Garrich worriedly said, watching as his aged and whiskered nurse poured a fine metallic powder into the palm of his cupped hand.

  "Hold still, boy. This will sting a little."

  Garrich yelped when the oldster vigorously rubbed the powder into the wound and a brief flash ignited after a few moments of contact with the skin. Tearing his arm away from the old man, it felt as if his entire forearm had been set alight. The smarting youth swore he smelled his flesh searing! “That was an understatement. It burns maddeningly!” he accused, gripping his injury.

  "Of course it does. It's meant to,” said the unapologetic old timer, slapping the teen's wrist to make him remove his hand. Pulling a handful of fragrant petals from the satchel, he delicately placed them upon the wound before tightly bandaging Garrich's arm. “I'm no physician, but the wound is cauterized and the leaflets will prevent infection."

  "Thanks, I think,” mumbled the teen.

  The old man then enquired of Garrich, “When did you last eat?"

  The boy shrugged. “A couple of days ago, I guess."

  The aged Good Samaritan frowned disapprovingly at the youngster. Delving into the holdall again, he produced a glass vial filled with a gooey, amber liquid. “Drink this,” he ordered, removing the stopper and handing the vessel to Garrich.

  Dubiously sniffing its contents, the unsure adolescent naturally asked, “What is it?"

  "A tonic, of sorts. Drink up."

  Without knowing why, Garrich obeyed the command and gulped down the viscous fluid. Exquisitely sweet, he likened the taste to a smooth blend of apple and honey, which flowed down his throat with deceptive ease. A warming tingling enveloped his being, spreading outwards from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes. Feeling marvelously invigorated, Garrich was about to take a second gulp when his ancient benefactor promptly snatched the half-emptied vial back.

  "You're not supposed to swallow it all!” he barked irritably. “You've no idea how difficult elyssdar is to come by. Terwain would have my hide if I kept returning to Gwilhaire Wood just to top up this one vessel."

  Garrich spluttered. “That's an Elf drink?"

  "What of it?"

  "I've only read of Elves. My life has been rather sheltered. This is truly a magical moment."

  "Don't get all gushy, boy. The Lothberens are an overrated people. They display exactly the same vices and foibles as any other race—they're just nobler in appearance. How do you feel?"

  "Refreshed but powerfully hungry."

  "That's understandable. Elyssdar is not a substitute for food. Think of it as an energy boost. It'll restore waning strength but will not satisfy hunger. That is why it is drunk sparingly, in small quantities only."

  "You should have mentioned that first off,” muttered Garrich.

  The wrinkled stranger shot the youth a withering look. “Old I may be, sonny, but I possess hearing keener than a bat's. Keep your quips to yourself and we should get along famously."

  Comprehension struck the now clear-headed teen like a hammer blow to the head. “You're the disembodied head I saw the other night speaking with my father. Neat trick. I couldn't see your face, but that gravelly voice is unmistakable."

  The old man offered Garrich his wrinkly hand. “Maldoch's the name, spellcasting's my game.” Garrich tentatively shook the other's hand, genuinely surprised by the firmness of the seemingly frangible oldster's grip. Maldoch promptly withdrew from the handshake, apparently offended. “Not one person appreciates my jingle,” he huffed. Rising with the aid of a twisted staff embellished with indecipherable lettering, mumbling something about “humorless philistines", he tottered over to the clearing's edge and started collecting kindling from the fringe of the encompassing forest.

  "What are you doing?” asked Garrich.

  "What does it look like to you?” came the waspish reply. “I'm gathering drier wood to restart that cooking fire.” Maldoch nodding towards the stone cold ashes of the bandit's extinguished campfire prompted Garrich to idly wonder how long he had slept. “You are sorely in need of a decent meal and the pleasure of preparing that feast has unluckily fallen to me."

  Peeved by this bothersome old man, Garrich declared, “I can take care of myself, Mister Maldoch."

  "That's plainly obvious, judging by your arm,” rejoined the wizard, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  Sensing his position untenable, Garrich resigned himself to the inevitable company of this grouchy geriatric for the time being. “Let me give you a hand with the fire,” he offered.

  "You won't have the time."

  "What'll I be doing?"

  Maldoch looked disdainfully at the corpses littering the glade. “I take it this is your handiwork?” he said, glaring accusingly at the youth. Squirming beneath the penetrating stare, Garrich dumbly nodded. “Very well. Since you made the mess, you clean it up. Bury these men."

  —

  Dusk fell when Garrich inhumed the last of the bandits. Purple-hued clouds pushed by a gathering southerly scudded across a blood-red sky as the youth patted down the last handful of dirt upon the communal grave the dead trio shared as their final resting place. Initially repulsed by his own brutality, the boy suffered no lasting remorse whatsoever for the vengeful killings: a fitting justice had been exacted upon Tylar Shudonn's slayers. What perturbed Garrich was finding the serf's body face down in the forest undergrowth some distance from where he hacked him in the glade. The luckless peasant had obviously taken a considerable time to die from his grievous stomach wound, judging by how far he managed to crawl into the wood, his crimsoned entrails smearing the forest green. Expressly drummed into him the brutal lesson that an adversary must be dispatched with humane efficiency, Garrich felt oddly troubled more by the fact that he had failed to fulfill his father's teachings than the sobering reality of killing three men in the space of a few short minutes.

  The scrumptious aroma of a simmering stew catching his nostrils, Garrich turned his back on the gravesite. He hurriedly crossed the clearing to the campfire at its center where Maldoch cooked the evening meal, stirring the gently bubbling contents of a fire-blackened kettle gleaned from the bandits’ own wares. Sharply reminded of a life that no longer existed, Garrich sat heavily on the ground, sullenly washing the blood and grime from his hands and face with the contents of his waterskin.

  "Dig in,” said the wizard, serving the boy a plateful of the steaming vegetable casserole.

  Unbelievably ravenous Garrich tucked into the proffered food. Simple fare hardly in the league of Tylar's tasty culinary efforts, at least it was edible. “Aren't you joining me?” he asked Maldoch between mouthfuls.

  "I'll eat later. For now I wish to talk."

  Swallowing, Garrich said, “I was kind of expecting you would."

  "I have questions that need answering,” stated the elderly mage, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cloak.

  "Believe me, so do I,” responded the boy.

  Maldoch nodded his understanding. “Tylar. What exactly befell him? I found a fresh grave adjacent to the scorched remains of the cottage."

  Garrich put down his plate. “I was out woodcutting. When I returned I found him ... murdered."

  "By this bunch you butchered like a rabid wolf in a sheep flock."

  "This pack of cutthroats shot father in the back and slit his throat! They each deserved nothing less than the horrible death I inflicted on them.” Garrich glared at the old wizard standing over him, a look of adolescent defiance reflected in the firelight as night wrapped its blackening shadows about them. “I suppose you'll lecture me
on the wrongfulness of retribution."

  "Should I?"

  Garrich became flustered. “Father definitely would have. He'd have called the pursuit of revenge an act of dishonor, a wanton bloodletting to satisfy personal motives only. I imagine he is frowning upon my vengeance right now from up high in heavenly Urvanha."

  "Tylar Shudonn was the most honorable man I have ever met,” agreed Maldoch.

  "Did you know him well?"

  "We were old friends and I shall miss him dearly.” Maldoch heaved a sigh of regret. “What did he tell you about me?"

  "He alluded that you were my benefactor after I asked him if you happened to be my grandfather."

  A rare smiled graced the wizard's lined face. “That old warhorse always had a wickedly dry sense of humor,” he fondly recalled.

  "Just who are you, Mister Maldoch?” Garrich asked.

  "I told you, boy. A spellcaster—of some note I might unashamedly add. Had you not been forced to live such a secluded life then my reputation might have preceded me. And drop that silly mister title. You make me sound like a commoner with airs."

  "I was taught to be courteous."

  "Courtesy is well and good, but I detest ridiculous appellations."

  The time for utter truthfulness arrived with a clang. “You seem to know a lot about me, Mist ... er ... Maldoch, yet I hardly know anything about you, other than your name and purporting to being a magician."

  "Wizard,” corrected Maldoch tartly. “Magicians are charlatans who perform conjuring tricks for the amusement of tykes. I practice true wizardry."

  "Prove it."

  Garrich drew back. Maldoch looked fit to burst at the outrageous demand for proof of identity from, what was in his aged eyes, a mere child. The campfire seemed to diminish and the encroaching night darken acutely as the cloaked mage whipped out his hands. Eyes blazing terrifyingly with purpose, Maldoch recited an incantation in a tongue foreign to the startled youth, waving his arms theatrically. The crisp night air came alive with a skin-tingling sensation, a portent of the spell the muttering wizard brewed. With a sharp bark of command and clap of his hands, Maldoch simultaneously completed and released. There followed a dreadful silence as Garrich tensely held his breath in anticipation.