Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Maldoch glanced impishly at the teen. “No, but I expect him to soon."

  Unsettled by the cold-bloodedness of the reply, Garrich elected to reinstate their joint muteness.

  Four days out saw the duo reach the southern margin of the hoary forest. Beyond the defining timberline stretched 250 leagues of moorland, which eventually gave way to the sprawling plains of the Stranth forming mid-western Terrath.

  Casting a doubtful eye up at the afternoon overcast, Maldoch decided, “We'll camp here overnight before striking for the prince's highway in the morn.” Though the showers had ceased, there lurked the undeniable promise of more rain to come.

  Garrich fidgeted beside the oldster, nervously staring at the open expanse of gently rolling hillocks pockmarked with scraggly bushes; the tract of uncultivated land loosely termed the Upper Wade.

  "What's wrong, boy?"

  "This is the extreme edge of the wood,” the entranced youth murmured in reply.

  "So, what of it?"

  "I've never left Wivernbush before,” a frightened note to his whispered confession.

  Maldoch grimaced at an oversight on his part. The cosseted boy's lack of exposure to the outside world, apart from the two-dimensional texts of his foster father's books, could prove limiting. Necessity dictated that Garrich be raised in complete isolation, his identity suppressed, his freedom controlled. Such a policy may now prove a hindrance. “You've got until dawn to get over this irrational fear,” the wizard callously said, turning from the treeless vista to select a suitable spot to bed down for the night.

  The dampness of the timberland discounting any hope for a fire, Maldoch and Garrich spent a cheerless evening chewing tasteless jerky engaged in forced small talk.

  "I can't wait for a warm bed and a hot meal when we get to the capital,” grumped the wizard, removing a bothersome piece of bark from underneath the blanket he reclined upon. The travelers lounged in a hollow set below a stand of birch trees. “Life on the open road is a delight, but sleeping rough on the wet earth loses its appeal after the first century."

  Garrich started. “Just how old are you, Maldoch?"

  "Older than any number you can think of."

  "Are you always this enigmatic?” griped the teen.

  The wizard shrugged. “It's part of my charm."

  Next day saw the pair leaving Wivernbush behind a half-hour after sunup. Garrich paused to bid the peculiar wood a regretful farewell. In spite of its periodic strangeness, the forest retained prominence as the boundaries defining his childhood. He would miss the stoic timberland with its air of great antiquity.

  "That forest holds a special place in my heart also,” commented Maldoch, intruding upon the boy's silent goodbye. “No other wood in all of Terrath is quite as ancient nor unique, and that's counting Oaken Grove."

  Hearing a statement like that, Garrich resolved to delve into the personal history of the mysterious spellcaster at the first opportunity to present itself.

  The youth was in the process of turning his back on his former life when in the golden light of early morn he caught a flicker of movement shimmering the distant treetops. A moment later the fluttering sphinx vanished from view. An odd sense of completion descended over Garrich. His bat was seeing him off.

  They spent the morning walking steadily beneath a blustery and steely sky. “We're in for a drenching,” Garrich complained when sporadic drops of moisture began pelting down.

  "Getting wet is the least of our worries,” Maldoch strangely said. Giving Garrich a sidelong glance, he confessed, “I neglected to tell you something, boy. Tylar Shudonn's death may not have been a random slaying."

  Scowling, Garrich postulated, “Are you saying father was murdered for a purpose other than robbery?"

  "It is a distinct possibility."

  "Who would want to kill him?"

  "I did not say he was specifically the target."

  Even more perplexed and poised to pose the obvious question to Maldoch, realization slapped the teenager about the face. “They were after me?” he cried out. “Pappy's death is on my shoulders!"

  "Calm yourself, Garrich. Guilt-inspired hysterics do not bring back the dead."

  "Hang about,” said the mortified teen. “Those bandits can't have been after me, judging by the looks of utter surprise on their faces when I showed up to kill them."

  The wizard was non-committal. “I cannot be entirely sure those thugs were not operating independently to their own agenda, so don't needlessly flog yourself. However, you do need to be warned that dark forces are moving against the warriors of good. Expect opposition along the course of our quest."

  "You haven't told me the exact nature of this mission of yours,” averred Garrich.

  "Now that would be telling,” answered the taciturn mage, striding away from the maddened youth.

  A week and a half of trekking across the unchanging grassy knolls dotted with clumps of hardy dwarf-bushes netted the twosome a sighting of a settlement in the near distance.

  "Is that Alberion?” Garrich eagerly asked, ending the tedium of their travel. He immediately regretted his query.

  "Don't be absurd, boy!” scolded Maldoch. “Alberion lies almost three hundred leagues to the east. That is Haston. Did not Tylar teach you geography?"

  "Yes,” the red-faced teen contritely professed. “But this is my first trip beyond the pages of an atlas. It'll take a while to get my bearings in the real world."

  Garrich instantly learned how unforgiving a taskmaster the wizard was. “Mistakes are made by the uninformed,” Maldoch said brusquely. “Shudonn saw to your education, so I know you are not illiterate. Don't act like a country bumpkin."

  The chagrined youth dismissed the reprimand and concentrated instead on the distant township gaining definition with each step taken. The morning sky stayed typically lowery, but intermittent patches of sunlight filtered through the clouded heavens to highlight the cluster of buildings crowding the only sizable area of flatland in this region of undulating hillocks. While not as provincial in layout as the frontier towns of Serepar or Yordl, neither was Haston as elegant in form as the more courtly eastern communities of the princedom. It showcased an odd blend of rustic and contemporary, as if the inhabitants had unsuccessfully attempted to recreate the noble architecture of east Terrath, falling short in their idealism. At least that was what Garrich could gauge from the hotchpotch of buildings shaping the nearing skyline. Fascinated by his first encounter with civilization, the enthralled teen was greatly disappointed when Maldoch deviated southeast to avoid the town entirely.

  "We're not entering?"

  "I have no business there,” expounded Maldoch.

  Crestfallen, Garrich exhaled noisily. His pioneering outing from Wivernbush was turning sour in light of the wizard's refusal to expose him to this initial taste of public life beyond his wooded hermitage. “I always badgered father to recount his occasional visits to town to trade,” the boy warmly recalled. “I enjoyed hearing him speak of haggling with the shopkeepers when strolling through the main street or talking shop with the town watch. I often pictured in my mind's eye what town life is like. The rows of shops selling their differing wares, the various people going about their daily business, the diversity of the trades."

  "One town is boringly much like another,” cut in Maldoch.

  Garrich was discovering the spellcaster's blasé approach to life was the least endearing of his many character faults.

  Strangely conversational, Maldoch enquired, “Which town did Shudonn frequent?"

  "Serepar mostly."

  "That figures. It's a garrison town. I had my doubts the old soldier could completely sever his army ties.” Maldoch stopped unexpectedly, mindful that the eastern outskirts of Haston were close. Disrobing, he handed Garrich his hooded travel cloak. “Put it on,” he curtly ordered.

  Not particularly feeling like arguing with the headstrong mage, especially when he stood no chance of winning, the youth did as he was bidden. Ma
ldoch generously supplied an explanation for his unexpected gift.

  "Considering you are a westerner by birth, your presence on principality soil will be extremely difficult to explain away. Cover up and if we run into anyone I'll do the talking."

  "That's no hardship for you,” Garrich muttered under his breath.

  Purposely ignoring the quip, the wizard further instructed, “Make sure the cowl completely hides your face. Men are understandably prejudiced against Goblins and to find one in their midst, especially an armed male, would be more than a little disruptive."

  Pulling the hood over his head, Garrich awaited Maldoch's approval. The taller oldster studied the elfin boy critically, the robe clearly a size too big for him. “An ill fit that'll suffice until we reach Alberion and purchase you a cloak of your own.” He declared, imploring the disguised teen, “The robe is merely a loaner. Treat it respectfully. It's like an old friend to me."

  Garrich stared wonderingly after the oddly sentimental grouch as they resumed their eastward sojourn.

  Camping that night on the insipidly familiar heath in a concealing depression within earshot of Haston, after supper Garrich sat cross-legged on the crest of a neighboring hummock, watching the dreary evening settle over the township. Cheery dots of light twinkled from the silhouetted houses as the citizenry returned to their respective homes to dine with family and friends, the hum of daytime life given way to the serene stillness of night broken occasionally by lilting voices borne on the twilight breeze. Sighing restlessly as a wave of homesickness swept over him, the melancholic youth longed to be back home at Falloway Cottage engaged in his nightly chore of tending to the weapons with Tylar Shudonn composing his epic poems.

  "Tomorrow will be a good day for travelling unnoticed,” Maldoch spoke from his seat in the basin.

  Tiring of the view and his heartache, Garrich trudged down into the hollow. “Why is that?” he huffed disinterestedly.

  "It is Sanctity Day. All proper god-fearing folk will be in church, or more likely the local tavern. We should make good progress along an empty road."

  "I thought you preferred remaining inconspicuous,” contended Garrich. “A lone pair of travelers on a deserted highway is hardly discreet in light of the probability of us being hounded by this nameless enemy of yours. It'd make more sense to stay off-road."

  "Not if we plan to reach Alberion before the month of Shunn. I don't particularly relish going cross-country in the middle of winter, boy."

  "Maldoch, I've been meaning to ask. How did you find me in Wivernbush? Was it wizardry?"

  "Goblins are not alone in being noted for their impressive tracking skills,” the oldster said immodestly. “I followed your trail from the cottage ruins with relative ease. You need to brush up on covering your tracks better."

  Garrich blinked, taken aback by the first compliment he had heard given for his newfound and much maligned people. “I wasn't trying to hide,” he retorted.

  "Makes no difference. Get into the habit of journeying in basic secrecy. You never know who might be shadowing you."

  Puckering a brow unwrinkled by age, Garrich had foolishly expected undiluted praise from the perpetually ornery wizard. Gazing heavenwards at the starless, inky night, he pondered if Maldoch's heart was equally black.

  The day dawned cloudy but reasonably bright. Impatient to get going, Maldoch roused Garrich from a nightmare where slicing axe blades indiscriminately chopped to pieces a luckless victim whose ever-changing appearance alternated between the faces of the bandits he had slain and Tylar Shudonn's grimacing death mask.

  "Bad dream?” the wizard astutely asked while preparing breakfast.

  Afraid of being ridiculed, the sweating and shaking youth answered no.

  Accepting the denial, Maldoch put to Garrich, “You can cook, can't you? Tylar was a marvellous chef, so I'm guessing he taught you to be a whiz in the kitchen."

  "I know how to use a skillet,” the youth snappishly asserted, not letting on that his cookery talents left voluminous room for improvement.

  "Good. After we restock our supplies at Alberion for the following leg of our quest, you're going to impress me with your cooking skills on the trail."

  "We're not stopping in the city?"

  "Only as long as is necessary for me to see to my affairs,” Maldoch said selfishly. “I've a schedule to follow.” The spellcaster gave the youth a contemptuous look in light of his grouchiness. “You're not a morning person, are you Garrich?"

  Having breakfasted, they walked for about a quarter hour across the unchanging moor, disturbing a covey of heath hens that hastily took flight with a flurry of beating wings. The game birds were the only living things encountered, for the looming town appeared queerly still and unmoving. A peal of bells chimed melodiously through the fresh morning air. Startled, Garrich hesitated.

  "It's just the church calling her parishioners to early mass,’ the wizard informed the boy. ‘The righteous flocking for glorification as the sinners are marched there to do penance."

  "Sounds like you disapprove."

  "Not of worshipping our fair lord. It's the monopoly the Anarican State Church exercises over doctrine that gets my goat. For the most part the clergy are pompous windbags grown rich and fat from the supplication of honest, hard-working folk who can ill-afford to part with their meager earnings. Didn't Shudonn include religious instruction in your education?"

  "We skipped religion entirely."

  Maldoch clicked his tongue reproachfully. ‘Theology is hardly a strong suit of the soldiering fraternity. Thou shalt not kill isn't an edict of their training manual. I'll have to remedy your ignorance at a later date."

  "By having me study the beliefs of my birth race?” volunteered the teen, justifiably keen to explore his cultural roots.

  The spellcaster turned on Garrich, his beard puffed up and eyes aglow with indignation. Prodding at the startled youth with the butt of his staff, he spat, “Do not ever suggest such a notion to me again. You've no idea of the perils associated with delving into western shamanism.” Fully prepared to give the uninformed youth a pervasive lecture on evil, Maldoch underwent a change of heart and instead muttered, “I haven't time to deal with this nonsense now, but you will be tutored in the proper beliefs. I'll not see my plans poleaxed over a trifling identity crisis."

  Garrich himself grew livid. “Hold fast, old man! I'm the one who's the victim here. It's me who's twice lost a family. How do you think it feels not knowing your parentage for fifteen years, then discovering that your people are the most despised race in the land."

  Feigned a look of mortification, Maldoch sneered. “Forgive me my oversight, boy. I didn't realize you are the only one to have suffered loss.” Discarding his stave, he grabbed the teen by the shirtfront and lifted him cleanly off his feet, the oldster not as frail as he appeared. “Deal with your problems, for I'll not mollycoddle you. There are higher things at stake than your bruised, pubescent ego. I'm genuinely sorry for your hardships, only the world can be a cruel place and the choices it compels us to make sometimes unpleasant.” Releasing him, the wizard smoothed the creases from Garrich's rumpled tunic. “We all have our parts to play in the theatre of life. Remember your pact. Assist me and I'll personally introduce you to Goblin ways. Anger me again and—"

  "You'll do what?” demanded the youth, bravely standing up to the fearsome mage.

  Seeing evidence of Shudonn's stubborn streak in his ward's defiant attitude, Maldoch wiggled his fingers suggestively and seethed, “Turn you into a toad, or worse!” Garrich could not help but laugh at the absurdity of the threat. Maldoch quite unexpectedly saw the humor in the boy's response and chuckled dryly. “That was somewhat clichéd,” he conceded, stooping to gather up his staff.

  "Yes it was. What now?"

  "We continue as planned, my boy."

  Cresting the next hillock, the travelers came across a ribbon of slate gray wending its purposeful way from Haston in either direction. Ambling down the slight slop
e, they marched across the heath towards the manmade line that seemed to extend from horizon to horizon.

  "The Western Royal Roadway,” pronounced Maldoch, setting foot upon the cobbled highway. “Beginning from the Midden and ending at Serepar."

  Standing on the grassy verge, Garrich studied the interlocking flagstones. Weedy stalks sprouted freely from the cracks fracturing the weather-beaten paving stones. Tapping the nearest slab with the sole of his boot showed it loose and wobbly. Decidedly unimpressed with this decrepit feat of human engineering, he criticized, “It's in a bad state of disrepair."

  "The universal problem of civic upkeep,” explained Maldoch. “The four royal roadways connect the four corners of the principality, but only those routes nearest the commerce heart of Anarica are afforded the necessary maintenance costs. The western thoroughfare, like its southern counterpart, is sadly neglected the further one travels out from the princedom's center."

  "Shouldn't that responsibility fall back on the townships themselves?"

  "You raise a valid argument. However, regional landowners are notoriously unwilling to part with their personal wealth and never more so when spending on public amenities is called for. Moreover, the point is a moot one. Intercity roading is the sole domain of the Prince of Men and supposedly falls under the funding provided by the royal administration.” Maldoch chortled. “And you've no idea how tight the treasury is when it comes to allocating money."

  "For a wizard you appear to know an awful lot about the ins and outs of the realm."

  "I'm very observant.” Tapping a bony finger against his bird-like nose, Maldoch advised, “When adventuring, keep your eyes and ears open. Observation, not conversation, is the key to acquiring knowledge.” The ancient mage winked and grinned puckishly. “It also helps being alive a goodly number of years."

  Crossing on to the roadway subjected Garrich to the oddest impression of taking the first step into a broader world. “How much farther to Alberion?"

  "Six weeks or thereabouts."

  "The journey would be faster by horse,” suggested the youth. While not having firsthand experience with equines, Garrich learned of their usefulness by reading the exploits of cavalry units in the warfare handbooks he perused back in Falloway.