Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "Badly in need of converting to the true faith, my dear Marshal. Maybe the time has come for launching a crusade into Carnach."

  "Presbyter Jhonra!” exclaimed Lindan, shocked at the suggestion of a holy war.

  "Gotcha,” winked the aged churchman. “You've been hanging out with Drey Wynsorr too much, my boy. His lack of a sense of humor has rubbed off on you."

  "His Eminence may have a point,” said Enoh.

  "Of course I do, Toombe. The Chancellor doesn't have a funny bone in his entire body."

  "I was referring to crusading against Carnach."

  Jhonra's turn to be alarmed, he proclaimed, “I was only jesting."

  "I am not. Any first year officer at the academy will tell you that the best form of defense is offense. If we can realistically expect an attack from the Western Provinces, I say beat them to the punch by delivering a pre-emptive strike."

  "Let's not jump the longbow,” the prince hastily counseled. “I was told not to move too quickly on this matter."

  "By whom?” asked Jhonra.

  "The spellcaster Maldoch."

  Chortling, the presbyter shook his head. “Is that old magic maker still knocking about? I haven't clapped eyes on him in years."

  Rubbing his clean-shaven chin in contemplation, a nervous habit developed since manhood, Enoh said with typical military frankness, “I don't hold much stock in the word of a wizard."

  "That's why the SHICs will be checking out the western borderland,” Lindan told the doubting soldier. “I'm expecting Blain Embah's preliminary report in two or so months. Before we can even start thinking about making war plans, we need to determine what's going on in Carnach."

  "A difficult proposition, even for Embah's cloak and dagger boys,” pronounced Enoh. “The border has been sealed on their side for over thirty years. Goblins don't like nosy neighbors.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, thinking out loud, he enquired, “Highness, did the wizard indicate when the Westies are likely to start anything?"

  "He wasn't specific. Something about before I grow old and die."

  The supreme commander of the Royal High Army suppressed a groan. How was he expected to make preparations for war without even a rough timetable? Despite having no when to work with, the where could be easily enough deduced. “They'll have to come at us through the Divide,” reasoned Enoh, “unless they are rash enough to throw an army against the Great North Wall blocking Frelok Pass. Have you contacted the Dwarfs yet, Prince Lindan?"

  "Not until Blain provides us with firm intelligence."

  "The Highlanders should be included in all strategies we nut out."

  "Unquestionably, Marshal. But we are not here to devise stratagems just yet."

  "Then what did you call us for?” said Jhonra, rejoining the conversation.

  The door creaked open as Drey Wynsorr slipped into the room. Whispering in Lindan's ear how Captain Dikor was entertaining the Prince Mother, there was a strong note of disapproval in his message. After the unhappy chancellor pulled up a chair, Lindan answered the presbyter's question for all concerned.

  "You have gathered here for two reasons. To be warned of the possibility of going to war against Carnach is one. Now that's out in the open, the next issue is money."

  Drey visibly cringed. Enoh nodded knowingly. Jhonra looked pensive.

  "That's right, gentlemen,” confirmed the boyish but well educated prince. “We may have a war to finance shortly and defending the nation won't come cheap."

  Lindan rang a hand bell for the servants to bring a cold lunch to the council chamber as the important meeting dragged on past midday. War is an expensive undertaking and numerous details needed thrashing out.

  Chancellor Wynsorr lamented loudly over the inevitable financial burden any conflict was bound to impose on the treasury and was convinced to freely unlock the royal coffers to pay for the stockpiling of weapons and recruitment of extra soldiery only after Enoh painted a bleak picture of Goblin hordes overrunning the realm, looting Drey's precious monetary reserve. Somewhat appeased when Lindan granted him permission to raise taxes further to compensate for the drain on royal funds, the prince madly stipulated that those taxed be the upper echelon of Anarican society, namely the merchant bankers and nobility. ‘They can better afford the increase than the poor,’ Lindan judiciously decided. Drey did not concur, though wisely chose not to say so outright. A powerful institution both in Anarica and Carallord, the Free Trade Bank and its investors would not take kindly to seeing their profits stripped from them to finance a crown war that was not yet a certainty. If angered enough, the moneymen could make economic waves.

  The marshal, for his part, sensibly wanted to downplay the expansion of the army. Untimely rumors of war panicked a population, so Enoh recommended to his monarch that the Royal High Army expand and re-equip gradually under the credible pretext of a standard overhaul of the military by its new ruler.

  Presbyter Jhonra had the least conspicuous of tasks. On his shoulders fell the job of readying the populace for the horrors of war without actually telling them that such a dire event was likely to occur. In more practical terms he would see to it that the State Church coughed up its share of the monies demanded by the Prince of Men to keep the Eastern Realms free.

  The planners adjourned late afternoon to find the throne room flooded with rainbow shadows cast by the fading sun filtering through the multihued stained glass of the spidery lead framed panes windowing the vast hall. Marshal Toombe marched briskly back to the officers barracks located on the other side of the city, politely declining Jhonra's offer of a lift in his stately carriage. After seeing the presbyter on his way to the masted cathedral sitting smack in the middle of Alberion like a grounded ship, Drey Wynsorr returned to his monarch and was summarily dismissed for the night.

  Slouching on his throne, one leg hooked slovenly over an armrest, Lindan contemplated the day. Tired by doubts nagging at him via insistent whispers of incompetence, he appreciated better than anyone that he was a youthful, inexperienced monarch, inheritor to a shaky realm. Second-guessing himself, Lindan wondered if he was handling the situation correctly. Should he be doing things differently? His father would have coped better, of that he was sure. Wanting so desperately to run ideas past his mother, to get her take on proceedings, he persuaded himself not to. Princess Devorna, her expediency aside, had enough on her plate coming to terms with her husband's death without fretting over a potential race war. He was considering contacting the Dwarf King to solicit Dalcorne's advice—a necessity at some stage in light of their formal alliance, not to mention sending word to the Elf Queen way down south—when movement caught his eye.

  "I trust I'm not intruding, my Lord Prince,” apologized Blain Embah, stepping fluidly down the length of red carpet leading to the throne, the deep pile masking his footfalls. The drably clothed chief spy did not walk alone. Tailing him was a smartly dressed fellow in red and white with gold epaulettes draping the shoulders of his constabulary uniform. The pair reached the foot of the dais and bowed as one.

  "I missed you at a crucial meeting today, Embah,” Lindan said coolly, unimpressed by the floorshow of synchronized bowing. “Where were you?"

  "Investigating a very serious incident, one that has a direct bearing on a certain visitation recently."

  "So do your intelligence reports, which were sorely missed. Who's your shadow?"

  "A Chief Constable in your police force."

  "Thanks for pointing out the obvious. What's he doing with you?"

  "I ordered him to accompany me. He has a tale of great interest to tell that warrants hearing it firsthand."

  Lindan could not be bothered listening. When tired he grew grumpy—a lamentable trait bequeathed by his unknowable paternal grandfather, Prince Rekkin, whose reign was almost as short as his temper. “Mother's expecting me for dinner and I'm already late. We will do this tomorrow."

  "No, Highness, you'll hear him out now."

  The prince wavered. Embah's tone�
��not a request, but an order that bordered on being insulting—left no room for misinterpretation. Whatever was goading the chief spy into insolence must be damn important. “Very well, Blain, I'll indulge you. Speak your mind, Chief Constable, only be quick about it."

  The uniformed copper with the neatly trimmed goatee cleared his throat. “My Lord Prince, might I first congratulate you on your crowning."

  "No, you may not. I'm fed up with longwinded felicitations. Just get on with your story, man."

  "Right away, Highness,” he stammered, flustered by the prince's curtness. ‘I'm commanding officer of the constabulary regiment policing the Poor Quarter. A few mornings ago a senior constable of mine got knifed in the line of duty by a suspected thief he was apprehending."

  "Saddening news, but hardly world stopping. Murders must happen in my city on an irregular basis."

  "They do, only it's not every day that an officer of the law in Alberion is stabbed to death by an Elf."

  Lindan slowly straightened in his heavily cushioned seat, eyeballing the Chief Constable to gauge his veracity. This dilemma sprouted serious diplomatic implications.

  "Except the killer wasn't Elven,” interjected Blain.

  The Prince was confused. “What then?"

  'We think he was a Goblin made up to pass himself off as an Elf.'

  Lindan started: those connotations suddenly quadrupled. Giving the Chief Constable his undivided attention, he implored the man to go on.

  "My men detained the perpetrator, clapped him in irons, and put him behind bars in a local jailhouse,” pride in the officer's assertion. His glee dissipated next. “The sergeant in charge made arrangements for the murderer to be placed in the custody of the army. Before the transfer took place, the killer escaped."

  Lindan leapt up. “He did? How?"

  "Our jailbird received help from a cellmate,” supplied Blain. “An old drunkard who eyewitnesses, trained constables no less, swear reduced the back of the jail to rubble before vanishing into thin air along with his fellow prisoner."

  "It's true, Highness,” corroborated the Chief Constable. “My station sergeant's written report verifies it. They disappeared in a puff of green smoke."

  "That was the day after Sulca made his house call,” Blain added for the benefit of his perturbed prince.

  It generated the desired effect. “Leave us,” Lindan commanded the copper. Stepping down off his throne as the Chief Constable bowed and hurried away, he questioned Blain. “You obviously think the souse was Maldoch."

  "The description does fit the wizard to a tee."

  "Apart from the drunken part: he's a known tea-totaler."

  "Maldoch confessed to having an evil twin. Maybe we've been duped by his brother."

  His mind awash with corollaries, Lindan pondered this strange turn of events. Prince of Men for barely a day, lumbered with the prospect of a rogue wizard in league with a Goblin scouting for a probable race war, things were not going swimmingly. “Blain, your thoughts on this."

  The lead SHIC voiced only one. “To establish whether we were visited by the real Maldoch."

  Lindan agreed. “Finding that out might reveal our visitor's intent."

  "Tracking down that Goblin infiltrator can go hand in hand with that search. I'm betting where one is we'll find the other."

  "What's the fastest way to expedite a nationwide search?"

  "Issue a warrant for the arrest of Sulca the Forecaster and his mystery accomplice."

  "The charges?"

  "Murder, espionage, and willful destruction of the prince's property."

  Not finished picking Embah's brain, Lindan posed the obvious question. “Just how do we arrest a jail-blowing wizard?"

  The deadpan answer from the man who thrived on intrigue was not unexpected. “Carefully, my prince. Very carefully."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eleven

  The second week of travel south down Rocky Sheer was downright miserable; it rained the entire way. Sheets of the wet stuff blew in relentlessly off the Sea of Storms day and night, saturating the two walkers. Garrich suspected the Banshees were behind the squalls. If they could not blow apart the minds or bodies of the landlubbers, then they would try drowning them. Soaked to the skin, Garrich doubted of ever being dry again and hoped Shudonn's sword would not rust in the damp conditions. Maldoch infuriatingly seemed indifferent to the rotten weather and strode on unstintingly.

  One soggy morning, when the windy climate seemed particularly harsh and he was bent head-down into the driving rain, Garrich bumped into Maldoch when the wizard abruptly came to a standstill. ‘Oi, what's the hold up?'

  "We've arrived, and my it's good to be back."

  Shouldering past the lanky spellcaster, Garrich got his first look at the wizard's home, glimpsing a huge lake and what looked to be an island of barren rock shrouded in raincloud rising up out of the center of that body of foreboding, black water. Perching precariously on a bluff squatted a parody of a castle.

  Looks cheery,” he murmured dubiously.

  "Earthen Rise possesses a certain rustic charm,” returned Maldoch, choosing to transform the jibe into a compliment.

  "Funny name for an island."

  "The isle is called Outcrop. Earthen Rise is the name of the castle built upon the island. It's so called because of the dirt foundations supporting it. The outcropping of stone was too uneven to construct on without undertaking massive, time-consuming excavations. A base of compacted soil to level out the site was a faster alternative."

  Hardly interested in an architectural rundown of the place, all Garrich desired was to get in out of the rain. There was one slight problem with that hankering and he put it to Maldoch. “How do you plan crossing that lake?"

  "Without getting our feet wet."

  "It's a little late for that,” the youth mumbled, regarding his boots. There was a coin-sized hole in one of the soles and his left foot was already wet through. While tough, army boots were not indestructible.

  Maldoch set off for the lakeshore through the teeming rain and Garrich trailed after, squelching with every second step. Upon reaching the edge of the dark water the wizard lifted his staff and muttered a few words of magic. The bulbous top of his walking stick flared with a bluish light that parted the fog and streaked toward the distant castle then winked out. Looking for some sort of answering flash from the presumably manmade edifice, it disappointed Garrich to see nothing but mist and rain. It struck him that he had expected a reply of sorts, which implied that the ornery wizard did not live alone.

  "Maybe nobody's home,” he fished.

  "Oh, he's there alright,” said Maldoch, lowering his extinguished staff and putting down his haversack.

  "Who?"

  "You'll find out soon enough."

  Maldoch's inscrutableness was so irritating!

  Half an hour later, transport arrived in the shape of an empty skiff gliding across the rain-spattered lake from the direction of Outcrop Isle without any visible means of propulsion, whether oar or sail. It gently bumped to a halt against the graveled bank and Maldoch clambered aboard. Tossing the wizard his travel pack, after a moment's hesitation Garrich did likewise. He wobbled in the flat-ended stern as the pilotless boat swung about and nosed through the oily water toward Earthen Rise, Maldoch woodenly riding the pointy bow like some carved figurehead.

  "I hope this thing knows where it's going,” Garrich murmured nervously.

  "It does,” Maldoch smugly replied, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

  "So far to me magic seems to be based on equal amounts of chance and luck."

  "This isn't magic, boy."

  Garrich glanced down at the speeding, unguided skiff. “Could have fooled me, old man.” Taking an interest in the ebony water flowing smoothly by, he wondered, “How deep is this lake of yours?"

  The wizard shrugged. “I've never had cause to plumb Fragmere's depths. For all I know it's bottomless."

  Though a strong swimmer and
not particularly religious, Garrich prayed that the skip did not tip over.

  The boating trip went without incident and after a thirty minute ride the passengers emerged out of a fogbank to behold Earthen Rise. The citadel was not a castle in the truest sense of the word, for it lacked a drawbridge, gatehouse, and general paraphernalia such as battlements normally associated with a fortress. Maldoch's domicile consisted of a dome of precisely laid stone blocks squatting on the tallest promontory of the isle with four lofty towers individually soaring a hundred feet into the rainy air placed at each point of the compass. To Garrich it looked like an upside down stool with a ballooned seat.

  The skiff nudged to a halt at the base of the bluff and the travelers disembarked. Maldoch headed Garrich along a narrow stony beach and up a sloping dirt embankment toward a steep flight of steps chiseled into the cliff-face.

  Laboring up those lengthy stairs, a dizzying fall to the rocky beach only inches away, Garrich puffed, “Not exactly easy access."

  "It isn't meant to be. The location, not to mention the free guard dog service provided by the Banshees, discourages callers and ensures privacy."

  "I wouldn't freely visit here."

  "You aren't,” griped the wizard, reminding the boy of the recklessness that had forced this bothersome change in his plans.

  The climb to the landing at the top of the stairs felt like it would never end, but the young and old journeyers eventually gained the frontage to Earthen Rise, pausing outside a humungous stone portal. Maldoch was about to rap on the slab of granite when the heavy door swung ponderously inwards without any warning or sound whatsoever to reveal a bespectacled little man standing in the doorway, hands on hips in an unmistakable posture of annoyance.

  Garrich, sensing trouble, took an unconscious step backwards. The castle occupant was not much taller than him and more than a bit on the stout side, possessing a pug-nosed face underneath a shaved head giving him the no-nonsense look of a bulldog. He was strangely dressed in a monk's coarse brown habit with a tool belt tied about his ample waist and a pair of scuffed floppy sandals on his sock-warmed feet.