Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "But parts of it could be. Keep persevering."

  "Are you making much sense of the Codretic Text?"

  "Bits and pieces only."

  "After studying it for twenty-three centuries."

  "It's definitely a blueprint for upcoming events, if only it wasn't so damn ambiguous."

  "That's the trouble with Destiny and Fate. They're so intertwined it's impossible to tell them apart. This Goblin champion could just as easily spring up on the other side."

  "It has crossed my mind. That's why after I'm finished down south I intend to mosey on west and take a gander at Carnach. We've got to keep tabs on our black sheep of a brother."

  Garrich frowned outside the kitchen door. How many wizards were there in Terrath?

  "How long will you be skiving off for this time, magic man?"

  "As long as it takes. The Eastern Realms will take a while getting their armies organized, giving us time to maybe prevent this mess escalating. I estimate the ball won't get rolling for at least a couple of years."

  "Two years!” Parndolc smashed his fist down on the kitchen table. “What'll I do with this boy of yours for two years?"

  "Give him the Ode of the Shamanist to read over. Maybe he can decipher that piece of western forecasting. Garrich is Goblin after all."

  "Who has been raised as an Easterner."

  "But deep down he is Carnachian at his roots. Perhaps that'll give him some insight into shaman prophesizing."

  Fed up of feeling like a pawn in some vast game of chesk, Garrich flung open the kitchen door wide, finding the pair of wizards sitting in conference around the table; Parndolc brooding over a half-drunk tankard of ale, while Maldoch nursed the dregs of a recently brewed mug of tea. “Do I have a say in my own future?” the boy hotly asked.

  "No,” Maldoch denied him. “Your future was decided the moment I happened upon you in your infancy.” He seemed unsurprised at Garrich listening in. The boy ambled into the kitchen and flopped sulkily on to his stool. “I'll be leaving first thing in the morning,” the spellcaster informed the other two.

  "That's about your style,’ judged Parndolc. “Dump your baggage, then move on."

  "I'm not anyone's baggage,” quipped Garrich.

  "I know it's early days, but you two had better learn to get along,” advised Maldoch. “You're going to be roomies for some time. Parndolc, watch out. This little ferret has teeth. He's quite handy with sharp implements."

  "I'll keep him away from the cutlery."

  "And Garrich, don't go poking that outsized sword you inherited into Parndolc here."

  "It'll be my only defense against that sharp tongue of his."

  Parndolc grinned. “I just might grow to like this lad. Do you drink, Garrich?"

  Remembering Tylar's cask of Serepar ale thieved and consumed by the pockmarked axeman, the disgruntled youth replied, “Haven't had the chance to yet."

  "I'll remedy that,” the tool-bearing wizard promised, fondling his tankard.

  Maldoch rolled his eyes in disgust. Terrath's intended champion looked set to be corrupted by booze.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twelve

  "He's not coming."

  Ahnorr eyed his shaman unfavorably. Dathok stayed a habitual user of herbal narcotics, which more often than not impaired his judgment. “Robannur will come,” the heavyset Goblin potentate assured him.

  "I'm betting he's a no show,” persisted Dathok.

  "He's late, that's all.” Ahnorr hoped his assumption was right. They were skulking on a sandy beach perilously close to the northwest border of dreaded Elf country. It remained dark, but not for much longer. Dawn lurked a couple of hours away at the most, judging by a faint lightening of the murk out to sea on the eastern horizon. Surrounded as the pair was by a contingent of Carnachian warriors, Ahnorr knew the extreme risk they had taken landing here and smelt the anxiety of his men. A Goblin would never admit to fear but scared they were. The forested nation of the Treesingers sprawled on the other side of the range of low hills bordering this stretch of coast and Southrock Splinter would prove no barrier to a force of territorial Elves if they discovered a band of trespassing Goblins come daylight.

  "This trip had better be worth the trouble."

  "Stow it, Dathok,” hissed Ahnorr. “I'm sick of your griping. Go and see if the sentries have anything new to report."

  The shaman of the Grizzly Clan stalked away grumbling.

  Ahnorr held scant regard for his spiritual advisor. A self-centered charlatan, Dathok's only usefulness to the clan was relaying to the superstitious the wishes of their tribal totem, the mighty Grizzly Bear, which invariably reflected the desires of their leader. Fanaticism is a great political tool for getting the masses to believe, and accordingly do, what you want them to. But Dathok had a point. The expense of this expedition was outrageously high. The Surrid longship anchored offshore in the Murant Basin was costing Ahnorr an arm and a leg, or more precisely a caravan of hard-trapped pelts plus a stolen cartload of Dwarven ale. Lyngorr, the Potentate of the Otters, delightedly screwed him to the wall over the price of supplying ship and crew for this venture. Ahnorr may have bullied the endlessly warring Goblin clans into a fragile alliance of swords with the promise of plundering the eastern goldfields, but money—or in the case of Goblin society, bartering—talked more persuasively than threats.

  Ahnorr adjusted the waist belt of the harness supporting the paired sabers strapped to his back that every Goblin male over the age of thirteen covetously bore. He had noticeably put on weight since his escapades as a youth when he brandished blades and bravado with equal zest. Now fifty-four, the undisputed ruler of Grihaloecke—and subsequently the whole of the Western Provinces—was saddled with a middle-age spread and more besides in return for exchanging swordplay for chieftaining. Such was the personal price paid for unifying Carnach. That would alter once the infiltration of the East got underway and he returned to the grueling physicality of battle. Nevertheless, Ahnorr prided himself that he cut a fearsome figure still; dressed in bearskins, his shaggy, graying black hair and beard braided with animal bones, his face, chest and forearms scarred from sharp encounters with foes, his teeth filed into shark-like points. He looked the part of the uncompromising Goblin chief who welded most of the misfit clans into one.

  Dathok also fit the bill in appearance for his role amongst the Grizzlies, Ahnorr grudgingly noted, watching the shaman shuffling across the starlit beach from the impenetrableness of Jungular Forest at his back. Robed in a wrap of grizzly fur tacked to the upper half of a giant bear skull adorning his head, with huge bear claws dangling from a cord of deer gut strung about his neck, Dathok looked every inch the mystic and played his part to the hilt.

  "There's still no sign of him,” he whinged upon his return.

  "We'll give Robannur until dawn,” the potentate decided.

  "Is that wise? You forget the Illebard Squadron regularly sail these waters. We don't want to be caught ashore if—"

  "Our bought Otters out in the bay can handle any roving Sea Elves. My main concern is being spotted by a patrol of Lothberens landside. Just because we're on this side of the Splinter doesn't mean we can be blasé about the Wood Elves. I'd rather not have a hail of arrows falling on our heads."

  Dathok folded his scrawny arms, the bulky robe concealing his weakly skinniness as he, much like Ahnorr in his middling years, relied on wits more than fitness to survive. “This is a mistake. You listen far too readily to that rabid wizard's counsel. We can subdue the Dwarfs without his meddling."

  "Our goal is to subvert, not subjugate them. The trick will be to seize what we want in Carallord without invoking the wrath of Anarica. For that we rely on outside sagacity."

  "Are you afraid of Men that much?"

  "I fear no creature!’ bluffed Ahnorr. “Attacked separately, the Eastern Realms are beatable. Combined by treaties, their joint armies outshoot us. Angering the northerners’ cronies, while exciting, would be gross
ly unwise."

  "So like the Wolf Clan we operate as the sorcerer's lapdog."

  "Don't overstep your powers, Dathok,” warned the Grizzly Clan leader. “Omelchor's help is invaluable to our cause. We've always profited greatly from his counsel."

  The shaman snorted contemptuously. ‘I'm your counselor.” Dipping a hand into the deerskin pouch roped about his bony hips, he pulled out a purple skinned tuber and bit into it, savoring the taste as he chewed slothfully. A glazed look crept into his eyes and his lips parted, revealing the yellowness staining his teeth that resulted from prolonged gnawing of the hallucinogenic jubba root.

  Ahnorr grimaced. “You're no good to me stoned off your face. Why don't you lay of that poison?"

  "It helps me see my visions."

  "Bull. It just makes you high and worthless. I should have had you gutted and hanged by your own intestines ages ago."

  Dathok laughed annoyingly. “Talk about a bad omen for the clan. They'd lose confidence in you.” Pushing his position, the shaman brazenly sneered. “That would certainly put a spoke in your wheel. You can't exactly invade Carallord without an army of followers. It must really bug you that you can't touch me."

  "Get out of my sight before I throw caution to the wind and do something I won't regret,” Ahnorr growled in a menacing tone.

  Dathok immediately hustled farther down the beach, his reliance on his own impunity faltering.

  Squatting on the wet sand Ahnorr listened to the thundering breakers rolling in from the Unknown Ocean, followed by the swish of the broken waves retreating back to the parent sea, and was not calmed in the least by the rhythmic surf. The restless ocean frightened him and his first, but not ultimately last, sailing trip was a forgettable experience of heaving swells and unending seasickness. Give me a decent sized forest any day! At least he had not been alone in his misery. More than half his party also emptied their stomachs over the side of the ship, much to the amusement of the Surrid sailors. He hated giving the Otters a free laugh at the expense of Grihaloecke's finest.

  Ahnorr stayed like that until his legs stiffened, forcing him to straighten and move about. He was in the middle of walking off a cramp beside one of the beached longboats when a warning yell sounded from the jungle. “Someone's coming, Potentate!"

  "Why not just shout it out for the rest of Terrath to hear,” Ahnorr complained under his breath. “Is it our boy?” he hollered back.

  "Can't tell,” boomed the sentry. “He's cloaked."

  Ahnorr's response was decisive. “Okay, you mangy curs. Time to earn your steel. Grab whoever's coming our way. And do it quietly!"

  They did. Before too long a shrouded figure was stumbling on to the beach toward Ahnorr, shepherded by a half dozen sword-bearing Goblins. He appeared to be clutching a leather carry case to his breast. Ahnorr halted him two paces away with the tips of his own drawn swords. “Robannur, that had better be your thieving hide under that sickening Elf cloak."

  "Were you expecting Ghranu back from the dead?"

  "Not funny."

  The Goblin bravado that threw back the hood to reveal himself was not your typical Carnachian. Outfitted in black leathers, his beady-eyed face sported a neatly trimmed goatee with earrings of looted gold piercing the lobes of his upswept ears. By Goblin reckoning Robannur was a bit of a neat freak. “Been waiting long?” he cheekily enquired.

  "We were just about to ship out,” Ahnorr said in a flat voice, lowering his swords. “You're a week overdue. What kept you?"

  "I had difficulty getting out of Nhern."

  Ahnorr rubbed his beard in puzzlement with a sword guard. “Your job was in Lothberen. Why were you down south?"

  "They shifted the prize there about two seasons back."

  "Whatever for? The trumpet always resides in the capital."

  Robannur shrugged. “I didn't ask the caretaker of the shrine it was relocated to, probably because he was unconscious at the time."

  "You didn't kill him?"

  "I'm in your pay as a thief, Ahnorr, not an assassin. Speaking of which, I'll collect what's owed to me and be on my way after you fork out an extra ten whole govreans."

  "What!” sputtered the Grizzly potentate. “Payment was agreed at twenty gold coins. Though why you demand to be paid in Anarican money is beyond me. It's not as if you can waltz into Alberion to spend it."

  "That's my business. You just hand over what I'm due.” Robannur was in fact a shrewd investor. A lifetime spent thieving exposed him to enough of the various eastern cultures to make him an unusually cosmopolitan Goblin. He had cultivated a contact in Serepar, an unethical rogue who regularly deposited Robannur's ill gotten gains in an anonymous account in the local branch of the Free Trade Bank—for a nominal fee, of course.

  "You were contracted at a set price,” argued Ahnorr.

  "That was before I had to go on walkabout through Gwilhaire and nearly missed our rendezvous because of it."

  "Ten full govreans is an awful lot."

  "Complications cost extra. The more trouble I'm put to, the bigger your bill gets."

  "I'll consider it,” rumbled Ahnorr. “Let me see the merchandise first. I want to view what I'm buying."

  Robannur undid the laces of the leather case with deliberate slowness while he delivered his sales pitch. “You hired the best. Nobody else could have gotten this without any fuss, so don't be getting stingy on me. This little baby is priceless. Feast your eyes on the fabled Horn of Dunderoth!"

  Ahnorr's eyes came alight when the leather folds parted and the Goblin robber held up a polished, three-foot curved ox-horn banded with silver for his client's inspection. “It's the genuine article?” He had to ask as a matter of course.

  "I'm an honest thief.” Robannur's assertion was so contradictory!

  A look of pure cunning crossed Ahnorr's face, a mug that only a mother could love. “I could just take the horn by force,” he declared, lifting his sword points in emphasis.

  "What would happen if I gave this Elven trumpet a little toot?” wondered Robannur, putting the stolen horn to his lips. “Is the legend hearsay or fact?"

  Ahnorr blanched in the starlight.

  "Ten gold coins and not a shaving less,” maintained Robannur, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Do I blow the hills down around us or not?"

  Damn this cocky robber was a cool customer! “Done,” relented Ahnorr, sheathing his weapons.

  Smiling, Robannur withdrew the horn from his lips. “Ah, there's nothing like a satisfied client. Give me my gold then."

  A derisive laugh greeted the thief's demand. “Do I look like a treasure chest, you extortionist?” Ahnorr pointed out to the sleek war boat at anchor. ‘Your gold's in a strongbox aboard the Skua Raider. If you want it grab and oar and start rowing. This is not negotiable."

  Knowing when not to push his luck, Robannur re-covered the horn and made for the longboat Ahnorr ushered him to. When the potentate reached out to claim the package, the robber waggled a finger at him. “Tut tut. You get this when I get my money."

  Ahnorr had to settle for that. “Dathok, bring your drugged bones back here on the double!” he bellowed. The shaggy figure a ways down the beach near the surf line wobbled to his feet. “That goes for the rest of you rabble. We're leaving!” the leader of the Grizzlies roared, secrecy unimportant now.

  Robannur found that Ahnorr was not kidding when he said to row. The Surrid Otters supplied the longboats but oarsmen cost extra and the penny-pinching chieftain of Grihaloecke decided that his warriors could row themselves. Although to be fair, Ahnorr did man an oar himself. The only Grizzly not pulling an oar and his own weight was Dathok, who, aside from feeling manual labor to be beneath the dignity of a shaman, was in no fit state to row while in his drugged stupor.

  The Skua Raider strained at her anchor chain as the tide turned, the flow of saltwater churning landward. She was, as her name implied, a sleek vessel designed for raiding: 120 feet long and nineteen in the beam, clinker built of lightweight northern f
ir. That is, the lower edge of each hull plank overlapped the board below it, as opposed to the more typical carvel style of eastern shipbuilding where planks were laid edge to edge. She boasted a single pine mast with a large rectangular sail of red and black checkered dyed sealskin currently reefed. A steering oar hung from the right side of the ship's stern beside a tent pitched on the aft deck serving as the captain's cabin. Her freeboard was high and the sheer strake pierced with holes for the twenty pairs of slender fourteen-foot spruce oars for inshore running presently shipped. Speed was the name of this ship and war her game. Despite her age—the keel of the Skua Raider had been laid down forty years beforehand and she was captained over the ensuing years by a half dozen commanding seafarers of the Urcharrbi Privateers, the unofficial navy of Carnach—she remained the fastest ship in the Otter fleet with her record for the Surrid-Sprinth Channel run standing unbeaten at fifty nine days, five and one quarter hours. It was for this reason alone that Ahnorr had pressed this particular boat into service for his vital mission.

  Rowing against an incoming high tide was no easy task, so by the time the two longboats heaved to and tied up alongside their parent ship the rowers were fatigued with strained muscles. The boaters clambered aboard amidships and Ahnorr bellowed, “Captain! Set sail and make for Surrid with all possible speed. I mean to set foot again on Carnachian soil before summer's end."

  Robannur grabbed the potentate's arm. “What about my gold?"

  Ahnorr shook off the thief's grip. “Our transaction can wait until we're underway and safely out of Elven waters."

  "My sailing with you wasn't part of the deal."

  "How else were you planning to get home? By swimming all that way?"

  The Goblin robber quit arguing. He had no option but to tag along on this little pleasure cruise in order to get his dues. The only problem was that he loathed sea voyages.

  Anxious to be off, Ahnorr looked about and fumed. “Where's your blasted captain?” he barked at the nearest pirate-sailor on watch. The flaps to the canvas cabin abruptly parted and the ship's master came bolting out. “Never mind,” Ahnorr muttered to the seaman and marched across the cedar deck toward his quarry, stepping through a raft of sleeping bodies in order to confront him. “Look here, I'm paying you good money to be at my beck and call, skipper, and I—” The Grizzly leader faltered in his remonstration. The captain of the Skua Raider, dressed scruffily in faded sea otter pelts and smelling like an alehouse, was ashen and shaking violently. “By the bear's claws, what's wrong with you man?” demanded Ahnorr.