That eventuated three days later when the pair was in recovery from their drinking binge and sharing the mother of all hangovers. The kitchenette looked like a ramshackle brewery littered with two drained ale casks, a half dozen empty cider bottles, and a quarter-drunk hogshead of mead.
"I feel like someone's shoved a pike through my eye sockets and left it there,” Garrich groaned in a whisper that reverberated in his ears like rolling thunder. He lolled in the chair, afraid to move in case his head fell off his shoulders.
Slumped face down on the dining table in a puddle of his own drool, Parndolc concurred with a slight nod that rattled his pounding brain. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a sewage pit.
"Maybe Maldoch has a bottle of elyssdar stashed up in that tower of his,” Garrich said hopefully, remembering how miraculously the Elven tonic dispelled his tiredness. Perhaps that sweet tasting honey-like fluid could banish a hangover as well.
Parndolc shook his head and instantly regretted it. “The selfish old goat keeps it on his person always. In all the centuries I've known Maldoch he doesn't like sharing anything unless he absolutely has to and then only when it suits his purposes.” The wizard came to his feet and steadied himself against the table before grabbing the only two clean goblets left in the entire castle from the cutlery shelf and dipping them into the barrel of mead. “Garrich, me lad, the only cure for what ails us is the proverbial hair of the dog. But watch out—it bites!"
The first sip Garrich took almost bowled him over, but after a few more swallows he started feeling a step above death warmed over. “Time to finish our talk,” he bravely decided.
The wizard thought otherwise and buried his throbbing head in his hands. “Why don't we wait until my eyebrows stop hurting? Man, several thousand years spent boozing and I'm still not used to the morning after! What day is it?"
"Urs, I think. Or maybe Ida."
"The weekend is just around the corner."
"Don't change the subject. You were up to wizards, I believe."
"Let's just stick to one spellcaster for now. It'll be less taxing on the brain."
On that score Garrich agreed and gave Parndolc the expected prompt. “Omelchor."
"There isn't much more to tell. He turned badder than a rotten egg and stayed that way, becoming yang to our yin."
"What does that mean?"
"It's an expression used by the most populous race of the Ancients, something to do with dualistic philosophy. In simpler terms, Omelchor is night to our day."
"And he's leader of the Goblins."
"More of a coach."
"Why did Omelchor side with them?"
"Anthropology has always been an interest of his. He's made an in depth study of all the races. I guess in the process he got too attached to the Carnachians."
"Are they truly evil? I've read military accounts of the border skirmishes and heard Tylar's own stories about those clashes. Are my people really as bad as history paints them?"
Parndolc saw where this was heading and tried to spare Garrich's feelings. “Evil is such a strong term. The Goblins tend to get led astray a lot."
"I'm Goblin,” Garrich needlessly stated.
"You're a special case, boy."
"Why? I never asked to be."
"Maybe not. Nevertheless you're caught up in the prophecies now."
Garrich started. ‘Maldoch never told me that."
"That doesn't surprise me. He never told Norelda he loved her either. Have another drink. You're gonna need it."
The boy declined. He was still way over the legal limit for driving a cart.
So Parndolc divulged to him how Maldoch translated the admittedly ambiguous first line of the Codretic Text—Fated questing resolved by warrior lost—to mean that a western fighter, presumably one of the warlike Goblins, will pop up and by his actions bring a successful conclusion to a preordained quest destined to reshape Terrath. This assumption was in part corroborated by a chance conversation with Omelchor himself, who more or less confirmed a reference made in the Ode of the Shamanist to the emergence of a Goblin champion.
"The puzzling part is that both sides can claim that the inferred Carnachian warrior is theirs,” finished the wizard.
"Does the Text give any clue as to which side will triumph?” posed Garrich.
"None whatsoever. The outcome of whichever quest is at stake is up to the powers that be to decide. Maldoch's hoping an indication might be given in the Ode."
At that point Garrich made up his mind to devote all his spare energies to deciphering the eastern prophecy. If nothing else, maybe he could gauge something of his Goblin heritage. A dreadful notion then popped into his head. “Maldoch didn't really find me,” he worked out.
"Of course he did,” refuted Parndolc.
"It's too much of a coincidence,” argued Garrich. “The East needing a Goblin hero and Maldoch just happening to come across me, an orphan."
"Luck was on his side, that's all. Both he and Omelchor share a wanderlust bug that sees them range all over Terrath. Maybe it's no surprise Mal bumped into you as an infant, considering he treats Carnach like a watched pot waiting to boil over. Hmmm, that could be another maxim to jot down. Anyhow, Goblin infighting between the clans is always rife and I hear tell they abandon the children of their vanquished foes to perish in the forest."
"That's cruel!"
"Nobody said life is fair, Garrich. So, think again. Perhaps Maldoch finding you by chance isn't all that farfetched."
Garrich conceded the point. “Could either this Fate and Destiny of yours have played a part?” he put to the wizard, acutely interested in these hitherto murky forces.
"I'll let you thrash that out with Mal when next you see him. Theology was never my strong point. Inventing is my forte, and on that note I'm off to bed to catch up on some sleep before I have another bash at getting airborne."
Parndolc tottered off. Garrich sat awhile at the kitchen table, mulling things over. He had indeed led a sheltered life, but the extent of his isolation from the outside world was truly staggering. The scope of his ignorance too enormous to contemplate on an empty stomach, Garrich rustled up a breakfast of cold, watery pottage, his constitution unable to handle anything heavier than soup. With his belly settled and his head clearing, the Goblin decided he needed air and exercise more than a pointless deliberation of his life and went to the windy rooftop of his tower with his trusty sword. But this practice session Garrich's imaginary foe had a face and a name, and he slashed at the abstruse wizard Maldoch with gusto.
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Chapter Fourteen
Squatting impatiently outside the conical hogan, Carlaw unashamedly eavesdropped on the conversation Ahnorr tried excluding him from. Leaning against the sloping stone side, an ear pressed to the flap of hide screening the square doorway, his discriminating Goblin hearing sharpened the muffled speech within into two distinct voices: the Grizzly Potentate and a coarse, unidentified woman.
"...job is to keep the Dwarfs busy. How you accomplish that is your problem."
"I'm in the business of plunder, not conquering,” Ahnorr gruffly replied. “A protracted stalemate might unglue the alliance of the clans. Promises alone won't keep the tribes amalgamated forever."
"Do what you must to motivate your people,” the female brazenly commanded. “Cajole them, mollycoddle them—I don't really care which. Just keep this quest on the boil. Your neck is on the line if you fail. That ought to give you incentive enough."
"I've planned a surprise that'll throw those hairy midgets into disarray,” Ahnorr cockily avowed.
"Spare me the bothersome details,” said the unseen woman. “Omelchor expects that item and the designated corridor of forestland between Pendalth and T'urdig Falls in your hands before the spring melt. Those are my only objectives."
"I'll have to divert manpower from my goal."
"Whatever it takes,” she said, uncaring. “The bargain stands: my husband gains the Northern
Heights in return for his unlimited generosity."
"Where is Omelchor? Is he still book hunting?"
"Unless directly affected by them, his affairs aren't your concern."
"He promised me the mines at Min Alorth and Kahnbri, witch. They're my concern."
"Don't get your pelts in a twist. Those riches will be yours for the taking. We only want free range of the mountains. It is imperative you acquire unrestricted access to the whole of the Heights for your searchers when the good weather breaks. You have a month to get cracking, Ahnorr. Use these upcoming weeks wisely if you value your skin. I don't want you hanging about like Ghranu those many years ago."
The sounds of conversation faded as the arguers concluded their business. Jumping to one side when the flap was abruptly thrown back as his angered father stormed out, Carlaw ducked his head inside the one-roomed meditation chamber. Dismayed to find the gloomy interior inexplicably empty and lighted by a swiftly fading purpled afterglow, he whirled and unthinkingly blurted, “Where's the bitch you just let talk down to you?"
Halting in his tracks, Ahnorr looked sideways at his profaning son. “Watch your mouth. Norelda is Omelchor's concubine. Insulting her insults him. And irritating the wizard is like waking a bear with a sore head—bad idea. How much did you overhear?"
"Enough to confirm that you are their whipping boy."
Facing the condemnation head on, Ahnorr turned and eyeballed his heir. Taking after his mother in looks, the twenty-six year old's build was short and sinewy. Fairer skinned than his swarthier contemporaries, his wild, windblown hair shone a sun-browned glossy black that stretched to his chin curtain beard. Dressed by Grizzly furriers in the finest bruin pelts befitting the likely inheritor of the Carnach overlordship, the trappings of power meant nothing to Carlaw. Ahnorr shrewdly realized that power, not fashion, rocked his son's world.
Marching up to his boy, provocatively standing toe to toe with him, taunting Carlaw with his nearness, Ahnorr baited him. “You questioning my leadership, cub? If so spar with steel, not sarcasm.” Matching Carlaw's unflinching gaze, seeing the fearlessness glowering back, he prepared to unlimber and pit his twinned blades against the crossbow clutched arrogantly in his heir's grip when his son thankfully averted his eyes.
"I wasn't challenging your authority. Just putting things into perspective, father."
The contrived placation work and Ahnorr's ego backed down. The irked potentate had no qualms about slicing up family members: an ambitious uncle and vengeful cousin fell victim to his slashing dicers when he was younger than Carlaw. But killing his son would seriously inconvenience him, as in his estimation no worthy replacements waited in the wings. Before and after conceiving Carlaw, Ahnorr humiliatingly sired nothing but daughters. Carlaw's maleness, more than his usefulness, kept him valued and alive.
"Chieftaining a clan is like fronting a hunting party, only on a far bigger scale,” Ahnorr counseled him. “Given the opportunity, those warriors you hunt with will just as likely fire their bow at your back as at a stag. Multiply that danger eightfold when juggling to keep the tribes from each other's throats, add the machinations of the sorcerers, and you might begin to appreciate the knife edge I'm walking. The day you usurp me as leader is when you'll discover firsthand the devious intricacies of tribal politicking."
Carlaw still did not understand why his sire surrendered the greatest weapon to fall into Grizzly hands to the hated Wolf Clan. The destructiveness of the Elf horn belonged to Grihaloecke and nobody else.
Seeing the incomprehension befuddling Carlaw's face, Ahnorr simplified his stance. “In order to keep the peace you must learn when to be stout like the redwood or bendy as a reed."
"We are warriors, born to fight. What need do we have for peace?"
"Even the staunchest fighters want only to raise their children in tranquil times.” Awkwardly clapping a hand on Carlaw's shoulder, Ahnorr directed, “Walk with me."
Father and son strolled uneasily together. Ahnorr unreservedly loved all four of his feisty daughters, but treated his sole male heir aloofly. Few chieftains lived long enough to reach retirement age, rendered unemployable by their successor in an incontestable demonstration of powerfulness through the brutal Goblin ascension duel: a ritualized swordfight to the death. By no means guaranteed that Carlaw would succeed him by besting all other contenders vying to become Grizzly Potentate before facing him—Carlaw's renown was as an archer, not a swordsman—Ahnorr schooled his son from birth for the upcoming challenge to outwit, in order to outfight, opponents. Forming no close emotional attachment to the boy wickedly molded him into an unfeeling competitor driven by ambition and greed. Expecting no pity or remorse from Carlaw when his time for battling came, Ahnorr ensured his unfettered son stood a fighting chance of winning through against certain odds. In doing so he fostered a monster loyal only to personal desire, a soulless creature bred to bring about his father's surefire downfall.
For the good of the clan, Ahnorr reminded himself. But the cliché was cold comfort when realizing he orchestrated his own roundabout suicide.
Taking in the vista from the palisaded, drystone walkway walling his hilltop home cheered the strolling potentate. Perched 100 feet above the windswept plain atop the highest grassed mound in the heartland, the arid slopes stepped into four concentric rings of defensible banks and ditches, the hill fort commanded spectacular views of the great lake Darkwater Pooling due east and the dominating green smudge of Darkling Forest farther north. The pastoral scenery pressed beneath the lowery sky did not gladden Ahnorr's glum heart; gazing about his city-state improved his dour mood.
Central Grihaloecke comprised a series of lesser hillocks, most natural, a couple manmade, surrounding Ahnorr's elevated longhouse and associated buildings like worker bees hovering about their queen. Identically tiered by circular ditches bridged by earthen ramps, the nearest causewayed enclosures housed the Grizzly families trusted least by the chieftainship. Ahnorr firmly believed in keeping friends close, enemies closer.
Deciding the time was advantageous to impart a leadership lesson, Ahnorr quizzed his son. “What is the foundation of tribal power?"
Swinging his crossbow relaxedly onto his shoulder, the potential chief smugly said, “Easy. Strength of arms."
"That's a strut bracing one's rule, not the main support."
Trying again, Carlaw proffered, “Strength of resolve then. A weak chieftain is ineffectual, making his power base unstable."
"Stop thinking linearly. Look down."
Leaning over the wooden paling, Carlaw viewed the lower ramparts, his puzzled gaze descending past the numerous sentries manning the walls and stern gatekeepers controlling the exits, eyes sweeping over the bottommost tier to the clusters of plank huts and hide shelters mushrooming the base of Paramount. Beyond sprawled the near treeless steppe grassland, grazing grounds of the antlered deer and trunked antelopes crucial to the hunting parties tasked with feeding and clothing the Grizzly Clan. “What am I meant to be looking at, father?"
"The people."
Undisguised disdain scowled Carlaw's features. Regarding the specks below denoting lower caste workers and slaves tending to the mundane aspects of tribal life, he grumbled, “They are beneath us and of no consequence."
"Wrong. From the lowliest to the loftiest member, the tribe is the cornerstone of our rule. Robbed of a root system, a tree topples over from its own weight in the lightest breeze. No clan stands unaided without a supporting populace."
"Are you saying they must be watered and nourished like a pot plant?"
"Don't be so naïve. They are disposable playthings to be used and abused as a ruler sees fit. But bear in mind, they are your greatest resource. Has your Blackbolts squad commenced training?"
"Scaling cliff faces, as you ordered."
"Yet you wonder why I've sent them rock climbing. Dathok can help answer that."
Stepping smartly off the walkway, he led his bamboozled son across the safest living space in Grizzly territ
ory, ending up outside an innocuous domed dwelling on the far side of the spacious compound guarded by a bored warrior who remained slouched and slovenly even at Ahnorr's approach. Two women garbed austerely in single wrap buckskins tended a fire nearby, bizarrely cooking rocks. Unbuckling his swords and removing his bearskins, Ahnorr gestured for Carlaw to disarm and undress too. Uninhibitedly stripped down to their loincloths, weapons stacked neatly in a timber rack by the door flap, pelts thrown untidily in a heap on the other side, the pair pushed past the disinterested sentry into the sweathouse, counting on the time-honored neutrality of the sauna to keep them from harm.
Dathok lifted his drugged eyes as the newcomers settled cross-legged opposite the central firepit. “Come to watch me melt, Ahnorr?” he moaned.
The flap parted again as the womenfolk inched in carrying between them on forked sticks one of the fired stones. Adding their load to the heated rocks lining the floor of the shallow pit, they exited as demurely as they had entered.
Sprinkling the contents from a water bucket on hand over the freshly delivered firestone using a straw brush, Ahnorr waited for the hissing to subside as a cloud of purifying vapor contributed to the hotness humidifying the Grizzly steam bath. Struck by his shaman's glistening skinniness, he quipped, “A daily stint in the sweat lodge might cleanse your body, but I fear you'll shrivel away to nothing in the process."
"Wouldn't do you any harm either,” retorted Dathok. “You could stand to lose that spare wagon wheel around your middle."
Few insults bothered Ahnorr, but jibes at his weight stung. Patting his belly jovially to give the impression he was unhurt, rage fumed inside.
Dathok was not finished wisecracking. “Why, even Carlaw's shed a few pounds. No wait, he just looks lighter from not lugging that monstrous dart thrower of his around."
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