And much more besides.
Well versed in the structure of Dwarf power sharing, Maldoch was unacquainted with all of the current practitioners. The Kingdom of Carallord was ruled on a simpler level compared to the Princedom of Anarica. No defined chancellorship existed as such. Daily running of the realm fell on the shoulders of the Crown Prince when he reached an acceptable age to handle administrative drudgery, relieving his kingly father of the more mundane aspects of rule. Before that, the chamberlain of Dalcorne High attended to the chore of overseeing the routine workings of the monarchy. In the case of the Fortkeepers, successive generations managed not only the castle and satellite town, but handled their share of governing the kingdom. Planning expenditures for a nation was akin to budgeting for a household, only on a far larger scale. It was a task the Fortkeeper lineage excelled at, mentoring upcoming kings and stewards alike.
The discerning wizard gave the unsmiling Despenser a final once over. The
Dalcornes might hold the purse strings to their kingdom, but Fortkeeper gripped the purse. Highland surnames unremittingly reflected a forebear's particular physical or character trait, profession, or even the propensity to wear a certain article of clothing. Somewhere in the dim past a Dwarf king appointed an ancestral Fortkeeper to the position of fortress superintendent, bestowing the descriptive family name and locking them into the custodianship. Maldoch let out a disconsolate sigh. Going by Fortkeeper's counterpart in Alberion, moneymen were invariably a solemn lot. Obviously money did not bring happiness.
"Pottie, here you are!"
Maldoch placed his cogitation on the backburner as a fulsomely figured maid bowled into King's Hall through the swinging staff serving doors. Pottbur's jovial face positively lit up further at sight of his fiancé. Elidnor Plumpbreast certainly lived up to her name and all male eyes in the room were drawn to her bouncing namesakes. Handmaiden to Princess Valoria, she was lavishly dressed in a laced bodice and flowing skirt dyed contrasting red and blue, her auburn hair bunched up in delicate metal baskets that glittered in the mellow glow of the oil lamps. Hazel eyes set firmly on the merry chef, her flushed cheeks hinted at trouble.
’”You were supposed to meet me by the rock garden a quarter hour ago,” she complained to him from behind the king's empty high-backed chair, pouting adorably.
"I completely forgot, my sweet cake,” apologized Pottbur.
"My poor mistress has given me the night off. She's spending it consoling her husband. Are you planning to waste it hanging out with your friends or indulging in a spot of ... home cooking?” Elidnor purred suggestively, batting her eyelashes.
"If you don't mind, I have, er, a bun to put in the oven,” Pottbur lamely analogized to his fellow diners, hurriedly excusing himself from the table. Attired simply in an open-necked white linen shift matched by black leather breeches, the lustful chef looked more like a corpulent gigolo. Playfully smacking Elidnor's swaying bum as they made their way giggling out of the hall, her response echoed in the hallway.
"When are you going to make an honest maiden out of me, Pottie? I want to set our wedding date."
"There's talk of going to war with Carnach over this morning's dreadful business. As royal chef, I'll be expected to do the Crown Prince's catering on the frontline. Army cooks are just plain unadventurous when it comes to setting menus."
"What has that got to do with marrying me?"
"I can't possibly wed you and then go off into the thick of culinary combat,” stalled the chef. “I'd hate you to wind up a war widow."
"The only chance of that happening is if you choke on a pheasant bone!” rejoined the long-suffering maid, her lament fading down the hallway.
Mernoll Macehitter glumly shook his head. “Elidnor wants her cake and eat it too. My pal's bachelor days are fast coming to a close. I'm afraid he'll have a gold band thrust on his finger before too long. At least the wedding feast will be good compensation."
"The whole shebang will cost him a packet,” envisaged Morband. “That wench has expensive tastes. A woman will empty your purse quicker than a losing dilcarf hand and keep coming back for more."
"Is that why you never married?” asked Khandoss.
"Na, he could never find a maid with a big enough dowry,” snickered Mernoll.
The Despenser sneered at the jibing Home Watch captain.
Maldoch muzzled his disapproval. Their king teetering on the brink of death, here the managerial Dwarfs were debating the inscrutability that was women! Highlanders were the epitome of practicality. Nothing further could be done for the shot king and the citadel defenses, while compromised, stood unbroken. Life went on regardless.
Morband appraised the watchful wizard, iron eyes aping an undertaker gauging the dimensions of a potential casket filler. “Come for a free lunch, wizard?"
Disadvantaged by the Despenser knowing what he was, Maldoch simply stated, “I'm here at Valoria's request."
"The princess excels at dispensing invitations willy-nilly,” griped Morband. “Convenient that she isn't playing hostess."
Insight smacked the wizard on the nose like a rolled up parchment. This was no mere lunch date, but a carefully contrived council. Valoria proved herself a crafty player in the masculine game of politics. With her husband and father-in-law incapacitated both, she had maneuvered the kingdom's crucial executives into an unofficial brainstorming session. If he wore a hat, Maldoch would have taken it off in salute to her subtle manipulation.
Noting other absences at the table, he wondered aloud, “Where's Olab Strongarm?"
"The Warchief is away inspecting regimental units down south. He's wintering in Pendalth and won't be back until spring,” supplied Khandoss.
"And Rulfass Ironhelm?"
"Ploughing through the snow in a vain effort at catching the Goblin catapult crew."
"How many do they chase?"
"Going by their widely spaced footprints, no more than half a dozen, Maldoch. The cowards scarpered eastwards at breakneck speed right after yanking the trigger rope. They probably reached the Frigid Coast before Ironhelm's circus got their ponies saddled."
"Why run for the coast?” puzzled Mernoll.
"My guess is they had a ship waiting to effect their escape."
Maldoch agreed with Stoneclub's supposition. “Faster than a getaway cart."
"I don't need their presence to chair this meeting,” Morband said of the missing commanders.
"Conducting an inquiry biased against me, more like it,” Mernoll declared worriedly, his longstanding enmity with Dalcorne High's caretaker widely known to all within and without the castle. “You're just looking to affix blame."
"As head of castle security you should expect disciplinary action. Your Home Watch failed in their duty to prevent intruders scaling the wall, which resulted in turning the king into a soprano."
Khandoss came to his fellow soldier's defense. “Who could have foreseen the Carnks crazy method of entry, Morband?"
"Someone concerned more with fulfilling the requirements of his station than filling his belly."
"Now see here, Despenser. I take my job earnestly."
"Protecting Gamecook's pastries doesn't count,” scoffed Morband.
"Wheesht!” Khandoss bellowed deafeningly in Maldoch's ear. His roar for quiet quelled the bickering for now. “Not one of us is to blame for what befell his Majesty. We just have to pick up the pieces. As I am senior officer..."
"Hold on, laddie,” Mernoll interrupted, mimicking Stoneclub's thick brogue. “Who died to leave you in charge?” The insensitivity of his disputation struck those in the hall like china crockery dropped on a stone tiled floor.
Khandoss picked up the pieces. “Our king is nae dead yet, but until Olab comes in from the cold I'm acting Warchief of the Highland Regiments. That gives me jurisdiction over the Grays, Home Watch, even the two old snoring fogies guarding the strong room in their sleep. Ain't that so, Despenser?"
Morband gave the Scouts commander the nod.
"They practically did,” contended Morband. “It's only a matter of time before King Dalcorne expires. When that happens, to quote an old Highland saying, The shite will grit the pan."
"Exactly what the Goblins want, confusion and panic."
The tartan-clad steward met the wizard's knowing stare. “Meaning?"
Maldoch shrugged unhelpfully. “To what end is anyone's guess."
"Maybe to get the jump on us,” fretted Khandoss.
"Not in the middle of winter,” jeered Mernoll. “You'd have to be crazier than a loon to wade through snowdrifts just to take pot-shots at us."
"In case you missed the newsflash, they just flung themselves at the castle walls. You don't get nuttier than that,” reasoned Khandoss.
"And in order to do that they crossed the border somewhere unmet by your lads,” the Home Watch commander sniped at his Eastridge Scouts counterpart. “It's your job to fence the front yard, mine to lock the house up."
Livid, Khandoss twiddled the V of his two-tone beard. “Macehitter, you have only this castle to guard."
"The townsfolk too,” added Mernoll, protection of the walled civilian community lumped on to his overfull plate.
Unimpressed, Khandoss trumped his critic's avowal. “My scouts patrol two hundred and fifty leagues of unfenced mountainous terrain. We can't possibly cover all paths and passes."
"That's Stoneclub's valid excuse, houseboy. What's yours? You can't even secure Dalcorne High."
Cut further down to size by Morband's acidity, Mernoll felt shorter than a Dwarf should.
"That chaos you're foretelling won't happen, wizard,” surmised the Despenser. “King Dalcorne dies. Prince Dalcorne ascends the throne. Carallord retains her ruler. That's my prediction."
"Junior will be king in name only,” refuted the wizard. “Dalcorne Two is handier with a quill than an axe. If more trouble does blow in from the west, he won't be able to write his way out of it."
"That is true,” Morband admitted rather candidly.
Mernoll pounced on the slur. “Talk like that could be construed as treasonous.” He shrank a shirt size when the Despenser's glower fell on him.
"There hasn't been a case of treason in Carallord for over thirteen hundred years,” Morband pointed out. “Not since Therob Ironhand confessed to plotting the abortive overthrow of the Steelfist kingship and was rightly beheaded for his treachery. Doesn't your family have kingship ties to the Ironhands, Mernoll?"
Squirming under Morband's steely gaze, the discomfited Home Watch commander tugged at the collar of his mail shirt. “Distantly, and only by marriage,” he counteracted in a sullen tone.
"Maldoch, are you honestly expecting the Carnks to return in force?” pressed Khandoss.
"It's on the cards. And Dalcorne Junior is unfit to rule if they do."
"And what qualifies an outsider such as yourself to make that judgment?” said Morband, a disquieting lilt of agreeability in his voice.
"Two thousand years of watching Dwarf monarchs come and go,” bragged Maldoch. “Your prince is nice, and nice guys finish last. He lacks his father's killer instinct. He never served in the regiments, never even been on a boar hunt. You need a basher, not a bookworm, for the rocky road ahead. He's too civilized."
The hard truth pounded the Highlanders. An ineffectual king was worse than being kingless.
The spellcaster hammered his point home. “All your infighting will play straight into Goblin claws if they decide to follow up"'
"They dinna have claws, just sharp fingernails,” corrected Khandoss.
"Semantics. They can still scratch out a nation's eyes and render it blind. If you are to restore a semblance of leadership to Carallord, act now and team up."
"We can't bypass the chain of command,” disputed Mernoll. “The Crown Prince is next in line to the throne. The way things stand, he needs to pre-approve any military action."
"Junior's in no fit state to decide what to have for breakfast let alone sanction strategy,” muttered the wizard. That much had been evidently clear on his visit to the king's bedchamber.
Khandoss turned to Morband for backup. “You're a high head on crown law. Have we a leg to stand on?"
The Despenser took the flattery and ran with it. “From a purely legal standpoint, we're on shaky ground. The king exercises absolute rule. Ordinarily, all major decisions affecting the kingdom must meet with his approval before implementation."
Bit hard to get his say-so when the old boy's on his deathbed Maldoch sourly considered.
"This is far from being an ordinary situation,’ continued Morband. ‘His Majesty is out of action and incapable of giving commands. In one respect, it would have been less complicated if the Goblin bolt from the blue killed him outright."
"Fortkeeper!"
"Keep your kilt on, Mernoll. I harbor no desire to see the king die, any more than those at this table. But face facts—things are frustratingly muddled. A straightforward assassination would have installed the Crown Prince with the least amount of fuss. What we are left with is a not-quite-dead monarch and his uncrowned successor. Technically, King Dalcorne remains in charge until his last breath leaves his lungs. Ideally, the Caucus of Chiefs could grant the heir emergency powers of rule in the short-term. Realistically, the clan chiefs are snowed in and can't convene until the spring melt. Carallord is at present without a clear-cut sovereign."
"And legally?” prompted Khandoss, tiring of the longwinded answer to his simple question.
"That's at your discretion, Acting Warchief. You can declare martial law and take over the kingdom without further ado. The royals will have to bow to military authority if you choose that course of action."
"You could have said so earlier and saved time, Despenser."
"And pass up the chance to lecture everyone,” leered Morband.
"What about his Highness?” persisted Mernoll. “You can't cut him out of the loop just like that!” He slammed his palm on the tabletop to underline his objection, rattling the silverware.
Khandoss looked again to the steward, who stated in legal jargon, “If the Crown Prince interferes, I can have him declared unfit to challenge regimental authority on the grounds of diminished capacity resulting from grief."
"Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Khandoss mumbled to the conniving Despenser.
"Hold on. Am I the only one sensing a but coming?” forecast Maldoch.
All eyes rested on Morband Fortkeeper. “The wizard is astute,” he conceded. “Martial law can only be enacted in wartime."
The burden of the northland, doubled by winter's snowy weight gain, pressed down on Khandoss Stoneclub, smothering any optimism.
"It's your call to make,” Morband pressured him. “To take charge of Carallord and bring stability to the north, all you have to do is wage war on Carnach."
This time Khandoss turned to Maldoch for support. The wizard offered none, preoccupied with why Fortkeeper was so gung-ho for warring with the west. The opinion he did deign to finally impart brought no cheer to the undecided Scouts leader.
"By all means take precautions. Padlock this castle securer than a virgin's chastity belt. But in declaring war on Goblinkind, you'll commit not only Dwarfs, but also Elves and Men, to a nationwide fray. Thousands might die from the wrong choice you make. You will go down in history as the instigator of Terrath's first ever race war. Infamy will look real good on your résumé, Khandoss Stoneclub."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seventeen
"You're wet!"
Maldoch glared accusingly at Parndolc's dripping face after stating the obvious. It was early evening and the disjointed head of the technical wizard bobbed against the dimming daylight in the blue haze of an active spell.
"Bugger off, Mal! I'm not in the mood for your wit today."
"And here's
me thinking you'd welcome this call. It has been over three years since we last talked."
Parndolc refused to care. “I've just had a dunking in Fragmere, so I'm not exactly in the right frame of mind for a friendly chat. All I want is to soak in a hot tub with a cup of mulled wine to warm me insides."
"It's the middle of winter. What were you doing in the lake?"
"Going for an invigorating polar swim.” When his flippancy failed to satisfy his nosy brother, Parndolc glumly revealed, “My latest effort at gliding ended in a splashdown again. Should've expected it. Bats aren't the strongest fliers."
Rolling his eyes, Maldoch rebuked, “Are you still persisting with that craziness? If Jeshuvallhod meant us to have wings, he'd have come up with a flying spell."
"Spare me your lectures, brother. Where are you?"
"Staying at a seedy inn for the night in Pendalth."
"What are you doing there?"
"Passing through on my way to Alberion. I've an errant prince to set straight.'
"Must be urgent to make you traipse through all that snow. You're chancing things by contacting me. What if black-britches traces the call?"
Maldoch sneered with a laugh. “Omelchor couldn't find me if he fell over me."
Ducking out of the picture, Parndolc reappeared drying his sopping face with a towel. “That's always been you're trouble, magic man. You've never given Omel enough credit."
"He doesn't deserve any."
"Listen to you! Omelchor is a better spellcaster by far, only your ego won't let you admit that."
"Balderdash!'
"Really? I remember a certain levitating contest between the two of you that you lost. Badly."
Maldoch glanced shiftily about the shabby, candlelit cubicle he was rooming in. “I don't recall,” he mumbled.
"You uprooted a tree and, if memory serves me right, Omelchor beat that childish feat by lifting a whole mountain."
"Big deal. Any fool can elevate an overgrown rock. It takes skill to transplant an entire redwood ... roots, earth, and all."
"A whole forest would've impressed me more. You've ever been a sore loser, Mal. Where have you been lately?"
Wizard's Goal Page 27