Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "Good oh. Everything's squared then. Release me."

  Lindan was in no way about to be bamboozled so easily by the manipulative wizard. “Not so fast. I'm far from being satisfied. You were in Alberion at the time of the incident."

  "So I was. Visiting you, if my failing memory serves me correct. Something about arming against the possibility of a race war, as I recall. This is why I'm here."

  Disregarding the hint for a change of topic, Lindan pursued his line of questioning. As a matter of princely education he studied the broader aspects of law and this interview had the smack of a trial to it. “According to eyewitness testimony, a man allegedly fitting your build and looks bluffed his way into the jail to bust out a Carnachian made up to look like an Elf. That's a pretty serious allegation in my book."

  Not the only one schooled in the convoluted rumblings of the legal machine, Maldoch relaxed his breathing and went to do battle with the Prince of Men. “Let's review facts. One: the man in question was a drunkard. I don't drink ... you said so yourself. Two: there is a man out there known to impersonate me, a man who has fooled even your leading spy into thinking he was tailing me. This actor has some skills at wizardry and does have ties to the West. With me in the capital, there was no better time for him to stir up trouble. Three: I am Maldoch the Magnificent. Would I knowingly consort with a Goblin agent after exhorting you to gear up for a war with Carnach!” His final point punched home, the spellcaster shook his handcuffed hands to cement his winning the case.

  Lindan obligingly fetched a key from the one of the coppers stationed outside the stall. His law tutor had plainly been an imbecile.

  "What a sensible lad,” gloated the wizard while the silent prince freed him. Rubbing the circulation back into his wrists, Maldoch pushed the stall doors closed again. “What's this foolishness I hear from the Dwarfs about your lack of preparedness for war?” he accused.

  "You heard wrong,” denied the prince.

  "So that fool Bruchanner hasn't been writing the Dalcornes telling them that, since there's no obvious Goblin build-up on the border, Anarica won't be coming to the party when called for?"

  "I can explain that."

  "Do so, and in the bargain tell me why you appointed such a jackass as ambassador to Carallord."

  "Folham Bruchanner unfortunately has that appointment for life. He's a friend of the family owed a big favor by my father."

  "The Holbyants should choose their friends more carefully. The idiot is a liability."

  "No argument there,” agreed Lindan. “Bruchanner has his uses. Arrow's presently using him to feed misinformation up north."

  "Whatever for?"

  "To keep the Savanth's off balance."

  Maldoch despaired. “Terrath's on the eve of the biggest punch up in history and Anarica's playing internal politics. The entire Goblin nation might come calling pretty soon and from where I'm standing you'll be answering the door with your britches down round your ankles! Are you insane, boy?” he roared, arms spinning around like windmills.

  Muffled cries of concern came from outside the closed stable doors, only to be shouted down by Dikor's overriding command that those standing watch let the prince be, that Lindan was in no danger, and that Starf would knock on his butt the first man to try barging in.

  When the furor died down, Lindan calmly told the wizard, “My mental health is fine thanks."

  "Then give."

  "Do you want the short or long version?"

  "Give me the complete version. I'm not fond of surprises."

  "Have a seat then. This could take a while."

  Maldoch flopped back on to the straw, grumbling to himself, “How come royalty can't ever provide me with a comfortable chair."

  "Righto,” began Lindan. “For starters, our readiness for war is not an issue. Marshal Toombe has everything in hand and assures me that he now has sufficient troop numbers to mount the best possible defense of Anarica. All the old warhorse needs is to know where to place his men."

  "That's easy. Montaine Divide,” Maldoch informed him.

  "Enoh thought as much. He's been concentrating the military buildup down in the Lower Wade for reasons of logistics, as well as secrecy. It won't take much to march his men to the Divide from there."

  "So what do the Savanths have to do with your letting the Dwarfs think they can't count on you for support?"

  "Security, Maldoch.” The prince pursed his lips in reflection. “About eighteen months after your midnight call, the body of a mail rider was found in a ditch beside the Northern Royal Roadway outside Orvanthe."

  "People die. It's the major drawback in life."

  "I've said something similar myself,” recalled Lindan. “This man was special, however. He was a courier for the barony and, more importantly, an undercover SHIC."

  "One of Arrow's boys?"

  "Blain's had a nagging suspicion about Ormish Savanth for some time and put the baron under surveillance. Embah has a nose for sniffing out trouble spots. Even though the Knights of Torth Valcnor are impossibly hard to infiltrate, he managed to slip one of his operatives in as a messenger. This agent got word to a fellow spy that he'd be carrying an incriminating dispatch to Anarica on the day he died. He didn't elaborate on the contents of this message, other than a vague reference to a conspiracy."

  "Involving whom?"

  Lindan answered the wizard with a shrug. “When the agent didn't make the rendezvous his contact discreetly searched the area and discovered the corpse. The man had been beheaded execution style."

  "That rules out brigands,” mused Maldoch. “Robbers are not that meticulous. They prefer stabbing a victim in the back. It sounds like Arrow's man had his cover blown and was killed for it."

  "Blain concluded the same, even going so far in thinking that the courier run had been a set up to test the man. He plainly failed it."

  "I've never been good at tests either,” the spellcaster wisecracked.

  The prince gave him a dark look of reproof. There was nothing funny about a man's brutal death, especially a loyal servant of the crown. “A search of the murder scene found a not quite empty mail pouch. The agent's killers hadn't been as thorough as they liked and left behind a scrap of parchment. There wasn't much sense to be made from it, but it did point to a plot against me."

  Maldoch was not happy by that prospect. “This is all I need ... Anarica divided by treason. Who's thrown their hat in the ring with that ugly little baron?"

  "Blain doesn't know. He came off your trail to chase down some leads and has been hitting stonewalls ever since. Whoever Ormish is in league with has taken great pains to remain anonymous. Could it be this twin of yours stirring the pot?"

  "He's not that subtle. I fail to see why you're spoon feeding false info to Carallord."

  "Orvanthian spies are known to routinely peruse ambassadorial dispatches to the Highlanders. If Savanth learns that royal troops are preparing to do battle with the East, it could give him ideas on making some kind of move with his silent partner while the army is diverted."

  The wizard cottoned on. “That's not a bad ploy. By letting Ormish think things are normal, you're forcing him to keep his tin can soldiers at home. The downside to that is alienating the Dwarfs."

  The Prince of Men disagreed with a wry smile. “Carallord's in the know regarding my strategy."

  "Not according to Dalcorne Junior."

  "I've not been dealing with the Crown Prince. I'm corresponding on the sly with Dalcorne Senior."

  The high and mighty spellcaster was brought down a peg or two. He had misjudged the Dwarf King's abilities. Dalcorne the Elder was not the simple soldier he made himself out to be. He was in fact a crafty statesman too.

  "Where do we stand then?” Maldoch snapped ungraciously at Lindan. He disliked being duped.

  "The conditions laid down in the Collective Shield Pact are in full effect: unconditional military support between our two nations against a mutual aggressor. Toombe and the Dwarf Warchief have
been in long distance collusion drawing up provisional battle plans. They only have to be finalized. Arms have been stockpiled and fresh recruits trained up. But intelligence reports from Serepar indicate zero Carnachian troop movements. However, as you requested three years ago, we're as ready as can be. We just need a start date."

  "I'll ask the Goblins to get in touch with you about that,” the irked wizard said snidely. “I've a hunch it won't be far off now, so you'd better get your armies into position. Sulca's forecasting the mother of all storms, princeling, and the time for subterfuge is at an end."

  "I'll get King Dalcorne to go on standby."

  Maldoch refrained from revealing that the prince could soon be dealing with the next generation Dwarf regent. Carallord would inform the princedom when the change of kings transpired.

  "For my part, I'll need some help from you, Magnificent One,” greased Lindan.

  "I'm supposed to be down in Gwilhaire Wood by now, young Holbyant, invoking the Western Transgression Alliance on your behalf. Unless you've beaten me to the punch on that as well."

  "The Elves haven't exactly been forthcoming in joining us. I've dispatched couriers, only to have every one of them turned back at the border by the Foresters. The Lothberens have shut up shop entirely. You'll need the luck of the Maker to get through yourself. Before you do head off, give me a hand to persuade the House of Nobles that more than a border skirmish is around the corner."

  "You haven't told them?"

  "It hasn't cropped up in conversation,” the Prince of Men simpered in all innocence. “And I doubt our friendly Horse Lady will welcome elements of the Royal High Army traipsing across her plains without good cause. If you explain the situation to the peerage, they'll accept it and come onside a lot quicker."

  Maldoch tugged at his silky beard. “That's debatable, but I might hang about if only to ensure proceedings go off without a hitch. I don't want slowpoke nobles stuffing up a defensive campaign before it even gets underway. Therefore, I'll stay on three conditions."

  "Name them,” said the relieved prince, welcoming the wizard's aid in convincing the ratbag nobility to back his prudence.

  "Feed me a decent lunch. I'm sick of eating worms."

  Lindan turned an unhealthy shade of green from that divulgence. “What else?” he asked, returning the kerchief to his mouth.

  "Get me a room well away from the stables, then run me a bath. I smell like a horse."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Tough crowd."

  Maldoch was not kidding. Half the nobles convened at Bridgewater eyed the spellcaster as if he were some sort of pox visited upon them. As if that was not enough to put him off, public speaking terrified the wizard. In spite of his legendary stature, he would rather face a thousand Banshees than talk in front of an audience.

  "That's why you're my guest speaker,” Lindan murmured back. “They'd never believe me otherwise. I'll get the ball rolling."

  "Uphill I bet,” the spellcaster fretted. He wallowed in a sour mood. Lindan made him wait five long days for the anticipated arrival of Duke Sollerd Widham and his first meal out of badger form after seven weeks munching on earthworms comprised the latest culinary craze sweeping the upmarket eateries of Anarica ... spaghetti!

  The Prince of Men pushed his chair back and rose, planting his hands on the wood and shell tabletop dominating the conference chamber. “Nobles of Anarica, let me introduce the wizard Maldoch to you all. Some of you may already know the Magnificent One, the rest will know of him. He's the recognized guardian of Terrath and has vital news to tell us that will impinge on Anarica and her allies."

  Lindan sat, cueing the spellcaster to take his place. Occupying Dorin Ulc's chair, Maldoch reluctantly stood and was clearing his throat when a hard-edged voice rang out.

  "Don't bother, magician. We all know there's going to be friction with the Goblins."

  Indignant, Maldoch resumed his seat and huffed, “That ruined my surprise."

  "I thought you weren't fond of surprises,” Lindan reminded him.

  "Only when I'm on the receiving end."

  Prince Holbyant searched out the spoilsport with his roving eyes. “Eflam Khun, what do you know of it?"

  The bullish Count of Serepar lounged in his chair adjacent to the Strantharians and directly across the table from the Orvanthes, that position signifying his loyalties. “Only what the rumors are telling me, Highness."

  "Don't put too much stock in hearsay,” cautioned Lindan.

  "Oh please!” scorned Eflam. “Don't insult my intelligence."

  "No problem there,” chimed in Chilton Avernish. “My wolfhounds are smarter than you."

  The offended count aimed a dagger-filled stare at the cheeky, fashionably attired Earl of Lorrens.

  Lindan resisted the impulse to cheer. Avernish had scored one for the pro-Holbyants at the table. It counted for much.

  The seating arrangement at Bridgewater was not a random affair. The Earls of Naprise and Lorrens, trusted implicitly by the crown, sat at Lindan's end on his right and left hand respectively in a deliberate show of solidarity. Sollerd Widham was slotted in between Chilton Avernish and the mediating Earl of Jarde, Arnis Frythe, who was placed next to Baron Savanth and in doing so provided an invaluable buffer separating the sparring nobles of Karavere and the Stranth. On the opposite side of the table, hardy Parin Olc, Baron of Yordl, divided his sensitive Naprise colleague, Adriac Drell, from the disreputable Viscount Haston, Sul DeChalny, whipping boy of Eflam Khun.

  "You mean we're not here to discuss roading?” queried Sollerd Widham. There was relief in his voice. He faced a mammoth road-fixing tax dumped on him by the unsympathetic Treasurer.

  "The rumors you've heard are likely not exaggerations,” confirmed the prince. “We're on the eve of an all-out bash with Carnach and it's not going to be pretty.” A barrage of questions flew Lindan's way and he addressed the most common one. “I was initially warned by Maldoch prior to my coronation,” he revealed.

  "You've known for that long and kept us in the dark the whole time."

  Lindan replied to the condemnation from Ormish Savanth. “I didn't want to panic the general public, Baron. Rioting on the streets will serve no-one's interests."

  Ittoria Coramm broke her silence with mockery. “How noble, boy."

  "Milady, you forget yourself!” growled Drey Wynsorr, sticking up for his slighted prince.

  "And you have the manners of an ill bred mule!” returned General Speryl Dath, coming off his chair, fists at the ready.

  "Sit back down!” commanded Lindan. Stranth Tor's topmost horseman only did so at a discreet nod from his mistress. “We are all privileged members of the nobility,’ continued the prince, “oath-bound to protect and care for those we rule over.'

  "Here, here,” said Earl Drell.

  "Secrecy has been necessary, but openness is what's called for now. The Goblins are apparently getting ready to march east anytime and I need your unilateral support to get the realm through this crisis."

  "You can count on Lorrens, Highness."

  "And Naprise, Prince Lindan."

  "You've already got Yordl,” added Parin Olc, “considering you've been using my fief as a training ground for new recruits over the past few months. I've been wondering why the Royal High Army unaccountably doubled in size during peacetime."

  "That explains the wagonloads of men and materiel regularly trundling down south,” commented General Dath. The gradual build up had not gone unnoticed.

  "And the mercenary hike in taxes to pay for all that cartage, eh Wynsorr? You bloodsucker,” bemoaned Duke Widham.

  The Chancellor of the Realm objected at being talked to in such a manner. He had only been doing his job. “There are only two certainties in life, Your Grace ... death and taxes,” he pointed out. “Which do you prefer?"

  The Ship Lord bowed his head and conceded with a mutter, “Touché."

  "Are the rest of you aiming to get
over your huff at being left out of the loop and commit your districts to the cause?” pushed Lindan.

  Always a keen gambler, Sollerd said, “Deal me in,” if only to get one up over his female archrival. Even in the face of continental war, politicking took precedence over everything else!

  The warrior in Ormish Savanth tempered his detestable pride and he too threw in his lot with the crown. “My knights are at your disposal, Prince Holbyant. A real battle will make a welcome change from war games."

  That offer was a pleasant surprise for Lindan, and his thanks in response sincere.

  Only the headstrong Marquise of Stranth remained non-committal. Pursing her lips, she demanded, “I want to hear from the wizard."

  "Trust a woman to be the fly in the ointment,” grouched Maldoch. “I can't add much more to what young Lindan's laid out, Ittoria Coramm. After three decades of solidifying their tribes, the Goblins want to occupy the rest of Terrath. And it's up to the likes of us to stop them. The Dwarfs are already onside, the Elves will be shortly."

  Ittoria's unresponsive eyes fixed on the spellcaster. “You've always been in the corner of the Holbyants, Your Magnificence."

  Maldoch rejoined, “I've ever sided with the Prince of Men, whatever his last name. Don't twist this into a foolish power play, Marquise. You just might find yourself squabbling over patches of scorched pasture with land-grabbing Carnachians."

  Lady Coramm backed off—a tad. “Aren't you a wanted man, Old One?"

  Lindan stepped in smartly to defuse the explosive situation. “That matter has been cleared up, madam. It was a simple case of mistaken identity. I'll be issuing a royal pardon exonerating Maldoch of any wrongdoing the moment I get back to the palace."

  "What of the alleged Goblin spy?” Eflam Khun butted in. “Was the beggar nabbed?"

  "He got clean away, but the warrant for his arrest remains outstanding. Maybe we'll find him by joining forces."