Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  The Horse Lady matched stares with the Prince of Men in a tense standoff of wills before saying, “I'll ride with you, Lindan Holbyant. You can't possibly win a war without my cavalry."

  That was good enough for the Anarican monarch. Lindan openly breathed a sigh of relief: he had his worrisome vote of confidence. He touched Drey Wynsorr's shoulder and the chancellor automatically left the conference room, only to have his empty seat filled by the regimented Enoh Toombe marching into the windowed chamber moments later.

  "The Marshal will give us a quick rundown on general troop deployment as nutted out with his Dwarf opposite,” Lindan informed the assembly. “After that, the territorial commanders serving those of you with private armies can thrash out the specifics with liaison officers that'll be assigned to them from the Royal High Army in due course. I'll remind you that Toombe retains full authority over all soldiery, whether they work for the princedom or nobility."

  That rankled both the officer in charge of the Strantharian Lancers and the baronial head of the Knights of Torth Valcnor. They wisely said nothing however. The chain of command was indissoluble.

  A concern was raised by the timid Earl of Naprise. “Highness, what contribution do you expect from those nobles with only household bodyguards?"

  "We'll cross that bridge next, Adriac.” Lindan could not but help inject a little humor into the grim proceedings, even if it went unappreciated.

  Enoh Toombe removed the plumed helm from his head, set it down on the uncluttered table before him, and needlessly smoothed his short, muddy-hued hair. He then leaned over to spread out in the middle of the table the roll of parchment he brought with him, placing inkpots at four points to keep the corners from curling back. It was a black and white three quarters rendition of Terrath, bold red arrows highlighting key military positions. Inclining his head to Speryl Dath out of professional respect, the Marshal of the Army removed a pointer from his belt and began.

  "Lady and gentlemen, the brunt of the Goblin attack is expected to come through either here, at Montaine Divide,"—he tapped the cross indicating where Ishnal Watchtower was sited—"or more probably Frelok Pass over in Carallord. Although preliminary intelligence indicates that the enemy is more likely to want to secure a foothold in the gemstone rich highlands first, we cannot discount a diversionary thrust into Anarica as an opening strike. Our strategy is simple: contain the invaders at whichever proves their point of entry, denying them the chance to break out. To meet that aim the newly formed Third Foot Brigade of the Royal High Army, currently stationed in a training camp outside Yordl, will be marched to Serepar and joined there by the First Foot. Count Khun and his Borderlanders will place themselves under my direct command. The Lancers of Stranth will naturally form the cavalry component of that joint force under General Dath's leadership, with his consent."

  Speryl gave it with a flicker of his eyebrows. It seemed the marshal was utilizing a measure of Holbyant diplomacy.

  "Baron Savanth, your Torth Valcnor chargers will deploy to Pendalth and place themselves under the jurisdiction of the Axeswing chieftain."

  "Be commanded by a Dwarf?” spluttered Ormish. “Prince Lindan, my knights are proud men. They'll not readily submit to midget control."

  "They can and they will.” Lindan was adamant.

  "I'll not leave Orvanthe unguarded."

  "No-one's expecting you to, milord,” mollified Enoh. “The Second Foot will take up position between your barony and the earldom of Jarde. Seeing the Dwarfs haven't much in the way of mounted soldiery, your heavy cavalry has to make up for their deficiency."

  And keep Savanth out of my hair Lindan shrewdly schemed. The wait for the errant Duke of Karavere had not been wasted. The prince and his marshal spent the time profitably reviewing and revising battle plans, one of the happier results tucking the vexing knights out of harm's way. By the frustrated look on the veined face of Ormish Savanth as he angrily twirled the ends of his handlebar moustache, the baron was having the same thought. What possible use could his armored horsemen be in the close confines of a forest?

  Sollerd Widham volunteered his own take on things. “Obviously this is to be a land war fought by your grunts, Marshal. So you'll have no need for my Coastal Guard. That being the case, Highness, might I suggest lowering the taxes on Karavere? I'm stuffed if I'll help finance the nags of the Lancers."

  "Whoever said that freedom has no price was wrong,’ stated Lindan. “It costs dearly. The fifteen per cent tax increase will stand. As for your boats, they'll be sailing up and down the Sprinth Channel ferrying men and supplies, as well as fulfilling my obligation to our Dwarf allies by patrolling the Frigid Coast. Carallord is no sea power and holds the fear that Goblin raiders will sail around the tip of the Barren Wilds to infest Coldwater Sea. You'll need to outfit your sailor boys with cold weather gear, Your Grace."

  "At your own expense,” added the chancellor.

  The slobbery Duke baulked at having to dig deep into duchy pockets to pay for oilskins, fur-lined boots and hats for his seamen. Surely they could simply make do with the holey blankets they had now?

  "What will Yordl's role be in all of this?” Olc asked his prince.

  Lindan's answer was extremely complimentary. “Parin, you're a master logistician. I want you to handle the supply lines for the realm's forces. Hungry soldiers don't win battles."

  The flattered earl pointed out, “That'll be difficult, what with me stuck at the bottom of the Lower Wade."

  That base was already covered. “Which is why for the duration of the conflict you'll be directing wagon traffic from Alberion,” Lindan advised him. “I'm sure Stranth Tor can manage the affairs of your fiefdom while you're away from home."

  "My pleasure,” smarmed Ittoria Coramm. “Will his Highness be leading by example when fighting does break out?"

  Lindan puckered his brow, unclear over her presumption.

  "The Dwarf King will be at the fore of his little diggers when they tackle the big, nasty Goblins,” teased the Marquise. “I assume you will emulate his leadership style. But have a care when out on the battlefield, boy-prince. You've foaled no heir yet. If you happen to fall in combat...” Ittoria actually smiled. “A noble, dare I say even a woman, might need to seize the throne in order to save a headless principality from tearing itself apart."

  The Prince of Men was stunned to dumbness by her impertinence. It was nothing short of a threat.

  "You've always deluded yourself about becoming a princess, Ittoria,” mocked Sollerd. “The realm would never accept you in power."

  "Because I'm a woman, Widham?"

  "No, because you're so damn frigid! Nobody wants to be ruled by an ice sculpture."

  Fed up with the bickering nobles, Marshal Enoh Toombe overstepped his military bounds to put his booted foot down. “His Highness will be nowhere near the frontline, so I can guarantee his safety. If actions go according to plan, the army will nip any race war in the bud before it has a chance to bloom.'

  "Interesting analogy, Marshal,” said Maldoch.

  "My sister is an avid gardener."

  "Good for her."

  "You've something to add, wizard?"

  "Mmm. Optimism and a green thumb won't make Terrath a safer place. The Goblins are poised to progress from niggly border tussles to outright war. Better prepared and more driven, they are a union to be reckoned with. So don't expect to end future hostilities overnight. We're in it for the long haul, gentlemen."

  Ittoria Coramm coughed meaningfully.

  "It's no oversight on my part, madam,” the spellcaster retorted. “When you dress and behave like a man, expect to be thought of as one."

  The Marquise of Stranth choked on that home truth.

  Speryl Dath objected to the continuous insults flung at his mistress and rose again to her defense. Maldoch waggled an evocative finger at the chivalrous horse general, and Dath smartly resumed his seat. If just half of the wild stories he heard about wizard power had a smidgen of truth to them,
only a madman would lock horns with Maldoch the Magnificent.

  The cream of Anarican nobility was reasonably behaved for what was left of the meeting. The generous glazing of the conference room bathed those brainstorming inside with the pale ruddiness of the passing winter's farewell sunset. While Haston was decided upon as the staging ground for field hospitals and supply dumps, Lorrens became the prime choice as a rest and recreation spot for battle weary troops, and Naprise allocated the backup tank for reserves of all sorts from men to maces.

  Oblivious to the planners, outside the first harbingers of spring were winging their way north. Snow curlews, having wintered over down south on the shoreline of the Anabrithe Waters, were returning to their tundra breeding grounds slap bang in the middle of Carnach's inhospitable Barren Wilds. The foot long waders with their characteristic probing bill and huge yellow eyes would soon be overflying the Stranth in huge flocks set to alight on the prairie to feed on cutworms and grasshopper larvae. The Strantharians caught a great many of these birds in nets at this time of year, regarding them as a seasonal delicacy. Maldoch dined on the cross-country fliers himself in the past and once made the unflattering pronouncement, “They taste like chicken."

  That night Maldoch slept like a log and sawed enough wood to build a bungalow with outhouse. The wizard was up with the birds and made ready to quit Bridgewater. He was not alone. Impatient to be home, Ittoria Coramm and retinue left for Stranth Tor before daybreak, while Count Khun, Viscount DeChalny and the two barons were heading to their respective fiefs at sunup. The trio of earls opted to accompany their monarch east when Lindan returned to palace life at Alberion in a day or so. However, the cheery prince had risen early to see the famed spellcaster off.

  Maldoch deflated Lindan. “You realize we pulled that off far too easily."

  "Must you put on a downer on my political coup? It's not every day the nobles are made to pull together for the common good."

  "That's what worries me, young Holbyant. Their togetherness won't last."

  "When they split, that'll be my problem.” Lindan remarked on the unpromising morn. “Not the best day for traveling, Magnificent One."

  The pair was farewelling in the lee of the gatehouse overlooking the Strantharian bank of Ohnab Streaming. Windy skies, dirtied by black clouds scooting across a smudgy grey overcast, screened winter's reluctance to loosen her frosty grip on the land.

  "It does rain an awful lot in Terrath.” Maldoch's generalized weather report was bang on the nose. In all his years wandering the countryside as the forecaster Sulca, rainy days outnumbered sunny days two to one.

  Lindan stood shivering in the milky dawn light, hands tucked inside the pockets of his dressing gown for warmth. Reminded of the night they were introduced, Maldoch was struck by the insightful conclusion that the teenaged boy rudely thrust into the limelight of governing a principality had done an adequate job of reigning over the course of those bumpy three years. Not even a prince could hope for unmitigated praise from a critiquing wizard! Maldoch only hoped Garrich had grown up in similar fashion.

  "Get yourself indoors before you catch your death and give Ittoria Coramm the satisfaction of prancing on your grave."

  "I'll hobble her first,” swore the prince. Eyeballing the Lancers staunchly guarding the south side of Bridgewater, Lindan was thankful for Starf Dikor and his boys running interference. His faithful Housecarls were sticking close and making their armed presence felt. Even when horseless, the spear-toting, leather armored cavalrymen intimidated all.

  "Time's wasting,” Maldoch gruffly proclaimed, shouldering his carryall and picking up his staff from where he had it propped against the mossy stone blocks of the gatehouse. “I've a fire to light beneath the Elves to get them moving before they miss the opening gambit entirely. If we're to shut the Goblins down before they hit their stride, all players must take to the field."

  Lindan jogged the wizard's memory. “Don't forget to hand the Elf Queen my petition."

  "It'll do no good. Elves can't read."

  "Wizards make excellent translators."

  The nostrils under Maldoch's hook of a nose flared. “Nobody likes a wiseass, Lindan ... least of all me. Why are you bothering putting in a formal request for an embassy at Lothberen when trouble looms?"

  "It's rude to read other people's mail, Magnificent One."

  "I'm the Guardian of Terrath. It's allowed. And do stop calling me that. You're making me sound like a prized bull. Are you going to answer the question or not?"

  "You told me to go inside."

  "I thought you were supposed to be a diplomat, boy."

  "I am my father's son. That's why I want to open up proper diplomatic relations with Gwilhaire before I freeze and this blasted war erupts. The Elven nation is supposedly our ally. We ought to be on the friendliest of terms."

  "Good luck, my starry-eyed princeling. Elves shun outside company almost as much as Goblins avoid bathing. I'll have my work cut out for me just persuading the Treesingers to send even a handful of archers to join the ranks of the Armies of the East."

  And with that glum forecast Maldoch set out for Gwilhaire Wood. The spellcaster walked less than a hundred paces of the 500 leagues of uneven paving stones forming the broken down Southern Royal Roadway when he found himself overtaken by a slowcoach. He impassively watched the scruffy coachman theatrically rein in his team of four plodding mules and the nearest door of the unwashed landau swing open. From beneath splotches of travel grime dirtying the door peeped a poorly painted rendition of the baronial crest of Yordl, a yellow spoked wagon wheel dividing two laden brown sacks set on a field of black striped with green vertical bars.

  "Ho there, Magnificent One,” hailed Parin Olc. “I don't normally pick up hitchhikers, but as Prince Lindan told me I was going your way I thought I'd offer you a lift."

  Maldoch accepted with a shrug and clambered aboard. “Beats walking.” He plopped himself down on the bench seat opposite his host, who tapped twice on the ceiling of the cab with his cane, the silver head of which was shaped in the stylized bust of a horse. The coach lurched forwards to the sound of a cracking whip at a pace slower than a sprinting snail. Mules were dependable, not speedy, haulers.

  "Imagine having Maldoch the Magnificent in my coach!” said the delighted baron, smiling goofily.

  The spellcaster downplayed the honor. “It's not worth bragging about. I don't often turn down anything that's free."

  "I hear you're headed to Elf country,” chitchatted Parin. “Might I offer you the hospitality of my estate for a night or two? Only a modest homestead, it keeps the rain out."

  The wizard declined. He was too busy to play houseguest.

  Undeterred by Maldoch's notorious impoliteness, Parin noted, “My, that was a particularly profitable session,” referring to the concluded get-together of nobles.

  That statement drew a response from the spellcaster. “The only ones to profit from wars are arms merchants and surgeons, Baron Olc. You are neither."

  "I'm just a poor country baron who lightened Sollerd's purse by thirty half shorrins last night. His Grace should know better than to pit his luck against me in a game of dilcarf."

  Maldoch scrutinized the Baron from Yordl with those all seeing eyes of his. Parin Olc, the baby of the dysfunctional family of nobles, looked older than his twenty-six years due largely to the outrageous carroty sideburns framing his puffy cheeks. A few pounds overweight, he wore his tweed doublet and breeches in the time honored rumpled fashion of the country bumpkin. Parin shared with the spellcaster the distinguishing feature of a prominent nose, though in the baron's case he was cursed with the pointy honker of a swordfish, not a hawk's regal profile.

  Parin Olc was something of an anomaly amongst the landed gentry. Not high born, his admittance to the closed circle of the aristocracy resulted from a combination of good fortune and doughtiness. The former baron of Yordl, a thoroughly unlovable fellow whose chief hobby was debauchery, had lain on his deathbed without an h
eir in sight: after a lifetime of womanizing, the poor sod failed to figure out he was shooting blanks. He remedied that quandary by holding a lottery to determine who amongst the sons of his household staff would be named his successor. Out of all the other contestants—there were only two—Parin Olc drew the winning straw. The old baron had a scribe alter and notarize his will accordingly five minutes before he expired from a nasty case of venereal disease. So it came to pass that the butler's, not the cook's, son was elevated from houseboy to lord by the stroke of a quill.

  There the fairytale promotion came unstuck. Learning of his unorthodox ascension to lands and title, the House of Nobles immediately convened and summoned the new Baron of Yordl, intending to strip the upstart servant of his newfound prominence. How dare the sprog of a manservant assume a barony on the outcome of a raffle? They had not reckoned on Prince Jannus Holbyant interceding. Lindan's father, married to a commoner himself, sided with the befuddled young man and presented the matter before the fairness of the highest court in the land, the Regalus Chancery. There followed a precedent setting eight-week trial, the verdict handed down from the Prime Judge and his panel of six magistrates quashing the objections from certain nobles over the sanity of the previous baron and the common bloodline of his replacement. Presbyter Jhonra ruled in legalese that the codicil was binding, citing the testimony of the attending physician called as witness to validate the old baron's lucidity in the last moments of his life, shattering the prosecution's cornerstone allegation of “syphilis madness". As for Olc's pedigree, “If clothes don't make the man, then neither does blue blood,” so said the churchman. The aristocrats were stumped. With no chance of appeal, they ungraciously swallowed the Royal Court of Justice sanctifying the investiture of Parin Olc as Baron of Yordl a month after the trial wrapped up. Their one consolation was that the newest member of the gentry could not be any more hopeless than the disgraceful letch he was replacing.

  "How about using your winnings to get this death trap fixed up?” Maldoch suggested for their taxi, fingering a split in the upholstery while frowning with disfavor at the tatty curtains. The exterior of the rundown coach was hardly any better, the harness frayed almost into disrepair and one of the wobbling back wheels perilously close to buckling, threatening to tip the whole contraption over should the trudging mules ever put on a burst of speed.