Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Irked by Ahnorr's flippancy, Norelda purposely stared him down, the skunk's bead-eyed gaze adding to the potentate's unsettledness. He swore the overgrown and piebald rat's glare looked accusatory, almost as if the animal knew what was being discussed and condemning him for it. Shrugging off the ridiculous notion, he threw the witch's glower back at her.

  She stood unbowed and stony-faced. “Omelchor desired the Axe of Power stolen, nothing more creative than that."

  "You can remind him that he recklessly wasted the finest thief at our disposal. Arnuthe might be in his hot, little wizard hands by now if he hadn't drowned Robannur."

  "And your brat has made things too hot in Carallord to continue. He bungled the kill."

  "Dalcorne the Elder lives?"

  "By a miracle, from what my spies report.” Infuriation emanated from the witch in angry waves. “What was Carlaw thinking gunning down the midget monarch?"

  Ahnorr wanted the answer to that poser as well. Carlaw's mission was to eradicate the whole Dalcorne line, not settle for incapacitating the geriatric head of the stunted family. A full account of the incident was a month off yet, when the Blackbolts sailed into Jameru Harbor. The getaway ship was a stroke of genius on Ahnorr's part. Nobody in their right mind foresaw a Surrid corsair braving the minefield of ice floes normally restricting shipping along the Frigid Coast during winter. Unbeknown to Ahnorr, his son's means of escape was foundering in heavy seas off C'irra Gord Point, those surviving the sinking swimming ashore at Rocky Sheer.

  "If I uncover your complicity in this debacle...” Norelda left the threat implied for maximum effect. Regrettably ending the scary moment, she ordered, “Stand your warriors down and return to Carnach."

  Mocking her command, Ahnorr sneered. “Is this the wizard's chastisement? Then he's punishing his own efforts. The Dwarfs will be panicked. There is no better time to sneak into the highlands and snatch the tract of land he covets."

  "Omelchor wanted them distracted, not disrupted."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "Because soon every Dwarf from Druscan to Dunmarl will be baying for Goblin blood,” seethed Norelda. “The element of surprise is lost. You were supposed to covertly secure a foothold in Northwood and consolidate your position when spring commenced, driving an impassable wedge between the northern and southern Dwarfs that might act as a simple launch ramp into the Heights."

  "That can still be realized,” argued Ahnorr. “In wintertime the northerners are as slothful as hibernating bears."

  "Until word gets out and Carallord swarms with vengeful midgets,” contradicted Norelda. “Winter won't cool highland tempers.” Sizing up her surroundings with a look of disdain, she observed, “You are running behind schedule anyway. By now you should have crossed this mountain range and begun infiltrating the forest on the other side. Stand down your slowpokes and go home."

  "I haven't climbed all this way just to turn back empty handed!” Ahnorr hotly contended.

  "Then fill your packs with snow, for all I care. But watch out ... I hear it melts in your hands, trickling through your fingers like the sands of wasted time."

  "My boys are expecting to loot Dwarf gold deposits. I dare not disappoint them."

  "They'll just have to wait to conduct that thievery."

  "How long? Their patience, like mine, is wearing dangerously thin, witch."

  "Don't browbeat me, Ahnorr. You haven't the balls for it."

  Showing uncharacteristic fatherly concern, he asked, “What of Carlaw's fate?” The combined wrath of wizard and witch would no doubt be heaped upon his son for messing up their scheming.

  "He will get what's coming to him,” vowed Norelda, the frostiness of her unfriendly promise freezing Ahnorr's blood colder than the alpine clime.

  "Making me heirless."

  "You have daughters. Promote them."

  "Not bloody likely ... they'll only turn into uppity witches."

  "Reigning in your tongue would be advisable, considering we're going to be working extremely closely together hereon in.” The news stung Ahnorr with the ferocity of a bee attack and Norelda wallowed in his revulsion, expounding, “Congratulations, hairball. We'll be collaborating on ushering in Terrath's very first race war. Because your boy stuffed up, the game plan needs revising. Secrecy must be thrown out the window if all of Carallord is to be conquered. Omelchor was hoping to avoid using a mallet to smash a walnut, but thanks to clumsy paws that's unfeasible now. You will therefore enthuse the whole of Carnach to make the big push next year, or you'll be winding up a lot taller and deader when your neck is stretched by a hangman's noose."

  Incensed beyond rational thought by the barefaced threat, Ahnorr recklessly snapped, “For thirty years I've ruled Grihaloecke with an iron fist, the last two of which I ground the seven other clans and the rest of Carnach under my heel ... all done without the hindrance of a bloody-minded woman."

  The witch let out an exasperated sigh. Even after 3,500 years, male chauvinism greatly annoyed her. That did not prevent her playing the game when needed. “I speak for Omelchor,” she reminded Ahnorr in a bridled tone.

  Mention of the terrifying wizard put Ahnorr back in his place. Pouting as he adjusted the leather bindings of his bracers, he mumbled, “I answer to him direct, not his bed warmer. He will hear of my maltreatment."

  Petting her skunk, Norelda returned, “I'm certain he will. Now follow, or do I have to thread a ring and chain through your nose in order to lead you around. The hourglass is trickling and we have much evil to plot.” Departing with sinuous grace, she glided away along the ledge, pulling the leashed and muzzled potentate in her wake.

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  Chapter Twenty One

  Garrich was fidgety. Spring was in the air and the young Goblin's hormones were stirring like the bubbling contents of the pot he vigorously swirled with a large wooden spoon. For as long as Garrich could remember he lived in the company of an old man. First Tylar, then briefly Maldoch, and more recently Parndolc ... hardly the best companionship for a maturing boy. Consequently a late bloomer, his thoughts and dreams predictably turned to girls. The closest he came to an exchange with a nymphet had been through a closed door with the undersexed landlady of an Alberion boarding house. And she was old enough to have been his mother! Garrich hid from Aliana like a rabbit ducking a hawk, not solely out of the need to maintain secrecy. It was the timeless predicament facing males of all ages and races: women are both scary and intriguing creatures. But red-blooded men cannot stay away from them.

  Garrich redoubled agitating lunch. Barring mealtimes, he had not clapped eyes on Parndolc since fishing the old codger out of the lake again after the inventive wizard's second abortive attempt at flying some two months ago. Certain he had found solutions to the ongoing problem of getting and staying airborne, Parndolc mumbled, “Third time lucky,” before locking himself in his tower to rebuild and remedy the faults of his orthopter, showing his pug-nosed face only when the personal necessities of food and toiletry warranted emerging.

  "What's cooking, boy? I'm hungry enough to eat a horse, rider and all."

  "Last night's dinner,” shared Garrich, as the technical wizard ambled into the kitchenette lured by the whiff of cookery.

  "Leftover leftovers—yum,” Parndolc sourly remarked, parking his butt on his usual chair. “You're not a very imaginative cook, Garrich. Warmed up stew two nights running isn't stretching your culinary skills."

  "Try restocking the larder with as much energy as you put into your tinkering and maybe we'd eat better."

  "In case it had escaped your notice, we're in the middle of nowhere. I can't exactly run down to the local store for groceries."

  That was the truth! Luckily Parndolc had a fortnightly arrangement with a mobile vendor operating out of Havenstock. The travelling grocer man asked no questions and charged a fair price for his eatable wares. Considering the brotherly wizards lived on Maldoch's meager earnings as a weather diviner, it was not a
bad deal. Unfortunately, Parndolc absent-mindedly skipped the last rendezvous with his supplier, forcing the pair to eke out a subsistent diet from the emptying pantry.

  When Garrich served him a bowl of gluggy stew, Parndolc impolitely pushed the dish away and poured himself a tall tankard of ale as replacement. There was no danger of the wizard running low on booze, for beer was the staple diet of the working class and readily available. Guzzling down his first mouthful of liquid lunch, Parndolc gave a satisfied burp before asking the boy, “What've you been doing with yourself lately?"

  "The usual stuff,” replied the Goblin, eating straight from the pot. Neither the shopping nor dishes were getting done regularly.

  Left to his own devices Garrich kept up with his swordplay, digested the Atlas of Terrath from cover to cover, and made a concerted effort to derive any kind of sense from the obscure Shamanist prophecy. Easily now the best swordsman on the entire continent, having bested and dispatched countless Maldoch-faced invisible sparring partners, he could hopefully find his way blindfolded from Yordl to Naprise on a moonless night in a blinding rainstorm. The Ode had him stymied still, but he worked diligently at unraveling its mysteries. Other than those routine pursuits, the young man had taken to contemplating the meaning of his topsy-turvy life from the tower rooftop whenever a spare moment allowed. He was no nearer to gaining insight to that puzzle either.

  "What have you got hidden up in the west tower?"

  Caught off-balance by the unexpected query, Parndolc blinked rapidly, his surprise exaggerated by the thick, round lenses of his spectacles. It was the first time Garrich voiced an interest in the fourth spire of Earthen Rise.

  "Must be something pretty valuable, seeing as the door to it is always locked."

  The wizard glowered. “How do you know that?"

  "I try the handle every so often,” Garrich answered forthrightly.

  "It's where I keep my stash of two hundred year old whisky,” Parndolc smoothly lied.

  "What's whisky?"

  "Something that'll take the roof of your mouth off,” he warned the novice drinker. “It's a potent spirit distilled from fermented grain. There's a brewery over in Haston that uses maize, but the best whisky in the world is made up north from malted barley. The Dwarfs bottle a brew that's one hundred and twelve proof. The longer it ages, the smoother it goes down the hatch. But it kicks like an ornery mule afterwards. Many a morning I've woken and wished I hadn't touched a drop of the stuff. That doesn't stop me going back to the bottle for more."

  "Parny, you have a drinking problem."

  "The only problem I've got is that I can't get enough. Whisky is damned expensive and Maldoch's hardly a successful breadwinner. Once you get the taste for the top shelf it's hard going back to the cheap stuff.” That did not put Parndolc off from swilling down another mouthful of inferior ale.

  "Sounds like a death wish. Mind you, I'll try anything once and we've not had a drinking session for a few weeks."

  Parndolc was horrified. “Malt whisky isn't for swigging, boy! It's a refined drink for the connoisseurs of the brewer's art, not some greedy innkeeper's watered down slop poured out to customers too inebriated to tell the difference between wine and wee.” The technical wizard was certainly passionate about alcohol! “Anyhow, we can't. I don't hold the key for that door."

  "Who does?"

  "Three guesses. My wet blanket of a brother decided long ago not to let me be a happy drunk by limiting me to ale. How righteous of him."

  Suspecting a deeper truth behind the whisky story, Garrich elected not follow up on his mistrust. Wizards’ secrets were probably best left undisturbed. “I saw a funny sight when I was on the roof this morning going through my sword moves."

  "Unless it involves a delivery of fresh food, I'm not interested."

  "Then you won't care about me seeing a skunk."

  Parndolc set his tankard down mid-sip. “A what?"

  'A skunk ... small, black and white furry rodent which smells worse than you after snacking on pickled onions. Tylar described one for me that once cleared an army camp faster than a nestful of wasps. Odd thing is, he reckoned they prefer woods to stone country."

  "Where exactly was this skunk when you saw it?"

  "Pacing to and fro along the lakeshore. It seemed to be making up its mind to swim Fragmere."

  "What time was this?"

  "I dunno ... a couple of hours after sunup maybe."

  Springing to his feet, Parndolc bumped the table and carelessly knocked his mug over, spilling his precious ale. “Get your belongings together, boy. We're leaving."

  "Whatever for?"

  "There isn't time to explain. Four hours have gone by since you spied the skunk. We have an hour left to get off Earthen Rise, else we're buggered."

  Garrich scratched his head. The wizard was making no sense whatsoever. One moment they had been discussing the merits of scotch, the next they were moving out. “We're abandoning the castle because of a skunk?"

  "Not just any skunk. It's him and he's finally discovered our whereabouts."

  "Who?"

  "Don't be dense, boy. Omelchor naturally. Druidic wizards possess the ability to change into animal form at will. Maldoch can become a badger. The skunk is Omelchor's disguise."

  "Poor choice on his part,” panned the Goblin, calmly taking in the divulgence. He was accustomed to these periodic wizardly revelations that would freak a normal person out.

  "He has no say in it. It's like eye color ... you're born with it.” Parndolc chortled and added, “Poetic justice really. Omelchor's hairy doppelganger is the smelliest, most unloved beastie on Terrath. The badger is at least a dignified critter.” He glanced sharply at Garrich. “Shake a leg! We can't escape with you standing there rooted to the spot like old father oak."

  The enormity of what Parndolc was insisting they do sunk into Garrich. Earthen Rise had grown to be his home after the fiery demise of Falloway Cottage. He was settled here and understandably reluctant to leave. “Can't we defend the place?” he put to Parndolc. “It is a castle after all."

  "What with? Omelchor has a thorough command of ancient magics. Do you propose we stand against his sorcery with my mallet and your toothpick?"

  "What about summoning Maldoch?” It was a long shot, considering Parndolc had not yet invented the phone.

  "Waste of time,” retorted the wizard. “Even if I could contact him, he's no real match for Omel. We're on our own. The best thing for us to do is hightail it out of here. Grab a bag and some rope, then meet me on the roof."

  "You mean the lakefront,” Garrich corrected him.

  "No, the roof,” maintained Parndolc. “Specifically, the north tower."

  "We're not leaving by way of the skiff?"

  "Too risky,” declared the ancient inventor. “Pack light, Garrich. Hurry now ... and don't forget the Ode!"

  Not needing to be told twice, Garrich raced for his tower, bounding up the steps two at a time, his sword rattling in the scabbard strapped to his back. The first thing the Goblin did on entering his room was change out of the monkish daywear he had adopted since cohabitating with Parndolc, swapping the comfy habit worn purely indoors for more durable leathers. Practicality was preferable to luxury when on the road. He next took down from the bookshelf Tylar's tome and the prophesizing Shamanist scroll, stuffing them both into the haversack left unused under his bed for the last three years, but now hauled out and hurriedly dusted off. Lifting his pillow, Garrich fingered the furry memento of his infancy before putting that too into the bag. Changing his mind, he extracted the pelt swaddling and shoved it down the front of his vest. He somehow always felt better with it next to his skin. Strapping on his sword anew, the young man was donning the second-hand cloak Maldoch gifted him with during their introductory walkabout when a shiver ran down his spine. Garrich experienced the maudlin feeling of reliving the aftermath of the arson at Falloway, only now he was running for his life and not hounding banditry.

  The trapdoor i
n the timber ceiling of the turret creaked upwards, admitting a blinding shaft of warm sunlight into the circular room. Parndolc's insistent voice drifted down to Garrich. “What in buggery is taking you so long, boy? We've no time for saying goodbyes to the place."

  Shielding his eyes against the glary streamer with one hand, Garrich grasped the dangling rope ladder with the other and called up. “I was just on my way. I haven't got the rope yet."

  "Forget the rope,” said the wizard. “I'll make do with old belts. Run downstairs to the kitchen and grab provisions. We need food for the trip."

  "What exactly, Parny? The larder's nearly bare."

  "Check the back shelf of the pantry. There should be a canvas bag filled with rations kept for emergencies. And don't forget to pack a jug of ale. I'm not journeying on water alone."

  "Just where are we escaping to?"

  "Don't know yet. I'm making this up as we go along. Move it, Garrich!"

  And the Goblin did. Finding the bag where Parndolc said it would be, he loosened the drawstring to peek inside and promptly jerked his head back upon getting a potent whiff of the salted and dried codfish wrapped in cloth within. Pulling the neck closed again, Garrich searched out a stoppered jug. Ensuring the bung was firm and tight, he put the food and drink into his haversack, then made his way back up to the roof.

  A year or so ago Parndolc wanted to trial an unproven engineering principle in lulls between his flight tests. The old constructor often had more than one pot on the boil. He and Garrich erected two mini suspension bridges linking the north, south, and east towers, and it was one of these frighteningly swaying overpasses Garrich now crossed. Glancing down at the black waters, Fragmere's oily calm looked undisturbed to him. If trouble had indeed come calling, it was keeping a worryingly low profile.

  Eager to see the end product of Parndolc's months of incessant hammering and sawing, Garrich stepped off the rocking flyover on to the rooftop of Maldoch's turret—long preferred by the technical wizard as a launching platform for his flying contraptions due to favorable wind conditions—marching straight for the tarpaulin of patchwork canvas screening the newest model orthopter from view.