Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Parndolc was nowhere in sight. “Where are you?” hollered Garrich.

  There came a muffled reply and rustle of oilcloth as the pioneering wizard emerged from under the tarp wearing his ridiculous flying goggles. “Took you long enough,” he admonished. “Put your gear down and give me a hand to haul this cover off.” Together they peeled the canvas quilt from the flying machine.

  Parndolc had certainly been industrious. Gull-winged, the new and improved orthopter was attached by metal skids to the base of a ramp angling upwards across the width of the roof on a steep twelve-degree incline. Floats were fixed to the wingtips. It appeared Parndolc anticipated another dunking in Fragmere.

  "So we're flying out of here,” construed Garrich.

  "Got it in one,” confirmed the wizard.

  "But you don't fly, Parny. You crash."

  "Mere technicality."

  Garrich persevered with his doubts and walked a circuit of the launching ramp. “Shouldn't it be angled down for a rolling takeoff?"

  "Everyone's a bloody critic!” grouched Parndolc, prising the lid off a nearby wooden crate with the claw of his hammer. “Make yourself useful and help me strap these on to the wings,” he ordered, pulling an armful of slim, three-foot long rockets out of the box.

  More than any other form of inventing, rocketry was Parndolc's passion, an offshoot from devising a non-magical means of blasting apart bedrock for building purposes, namely clearing land and providing core material for foundations. After coming up with the base formula for black powder, there followed years of trials getting the explosive mix of potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulphur just right to be stable enough to use safely. During those experiments Parndolc unintentionally blew himself up on several occasions, losing hearing in one ear and the big toe on his left foot in the course of development. No pain, no gain proved the adage gleaned from those misfortunes. The wizard's excruciating doggedness eventually rewarded him with the perfect mixture for what he christened “boompowder". The progress did not end there. Seeking to combine his hard earned discovery with his lifelong fascination for flight, he finally achieved that with the medium of rockets. The only problem was finding a practical application for his unpatented invention, aside from its novelty value as fireworks. That was about to change.

  Copying the wizard, Garrich set about tying a string of the rockets sticks to the underside of one half of the thirty-foot wingspan, threading the leather bindings between the struts of stripped willow wands and covering of waxed cotton cloth before wrapping and pulling the thongs tight about the half dozen cylinders evenly spaced at every two feet.

  "I'm done!” he called to Parndolc.

  "Let me finish off then,” barked the wizard.

  Fascinated, Garrich watched Parndolc check his handiwork then play out the lengthy fuses of the individual rockets on each wing, braiding the ends into a single giant wick draped behind the trailing edge of each span. The inventor rummaged through the bulging pouch of his tool belt, laid his hands on his tinderbox and set about striking a spark ... with enormous difficulty. An erratic breeze was swirling mischievously about the tower roofs of Earthen Rise, snuffing out all attempts to light the tinder. Parndolc cursed and cussed the annoying zephyrs each time the struggling flame was blown out. Grinning at his friend's mounting frustration, Garrich stepped in and cupped his hands about the tinder, providing a welcome windbreak. Parndolc soon ignited a small torch of flame and quickly lit both fuses.

  "Climb aboard,” the wizard urged the Goblin.

  Garrich cocked a doubting eye at the fizzing fuses. “Have we got enough time?"

  "Plenty. I made sure they're slow burning."

  An abrupt attack of nerves rocked Garrich as the realization of what he was about to do came home to roost. Going aloft with Parndolc, whose track record of two takeoffs and two crash landings was uninspiring, scarcely seemed a rational act in the sunny light of day. “Maybe this isn't a good idea,” wavered Garrich.

  "No point dithering, boy.’ Parndolc's admonition was underlined by a dull thud from somewhere below, trailed by a quivering of the floorboards underfoot. “Omelchor wants in,” he said grimly.

  Allowing Parndolc to bustle him to the passenger end of the flier, Garrich waited nervously while the wizard slipped a thickly padded harness, attached to the glider by means of stout metal hooks overhead, about his portly waist. The youth took the opportunity to look over the heavily modified orthopter.

  It was a virtual rebuild, with only the center section from the original retained. Gone were the flat wings of the preceding models, replaced by the M shaped wing of this current incarnation. Whereas the earlier versions were simple flying wings, the Mark III sported the advanced feature of a fixed tailplane with stabilizing fin. Discarded was the novel notion of incorporating flappable wings. With no muscled “Troll engine” to power a mechanism of that ilk, the unfeasible concept never left the parchment drawing board. The whole flying machine shook as the timbered launching ramp reverberated from Omelchor's knocking.

  "Stand close,” Parndolc instructed Garrich. He slung a belt around the Goblin's hips, looped a second belt around it and fastened that to his own harness, yanking hard on the makeshift connection to test its strength. “It'll have to do,” the wizard decided with an unsatisfied mutter, ducking under the center section and squeezing his shoulders through the manhole-sized aperture dividing the wings.

  Dragged along behind the tubby inventor, Garrich huddled fearfully under the wing canopy.

  "Put your feet on the skids and hang on to me tight,” Parndolc directed in a muted voice. “When the rockets kick in, there'll be an almighty roar and push. Don't let go of me, but don't hinder my steering or this'll be the shortest trip in history."

  Firmly gripping the shoulder straps of Parndolc's harness, Garrich glanced at the row of waiting rockets to the left of him. A thin pall of grayish smoke emanated from the smoldering plaited fuse as a shower of incandescent yellow sparks reached the juncture where the wicks split into six separate strands, igniting them with a brilliant flash of white.

  "Are you sure these are safe?” he yelled up to the wizard.

  The reply he got was not encouraging. “Of course not."

  "Parny!"

  "I've never made rockets this size before and not had the chance to test them. They'll either go off with a bang or go up with a bang. Either way our problems are over."

  Garrich groaned. “You're not filling me with confidence."

  "Tough. Any number of things can go wrong. The ramp might collapse from all this shaking, the thrust from the rockets could tear the wings off, I could suffer from a heart attack or stroke in midair and send us plummeting to our doom..."

  "Please stop, Parndolc."

  He gleefully did not. “...wind shear on takeoff might well flip this bird on its back as we clear the tower, Omelchor could burst in and obliterate the two of us before we even get airborne."

  The latter seemed more likely. A convulsion rippled through the stonework of the castle in answer to the sporadic pounding. Garrich disconcertingly heard blocks of granite work loose and fall away from the exterior wall, splashing into the lake after bouncing off the foundation of packed earth.

  "He's persistent,” the Goblin said of the evil wizard.

  "Insistent describes my brother better,” returned Parndolc. “Omel always did need to have things his own way. But does he have to ruin my castle in the process?"

  "Great choice,” sighed Garrich. “Crash and burn with one crazy wizard, or stay and get pulverized by the insane other."

  "Life's about taking risks,” counseled Parny. “Maldoch plays it safe by manipulating events to suit his own ends. I'm the complete opposite. Sometimes you just have to leap without looking, Garrich. It's called faith. Before I forget, reach into my tool belt and take out the craft knife."

  "What for?"

  "In case we have a spot of bother and you need to cut loose.'

  The Goblin swallowed hard and grope
d blindly around the wizard's tubby frame, hands digging through the pouch.

  Parndolc jumped and gave a squeal. “Wrong tool!"

  "Sorry.” Garrich found the knife and pocketed it. Earthen Rise was rocked by another tremor and the accompanying clamor of crumbling masonry. The castle was disintegrating beneath their very feet! “How long before we blast off?"

  Unable to see the smoking fuses of the rockets to estimate the time remaining to ignition, the wizard simply said, “You'll know when."

  There was a sudden, loud POP! Garrich jerked his head around in time to see the trapdoor to his tower hurled skywards on the tip of a geyser of pure red flame roaring up from where his room was housed beneath. The scorched door arced high overhead to smash on the rooftop of the west tower in a cloud of black smoke and burning splinters. A second pillar of fire erupted from the east tower, blowing its trapdoor to smithereens. Waves of heat emanated from those fiery plumes, threatening to set the combustible orthopter alight and prematurely blow the volatile rockets slung underwing.

  "Omelchor's pulling out all the stops!” Parndolc bellowed above the roaring flames. “Bloody show-off."

  Shouting to be heard, Garrich queried, “Parny, where did you place this ramp?"

  "On top of the trap ... oh bugger."

  Straddling the skids of the flier, Garrich peeked down between his feet through the launch rails and crossbeams supporting the ramp. And swore. The timber of the trapdoor was bulging, creaking in protest at the heated pressure building upon its underside. The Goblin snatched a glance at the wick of the rocket hanging a foot from his right ear. It was nearly burnt down to a stump. Wisps of either smoke or steam issued from cracks in the groaning boards of the expanding hatch, floating up on drafts of superheated air.

  "It's going to be close!” he bawled hysterically, hugging the wizard.

  Infuriatingly calm, Parndolc grinned. ‘That's perfect. I hate a dull life.'

  The rockets roared into timely action, tails of smoky fire shooting rearwards in unison. Practically deafened by the noise, Garrich felt the flier buck and writhe as the thrust of the harnessed rocketry rapidly built up. But beyond that nothing was happening.

  "We're not moving!” he screeched.

  Parndolc scratched his baldhead furiously. In all the excitement of the escape he had plumb forgotten. “Garrich, kick the chocks away!"

  Swinging from the wizard, the Goblin booted clear the blocks of wood at the tips of the skids holding the orthopter fast, then scrambled to lift his feet out of the way as the rocket powered glider trundled up the ramp, gathering speed. The trapdoor the flier had perched over moments earlier exploded, its back broken by the anticipated column of searing scarlet. The posts the ramp sat on combusted instantly into fire, the hungry flames licking the trusses and racing after the departing flying machine like coursing hounds. Weakened by its charring supports, the ramp listed alarmingly.

  Feeling heat on his backside and the inclined runway toppling, Garrich screamed. “We're not going to make it!"

  Parndolc's exultant voice rang clear and true over the tumult as the end of the launch platform neared. “Heads up, boy! We're up and away."

  The orthopter shot clear of the conflagration on the backs of the thrusting rockets as the blazing ramp folded in on itself. Ten seconds later the momentum of the glider's rocket motors petered out when their propellant was exhausted at an altitude of around eleven hundred feet. Garrich hung on to Parndolc for dear life when he found nothing but air beneath his boots. Shutting his eyes against the stomach-churning drop to the lake far below, he clung tighter.

  "Garrich, loosen up,” Parndolc rasped in the sudden silence. “I'd like to breathe."

  "No way!” blurted the Goblin. “I've just worked something out."

  "That you do a creditable impression of a bear hug?” the wizard complained, squirming.

  Garrich grimaced. “That I can't stand heights!” And promptly lost his lunch.

  Parndolc was enjoying himself too much to be soured by the youth's out-of-the-blue phobia. His only witnesses a terrified Goblin and homicidal spellcaster, the triumphant technical wizard achieved mastery of the air. The third time did prove a charm. A glorious day for flying, the spring sky was an aerial sea of horizonless blue, the rippling clouds on high emulating oceanic whitecaps.

  Shifting his weight, Parndolc banked the glider to the left and for his trouble got a yelp of fright from Garrich. Concentrating on his piloting, the wizard amazingly steered the flier back towards Earthen Rise, heading for the blaze. There was method to his madness. Early on in his inventing days Parndolc learnt that heat rises and he was counting on the fires stabbing upwards from three of the four spires to provide additional lift. As the orthopter rode the magically generated thermals in lazy circles ever higher, the wizard surveyed the despoiled castle. Apart from the raging fires and odd hole in the outer walls, exterior damage seemed remarkably slight. That changed when the central dome shattered and underwater explosions produced spectacular fountains of spray about the base of Outcrop Isle. The north, south, and east towers collapsed an instant after in a cloud of obscuring dust.

  "Omelchor hasn't changed his home-wrecking habits,” muttered Parny, banking his flying machine eastwards toward the craggy heights of the Unchained Mountains. The northern arm of Ysurl Wash was a forty-league overwater flight the wizard of a pilot doubted they could make. His gloom was well founded. A half-hour out of Earthen Rise saw the perilously weighted-down glider beginning to lose height.

  "Garrich, you hanging in there?"

  "What's left of me,” mewled the airsick Goblin.

  "Cut away the luggage,” commanded the wizard.

  "But our food ... and my book!” protested Garrich.

  "And my ale,” mourned Parndolc. “But we have to lighten the load, otherwise we'll be kissing the ground very soon."

  Garrich drew the wizard's knife and sawed through the straps of his rucksack. He deliberately did not look at the bundle dropping away, for it took with it a tangible memory of Tylar Shudonn. He instinctively reached behind him to pat the scabbard slung across his back, the sword the only remaining physical link to the man he would always think of as father.

  The sacrifice failed to help, the unburdened flier descending at an alarming rate. The belated inspiration for a parachute design crossed Parndolc's mind, but any thought of bailing out was impossible. They had glided beyond the boundary of Fragmere and were overflying a rocky plain littered with boulders. Picking out a stretch of ground uncluttered by large stones, he steered unswervingly for it.

  "It hasn't worked. We're coming in hard, Garrich. Brace yourself for impact."

  Reopening his eyes, the youth squinted at the treacherous rock field below. Hunched beneath the wings of the orthopter, his boots glued to the skids, the Goblin's legs were cramping up, glooming the prospect of a bumpy landing. “Set her down gently,” he implored Parndolc.

  "My flier is not a she. Females are nothing but trouble and this bird's a joy to fly."

  "Then why are we going down so fast?"

  "Because it was designed to carry one person, not two."

  "Let's hope you land better than you takeoff. It was a shaky start to the flight."

  The wizard was ominously quiet.

  "Parny, you can land this crate?"

  "I've never had to make a landing,” he answered truthfully. “Until now I've only crashed and that was always in water."

  "I really don't like flying,” concluded Garrich.

  "Aw, don't be such a party pooper, boy. You're still in one piece."

  "For now, old man."

  The doomed orthopter glided at 200 feet now, dropping quickly, the stony ground rushing up to meet them in a blur of gray and brown. A gusting crosswind caused the manmade bird to slew. Parndolc managed to correct, but at 100 feet he was drifting helplessly over a moonlike landscape marked with rock-strewn slopes of menacing stone. He tried veering for his preferred landing field, only to be denied by th
e insistent ground wind.

  Shrinking back from the boulders eager to dash men and machine to pieces, Garrich cried out. “I'm too young to die. I haven't been laid yet!"

  "And I'm too old to care about sex anymore,” the wizard gruffly returned.

  There followed the horrific clamor of stone smashing wood.

  Maldoch showed up a fortnight too late. Earthen Rise was in shambles. Standing rigidly on the shore of Fragmere, the spellcaster gazed in dismay across the deceivingly placid waters of the ebony lake. Even from this distance he grimly made out the devastation visited upon his castle. It was as if a colossal boot had stomped the headquarters of the Brotherhood of Wizardry into the ground. Three of the four towers were reduced to piles of rubble matching the mound of debris that was once the architecturally impressive central dome.

  Necessity overcame reluctance as Maldoch cajoled himself. “Better get on with it.” A muttered spell escaped from his tight lips, the unleashed magic levitating the stiff wizard off the lakeshore, floating him leisurely across the mere toward Outcrop Isle half a foot above the waveless black. It could not be termed flying as such, more in the nature of hovering with a destination in mind. There was no point waiting for the skiff to provide transport, for that wallowed in the oily shallows, its bottom torn out. The lack of a boat alone did not compel Maldoch to forsake the shoreline, which reeked with the overpowering pungency of skunk.

  Maldoch unhurriedly glided over to the remnants of the bastion of Terrathian magic, both enchanted and constructed. Speed and stealth were unimportant now, as he had plainly missed the drama here. In hindsight, the spellcaster should have teleported to Earthen Rise the moment he sensed trouble brewing. Since caution was Maldoch's favored watchword and he abhorred rushing blindly into danger, his prudence cost him dearly.

  Alighting on the medieval bombsite, the ruination of the wizards’ home was even more gut wrenching up close. “What a mess,” he groaned, scuffing the toe of his boot through the rubbish pile that was the headstone of the north tower. The sundered blocks of chiseled rock, many blackened by wizard fire, could be replaced and restacked. Lives were not so easily rebuilt. Parndolc and Garrich were missing, either dead and buried under tons of blasted stone, or long gone having taken flight to escape the destruction. Maldoch latched on to the latter. Their fate did not bear thinking about otherwise, losing a brother plus the Champion of Good in the same foul stroke.