The dragon-filtered god chortled with amusement. “I never took you for a cheater."
"Simply looking for an edge, master."
"You know I can't reveal such information, assuming I was even privy to it."
"You are almighty, Lord."
"But no mind reader, my son,” the Maker pointed out. “If you're wanting a head start on the forces of Darkness, I suggest taking another squiz at the prophecies. That's what they're for."
"They are harder to read than road maps.'
"As forecasts are meant to be.” Jeshuvallhod laughed infuriatingly again. “You always crack me up so."
"I'm glad to be a source of hilarity,” the wizard dryly quipped. “That doesn't help me out."
"An easy life is a boring existence."
"Mind if I tell that one to Parny? He can add it to his book of collected sayings, right after he builds us another castle."
"Maldoch, I understand your frustration better than you think. Gods are bound by rules and regulations too. I'm answerable to a higher authority far less tolerant than me and there are policies in place we all must conform to that prevent epochal events from getting overly messy. Law and order isn't just a catchphrase to be bandied about willy-nilly."
The notion of a power more influential than his god disturbed the wizard as much as it did Prince Dalcorne, causing him to frown. “Is a race war going to eventuate?” he bluntly put to the Maker.
"It may be fated to."
"Then I will have failed in my custodianship of Terrath.” Seeking alleviation from his disappointment, Maldoch asked outright, “Can we win it?"
"If it is our destiny,” the god ambiguously replied.
"Must everything be a riddle!” the wizard decried.
"Life is a puzzle, my son, but one well worth solving. What are you planning next?"
"I'm thinking the time has come to gather the racial champions together."
Jeshuvallhod rumbled agreeably. “Yet you have reservations."
"Master, I have the Goblin warden lined up for the final showdown, a Dwarf in mind, and a lead on a Troll candidate. But the Elves and Gnomes are a sticky point."
"Neither of the gentiles have been team players in the past,” conceded the Maker.
"Any suggestions for finding their guardians will be welcome."
"Faith has always worked for me."
Harboring doubts, the wizard elected not to express them. He relied on wits far more readily than blind faith.
The blue faded from the dragon's eyes as Sorandorallah returned. Clasping his huge forefeet over his ethereal snout, the shade moaned, “Possession doth ache mine head terribly.” Apparently the dead could feel sick.
Sympathy did not pour from the wizard's mouth. “Has Omelchor visited recently to consult his mistress?"
Soran glanced up, leering. “Thou knowest divulging such is contrarious to mine task."
"All I want to know is when my abominable brother last called here at the Hollow."
"Egad! Art thou deaf, wizard? The wending of thine familial hitherto is denied thee. Thereto, the affairs of sundry humans are naught to Dahriggons."
Maldoch scowled. Keeping mum about the comings and goings of rival wizards was the only scrap of genuine power left to the ghostly dragon, and Soran wielded it like a flaming whip whenever the opportunity presented itself.
"Methinks thou shouldst rephrase thine poser."
Maldoch perked up. Soran was not above playing games for his own twisted pleasure, such as dangling a tidbit of information under the spellcaster's nose like a wriggly worm on a hook baiting a trout. “What are you getting at, dragon?"
"I canst saith nay more, wench chaser."
"Eh?"
"Mine claws be tied, mine lips sealed, dame lover."
"You don't have lips."
"Must I spell it out for thee, gendered enchanter!"
The obtuse sorcerer finally caught on. It was no wizard who dropped by, rather a woman. A witch. Norelda, in fact. Boy, did Sorandorallah know exactly where to lodge a barb. Maldoch tugged his beard ponderingly. That ugly eye-opener did not account for the Goblin refuse lying about.
"I suppose it'll do no good to ask after the nature of her visit?"
"I evoke naught when entranced,” rejoined Soran.
"Selective amnesia ... how convenient,” Maldoch punned of the dragon's failure to remember the slightest thing when used as a ventriloquist's dummy. “I'll be on my way then and leave you to whatever dead beings do.” He came up off his knees, ready to leave Draesdow Hollow.
All of a sudden gripped by a seizure, Sorandorallah's toothy snout contorted into a grimace as red fire blazed from his fixed eyes. A woman's terrible voice boomed demandingly from the puppet dragon shade. “Kneel in mine presence, white wizard!"
Maldoch calmly defied the command by standing there and stating, “I do not serve you, Lusfardcul. Don't waste my time or yours ordering me about.'
The Goddess of Dark shrieked obscenities at the noncompliant spellcaster, thrashing the dragon's tail about wildly. “I am the Undoer, mage. I wilt smite thee down and grind thy bones into dust, and verily with mine own tempest breath shalt I scatter thou to the four corners of the worlde."
"You always were a stuck up bitch,” Maldoch dared insult her. Oddly enough, she ceased ranting.
"Thou wilt sorely regret bespeaking thusly,” Lusfardcul quietly promised.
Putting hands on his hips in an expression of impatience, the wizard asked, “Was there something specific you wanted to berate me for, or do you wish to carry on imparting generalized threats?"
"Canst thou guess, mighty one? Methought thou wouldest relish the opportunity to recant afore I vanquish thee and thine host."
Maldoch folded his arms rebelliously. “I will never change sides."
"Dismiss not mine offer out of hand, Maldochus. I canst reward thee greatly."
"Eternal damnation has never really appealed to me."
"Doth power? Thine sibling and dame judged mine words true and pledged undying servitude."
"Those two rattorns are hardly prime examples of loyalty. They're as changeable as the weather and greedier than a jackdaw in a jewelers."
"Untrue. Omelchor and his wench saw the light ... nay, embraced the dark. They are mine steadfast servants. Follow them thyself and I wilt grant thee unlimited magics. White wizardry pales by comparison to black necromancy."
Maldoch laughed sneeringly. “You'd make a piss poor dilcarf player, goddess."
"What sayest thou?"
"You've tipped your hand and it's a losing deal. By offering me a job, you are announcing your insecurities. Omelchor failed you in the early rounds, so you're thinking to hedge all bets by subverting me in case he doesn't come through this time either. It's such a pathetic ploy it's funny."
Phantom steam rose up out of the possessed dragon's fiery blowhole. “I wilt not tempt thee again. Fool, I shalt pleasure mine self with thy destruction. Fare thee well, upstart spellmaker. Knowest on the morrow of thine kingdom's defeat I wilt crucify thou and thine weakling god on the star fires of the jet firmament."
The Undoer departed, returning the unknowing dragon to his interrupted train of thought. “Dost thou journey back to the wood of Whifferneeste, that which Men hath called Wivernbush?"
"I am,” confirmed Maldoch, perpetuating the pretence that nothing untoward had happened. “What of it?"
Sorandorallah chuckled annoyingly. “A resurrectio awaits thee, wizard."
"What sort of renewal?"
"That wilt spoilt thine surprise."
Shouldering his travel bag, Maldoch stormed away from the smug, wraithlike dragon, Soran muttering curses about being constantly kept in the dark. The wizard parted with his own grumble. “I detest surprises. They invariably turn out to be unpleasant."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty Three
The rustle sounded again.
Garrich stood on the rim of firelight stripped to his
waist, blade drawn to challenge the gloom of night and keep whatever danger lurked in the shadows at bay. The strange scraping that pricked his sharp Goblin hearing, rousing him from sleep minutes ago, emanated from the eastern heart of Wivernbush. Someone, or something, was prowling the depths of the unlit wood, unseen but dangerously confident enough to be making noise within earshot of camp.
Garrich indelicately gave Parndolc a nudge with the heel of his boot. The slumbering wizard rolled onto his side and stopped the irritating wheezing that was interfering with the Goblin using his superior hearing to discern the nature of the worrying sound. Listening hard, Garrich thought he caught a faint whir of beating wings, then nerve-wracking silence. His fingers tightening about the grip of his sword, he willed himself to slow his rapid breathing as Tylar taught him to do when preparing to fight.
By chance this was the very night Maldoch was popping in to see the puppet dragon shade at Draesdow over a hundred leagues away to the northwest. The spellcaster had only been gone one day shy of a full week and already the strain of waiting was beginning to tell on Garrich. While Parndolc exhibited the patience of a mountain, his youthful comrade grew steadily sick of hanging about doing absolutely nothing. The young got bored so easily. Earlier that day when out chopping wood Garrich wished for something, anything, to happen and break the monotony. He was getting his wish tonight.
The blue-black darkness pressed in on the guttering campfire, striving to smother flames and people alike in shadowy terror. The Goblin remained alert and battle-ready. He pivoted about, the tip of his blade questing for the invisible threat. Wivernbush seemed as unfamiliar to him now as Alberion. The mystifying forest of his boyhood degenerated into a scarier place freshly haunted by memories of a lost life never to be regained. He regretted circumstance compelled his return.
A rush of air overhead made Garrich duck and he dropped into a crouch, jolting the snoozing wizard. Parndolc gave an indignant grunt and woke. “Bol, what did you boot me for?” he drowsily asked.
"You're dreaming, Parny,” hissed Garrich. “It's me. Get up."
The old inventor rubbed the sleep from his eyes to take in his dim surrounds. “It's the middle of the night, boy. Why aren't you sleeping?"
Garrich stayed low, his sword angled up and outwards at the silent trees. “There's something circling out there. I keep hearing it every now and then."
Parndolc snorted pure contempt. “We're camped in a forest full of critters and you're upset by a stray bit of noise. It's probably only a possum."
"I grew up here and know the sounds every animal makes. If that's an opossum bothering us, you're a booze-abstaining monk."
"What a nasty thought. Alright, Mister Natural History, what pesky varmint is responsible for you ruining my sleep?"
The Goblin had a sneaking suspicion, but kept his own counsel. Since his homecoming, Garrich glimpsed neither hide nor hair of his shadowing “bat". Parndolc would tease him no end if he put forward the notion of being spooked by a childhood fright.
Reluctantly getting up, Parndolc tossed a faggot from the stack of newly cut logs on to the lowering fire, sending a cascade of sparks flurrying into the night sky and distracting Garrich. The swordsman should have rebuked the wizard for his offhandedness, but more light was welcome to pierce the midnight black. The technical wizard joined his companion as the slowly burning chunk of wood brightened the arena of firelight from hazy red to a sharper orangey hue. Garrich noticed that the portly inventor had his hammer and chisel handy. Was he planning to carve to death whatever was skulking in the dark?
There came a sound best likened to a linen sheet pegged on a clothesline snapping in a drying wind, followed by a girl casually sauntered into the flickering glow cast by the campfire. Garrich straightened, his forged steel and mettle both wavering.
"Crikey, she's starkers!” exclaimed Parndolc.
As naked as a newborn babe, their visitor seemed unashamed, even unaware, of her nudity. She shuffled awkwardly across the clearing with inimitable gracelessness, as if walking on her leggy pins was foreign to her, halting directly before Garrich. He could see that she was a young woman no older, but a foot taller, than he, luxuriant auburn tresses more like a mane spilling down to her bare waist. Her face carried a chiseled beauty to it, but the unrevealing eyes beneath a fringe of glossy red-brown hair lacked pupils and were scarily inked black. Convinced it must be a trick of the light, Garrich could have sworn her skin displayed a greenish tinge. He overlooked that imagined oddity when confronted by her perky breasts titillating his senses, his enlarged eyes straying lower to her nether regions. The response was predictable as the ogling young man felt his loins stirring.
"Girlie, who might you be?” Parndolc demanded from her.
Those coal black eyes fell on the wizard, and she frowned. “Trespasser, I know you not,” she said sternly in a thickly accented voice, her speech as stilted as her walk. “You are recognized,” she spoke to Garrich, turning the point of his sword aside with a finger.
The Goblin started. Her hand was clawed, not with the outrageously long manicured fingernails fashionable to women, but with actual talons. He let the tip of his blade droop to touch the clearing floor. She reached out and stroked his face, sensuously tracing his jaw line with a razor fingertip, scraping his thinly bearded chin without drawing blood. Garrich blushed, feeling a quiet strength in her touch, intuiting that her unclothed state did not imply vulnerability.
Sidling around Garrich, she took in the shadowed cottage vestiges and forlornly remarked, “The old male's nest."
Parndolc put the second logical question to her, despite the first standing unanswered. “Where did you come from?"
The strange woman glanced over her shoulder at the enquirer as if he was stupid. “The forest, naturally."
"Do you mean to say you're from around here?"
"You ask silly things, trespasser."
"Where do you live?” persevered Parndolc.
"In the trees, of course."
The wizard was getting nowhere fast. The glazed look on Garrich's face made it plain that including the enamored Goblin in the impromptu interrogation was pointless. Thinking of nothing more useful to do, Parndolc grabbed the first suitable item at hand to cover the hussy's nakedness and recoiled when she hissed and scratched at him, shredding the proffered blanket.
"Trespassers must leave our wood!” she screeched, a multitude of background voices issuing from her throat chorusing her plea. The timbre of her insistence was unambiguous: depart or trouble would ensue.
Garrich surfaced from his infatuation and wheeled, again bringing his lifted weapon to bear on this exotic woman. There was an explosion of light, forcing the Goblin to shield his eyes with an arm as Parndolc threw himself on the ground. Maldoch materialized from out of the flash in the middle of the campfire and leaped out of the flames smartly, trailing purple smoke. Garrich lifted his head in time to catch a bulky, indistinct form laboring into the night sky over the clearing on spreading wings, blotting out the stars before swerving away from the betraying firelight to be swallowed up in the concealing dark.
"Hot feet! Hot feet!” bitched Maldoch, stamping his boots repeatedly on the ground to put out the burning leather. Breathing heavily, whispers of smoke curling upwards from his smoldering soles, the wizard viewed his compatriots in the pale light of the embers from the scattered fire. Garrich was wild-eyed and on his knees looking for blood with his unsheathed sword. Equally out of sorts, Parndolc was lifting himself off his belly and glancing about with a bemused expression on his podgy face. “Come now, surely my arrival didn't startle the pair of you that much?” said the spellcaster.
"Don't flatter yourself,” grumped Parndolc, brushing bits of grass off his rumpled habit as he got up. “We had an unannounced visitor."
"Omelchor find you again?"
"It was a woman.” Garrich stood, shakily returning his broadsword to its scabbard. “A naked woman."
"Half your luck, boy.” The wiza
rd flung down his staff and satchels, then sat on the ground. Removing his scorched hiking boots, he lamented, “Do you know how many decades it took me to break these in?” Tossing the charred footwear away in disgust, he asked, “Was the woman anyone we know, Parny?"
"I've been a recluse for over fifteen hundred years. I don't meet all that many women."
"Don't split hairs. You're well aware who I mean."
"It wasn't her,” avowed Parndolc.
That ruled out Norelda and puzzled Maldoch. “Describe her."
"She wasn't wearing any clothes."
"Trust you to notice the important stuff."
Garrich supplied the relevant details, letting the spellcaster muse on the disclosures. “Black eyes without any whites, you say?"
"And green skin,” added Parndolc, corroborating Garrich's opinion of the redhead.
"She somehow seemed familiar to me,” admitted the Goblin, sitting next to Maldoch.
"In what way?"
"It's hard to put into words. I feel like I've known her my entire life."
"Yet you've never met."
Garrich grinned stupidly. “I'd have remembered."
Parndolc put in his two broan's worth. “The boy has the hots for her, Mal. Look, he hasn't sheathed his weapon yet."
Saying nothing to refute the wizard's teasing, his face and ears reddening, Garrich turned his back to the wizards to hide his boner.
Maldoch stroked his beard pensively. “And she claimed to live here in the trees?” he said, nodding to the encompassing timberland.
"In a roundabout way,” confirmed Parndolc. “She took quite a fancy to young Garrich, calling me a trespasser."
Maldoch chortled. “I'll be a unihorn's hump. It just might be coming true."
"Care to share the joke?"
"No time, Parny,” the chuckling spellcaster decided, reaching for his blackened boots. “Gather up your stuff ... you too, Garrich. We need to be on the move."
The Goblin rolled up his bedroll, the chore deflating his lust. He was keen to leave the troubles and memories of Wivernbush behind.
"Can't this shift of yours wait till morning?” yawned the technical wizard. “I've had enough excitement for one night and need to get back to my beauty sleep."
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