Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Goblin and Elf proceeded through a doorless arch into the disused tower, each guarding the other's back. Inside was a shambles, amply lit from the daylight admitted by the circular hole high above where the flagstone roof had collapsed centuries ago, the falling masonry smashing to matchwood the planks flooring the second storey, disintegrating also the wooden-railed staircase once spiraling along the inner circumference of the rounded outer wall. The ravages of time rotted away the splintered timber, leaving only enduring stone. Scorch marks blackened patches of the interior brickwork, hinting at the random release of destructive energies deep in the murky past.

  Clearing a space with his boot amongst the dusty rubble cluttering the ground floor, Ayron unslung his bow and dropped his pack, then unbelted his quiver, sitting cross-legged beside his belongings. Doing likewise with the rucksack on his shoulder but leaving his sword strapped to his back, Garrich squatted opposite the Elf.

  "It's good to be out of the wind,” he remarked.

  "Until it rains and the grime staining our capes turns to mud,” grouched Ayron, resuming his dourness. Days spent slogging through the wilds looking forward to gaining a temporary roof over their heads had netted an unsatisfactory result.

  Wearing the only solution to that particular problem, Garrich sat and drew his knees up to his chest, pulling his dusty travel cloak about his legs. Stomach grumbling, he gloomily considered their dwindling rations Ayron procured from Berhanth days earlier. “There are seabirds aplenty on this coast and nothing much else. You might have to start eating meat soon."

  "Rubbish, when there is a perfectly edible garden right outside."

  "You can't mean the thistles!"

  The Elf licked his thin lips. “Mmm, roots and all."

  Blanching at the thought, Garrich changed the subject. “Ayron, are you happy doing what you do?"

  "Leagues from my forest home, stuck in a clapped out tower with no roof, a storm gathering, thorny lettuce to eat, and a Losther for my only company. What do you reckon?"

  "That's not what I mean. Are you satisfied being who you are?"

  "There are worse races to be than Elven. Take yours for example."

  "Your vocation as Forester ... is it a dream job?"

  Without knowing why he opened up, Ayron divulged, “It wasn't my calling. In my youth I fancied becoming a professional musician.'

  "What stopped you?"

  "You've heard me play."

  Garrich chortled. “So archery was your second choice."

  Ayron grew reticent, confronted by an unwelcome home truth: whatever task he turned his hand to resulted in him achieving second best. A mediocre lute player, he became Queen's Champion only by mischance. Jobbing as Garrich's nursemaid was proving just as unrewarding. I'm a second rate Elf, he moodily thought.

  "Do you have a mother?"

  The Elf glanced meanly at the annoyingly chatty Goblin. “No, I was conjured up."

  "What's she like?"

  "Motherly."

  "I never had a mother."

  "Of course you had one. You were born weren't you? You just never met her."

  Garrich sulked from being corrected.

  "Don't look so glum. Mothers are overrated. They don't want you to grow up, and when you do rebel they accuse you of behaving childishly! You're better off not knowing her."

  "That's my whole problem. I don't know any Goblins. Maybe that needs remedying."

  Raising an eyebrow, Ayron studied his opposite. “I found out the hard way that you don't need to get up close and personal to conduct a killing. On that score, it's better not to learn about a foeman beforehand."

  "Meaning that sailor you shot."

  'I can't get the man out of my head. Did he have family, a wife, I wonder? Were his childhood dreams and adult goals all fulfilled? Was he ready for death?"

  "Nobody's really prepared to die. It sneaks up on you, even if you're old."

  Advice from a sapling again, Ayron silently mocked.

  "I can't expect a Losther to grasp the concept of death when applied to agedness. Like Men and Dwarfs, your kind's lifespan is but a leaf compared to the tree that is Elfdom. Doomed to wither and drop to the ground in the blink of an eye, you cannot possibly realize your full potential in such a short space. Which compels you to constantly act in haste, hurrying to attain what little achievements can be crammed into your fleeting lives. Accidental as killing that seaman was, I forever robbed him of the chance to complete his existence and make his moment spent on Terrath meaningful. Not only did I take his life, I stole whatever legacy he might have contributed to humankind."

  "You read too much into it. He was a simple sailor. I think greatness passed him by long before your arrow took him."

  "We will never know for certain. That is why a Goblin can end another's life so easily, so callously. You fail to see potential lost."

  "Is that the reason you loathe me so vehemently?"

  "It is racial hatred, nothing personal. There exists a longstanding enmity between Elves and Goblins that won't ever be resolved. Don't ask me to elaborate. I owe you my gratitude, not an explanation.” Not once during their entire journey to the coast did Ayron broach the obvious, that he was beholden to Garrich for saving his life back in the foothills. Such a debt did not sit well with the proud Forester, wrestling to make sense of the Losther's heroism. “I don't understand what made you lure the rock beast away from me on to you. We are certainly not friends."

  "Maybe I would have missed your company, charming as it is. No-one truly wishes to be alone, Ayron. You would have acted just as unselfishly if the situation was reversed."

  "Only by royal command ... my queen would disown me for letting you die senselessly.” Appraising their dismal surrounds, the petulant Elf made the observation, “We cannot stay here indefinitely. Your summer's nearly over and wintering on the northern seashore isn't a welcome prospect. The weather, overcast as it is, won't stay balmy and I imagine storms, such as the squall brewing, lash this exposed coast pretty hard. Comfortable as this rustic refuge is, it does not encourage long term occupancy."

  "We could fix the place up. All it lacks is a roof. You're such an advocate of thistles. Can they be used as thatching?"

  "Your plant lore is seriously deficient, Losther. How long are planning to use this dump as a hideout?"

  "For as long as it takes Maldoch to locate me."

  "He won't know to look for you here."

  "He'll figure it out."

  "If Maldoch's that smart, so is Omelchor."

  "Other than that creepy plant, we haven't run into any trouble since the hills. So we weren't followed."

  The Elf locked gazes with the Goblin, strangers in a strange land. “The sorcerer somehow located us there. Who's to say he won't be as successful or persistent here?"

  "Spells are beyond my scope. Parndolc's wizardry is solely mechanical. Perhaps the residual magic present in the ruins will mask our presence."

  "Or draw him like a bee to clover."

  Unbothered, Garrich spread his hands. “Either way, we wait for a wizard to make an appearance."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  "More ale! My throat's drier than a Troll's armpit."

  The pint-sized serving wench passing by the table topped up Parndolc's half empty tankard before moving on with the craved pitcher to refill other mugs in the packed fire hall. Bawdy drinking songs mixed with drunken boasting and laughter, the odd heated scuffle erupting when the ale got the tempers of the more impetuous partygoers boiling.

  Supping his refreshed drink, Parndolc picked at his platter of roasted wild boar garnished with brewis. Northland food was predictably hearty and filling, but the ale had a kick like a moose to it, encouraging the technical wizard to indulge in a largely liquid lunch. An icy draft of air swirled annoyingly around his legs and up his habit as the door marking the end of the long passageway connecting the hall to the rest of the longhouse banged open, admitting a thick
ly jacketed Highlander in from the autumnal cold amid flurries of tailing raindrops. The approaching winter was quickly consigned outside again when the door latch clicked shut. Unwrapping the scarf from about his stubbly face, the newcomer shed his quilted jacket on to an overcrowded coat rack and strode down the passage, rubbing the warmth back into his cold hands to the jingling of his chain mail.

  "Bugger me, if it isn't young Dalcorne under all those clothes."

  Staring confusedly at the bearded, mop-haired stranger greeting him, recognition seeped slowly into the grandson of the Dwarf King. Eyes widening in recollection, he exclaimed, “Blow me down if you aren't Parndolc beneath those whiskers! I haven't seen you since..."

  "I was much younger. You haven't grown much, boy. Mother not feeding you enough sprouts?"

  "When did you get hair?"

  "Always had it. I just kept it mown short.” Rubbing his bushy face, Parndolc grinned and welcomed the rejoining youngster. “Take a load off. I've had enough of drinking by myself. How goes it?"

  The littlest Dwarf Prince pulled up a stool alongside Maldoch's brother. “I'm cold, wet, and hungry."

  "The usual then,” chuckled the tipsy wizard. “You need a warm brew in you.” He signaled the barmaid. “Regimental life not to your liking?"

  "Aye, too rigid for my tastes,” agreed the regal youth.

  "What rank did they slap on you?"

  "Warmace."

  "That's quite a mouthful ... Prince Warmace Dalcorne Steelfist the Third."

  "But treated like any other junior officer hereabouts. I'm assigned the mundane work details. Overseeing the digging of latrines, inventorying stores—that sort of boring stuff,” he griped, accepting a cup of mead from the plump, buxom maid who winked suggestively at the bachelor prince. Ignoring her flirtation, Dalcorne commented, “I heard rumors you were skulking in the neighborhood last winter."

  "I'm more a lurker,” quipped Parndolc. “Just doing the ale circuit. Habrell's got a piss poor booze selection."

  "Mates over at the Fork complained how a travelling handyman swindled them out of their last crate of brandy."

  "A lush can't live on beer alone."

  "You seem to be managing,” observed the amused Dwarf, watching Parndolc drain his mug.

  Belching, the wizard stated defensively, “I didn't rip them off. They were just as eager to empty my purse of its last broan."

  Eyeing up the untouched food and ale dregs at the wizard's table, Dalcorne queried, “How are you paying for this lot then?"

  "It's all on tick. I conned the barkeep to put it on your tab."

  "But the army pays me a pittance!"

  "Send the bill to Gramps. He's richer than Jeshuvallhod."

  "Except the Despenser holds the key to the strong room.” Fretting over his bar bill, the lowly paid Warmace expressed interest in Parndolc's travel plans. “Heading up north before the snows set in?"

  "And miss the start of Brumalfest here? Not on your buggered life."

  Since parting company with Maldoch and Garrich back at Wivernbush in early autumn the previous year, Parndolc staggered his inebriated way east from the snowed-in Habrell Fork all the way to Dunmarl, finishing up his winter of discontent frequenting the numerous alehouses sousing the boundary city. Prompted by the presence of increased Dwarf patrols and absence of Goblin invaders, the wizard abandoned all notion of slogging upcountry to Dalcorne High. Brumalfest helped make up his mind, the nonstop festival of carousing held annually to break the monotony of the snowbound winter months too tempting to resist. Crossing the border once the spring melt greened the landscape and he sobered up enough to walk straight, the technical wizard loitered in the taverns at Jarde until guilt pricked his conscience and drove him back up north, summering in Pendalth. Put off by the grumpy Orvanthian knights barracked there, buoyed by the clement weather plus his desire not to skip a single saloon, he pushed on westwards through the progressively logged southern tract of Northwood to reach the ancient fort of Faldhim. Built nearly three decades before Castle Dalcorne, Faldhim was at a shade over 2,000 years the oldest Dwarf fortification still in use. Originally constructed as a buffer zone to blunt Highland interclan skirmishing in the latter years of the First Epoch, the stick and stone stronghold served nowadays as waypoint on the long forest route between Pendalth and Habrell Fork, as well as Parndolc's current watering hole when seasonal winds began swaying the coniferous treescape portentously.

  Latching on to the soldiering prince, the wizard found Dalcorne filling an unpredicted need in him. Sorely missing Garrich, the junior Steelfist proved an adequate substitute, although he remained no bantering Goblin youth. “Drink up, boy,” he encouraged. “You're lagging behind."

  "I haven't gone off duty, Parny."

  "You're as prissy as your pappy."

  "Are you sure you're friends with my father?"

  Parndolc waggled a drunken finger at Dalcorne. “Never said I was. I'm acquainted with him by being pally with your grandpa."

  "You drink like grampy."

  "Didn't think I was that infirm."

  "The royal physicians do try to moderate his boozing. Maybe you should visit a quack too.” Dalcorne sniggered wryly. A year younger than Garrich, he exhibited the savvy gleaned from a court upbringing.

  A peculiarity the lad let slip peeped through the booziness fogging the wizard's brain. “You speak of your grandfather in the present tense. I find that morose, considering he's a chain-rattling ghost now."

  "What makes you think something so laughingly absurd as that?"

  "The fact that he died the year before last."

  "The king is not dead! At least he wasn't when I went home on leave a few months ago. Grouchy and bedridden certainly, until they got his wheeled chair up and running, but definitely livelier than you, judging by your drunken, mistaken state."

  "He's alive!” Fumbling his attempt to seize the boy's rain-slicked mail shirtfront, Parndolc shoved him away in disgust, nearly falling off his stool. Jumping up to assist, Dalcorne reached over the wobbling table to steady the intoxicated wizard, who slapped his helping hands away. “I've been on a yearlong bender for the old coot and he doesn't have the decency to be a corpse. I'll kill old Dal when I see him!"

  Those Dwarfs seated nearby turned heads in Parndolc's direction, jovial faces reddened by firewater and the hearthside darkening into scowls. “Lower your voice!” hissed the youngest Dalcorne. “Threatening the king these days, even in jest, will land you in a dungeon faster than a fall down a mineshaft. And rats make poor cellmates."

  "How come nobody mentioned anything earlier?"

  "You were no doubt too sozzled to listen properly. I take it the source of your confusion was the assassination attempt?"

  Parndolc nodded sulkily.

  "Suffice to say, the Carnks came perilously close to getting their way. Gramps is a tough old stick. Thumbing the doctors’ prognosis, he miraculously pulled through. I put it down to the stubbornness that comes from old age. His legs are as wasted as a cup of water on you, yet his mind remains fighting fit. But, true to form, he's back on the sauce. I spent his birthday getting plastered with him. Mother lectured us both at length on the virtues of abstinence. I think she was also referring to sex, as well as drink.” Dalcorne laughed in remembrance. “Gramps said that if a Carnk quarrel can't end his life prematurely, no amount of boozing will."

  This news changed everything for the reeling wizard and he heaved himself to his feet. Dalcorne rose with him, ready to lend a steadying hand again. Frantically rummaging through the pouch of his overstuffed tool belt, his drunken fingers fumbling with its varied contents, Parndolc removed a small package wrapped in wax paper. Concealed within was what appeared to be a bar of charcoal. Showing great disinclination, the drunkard bit into the unappetizing morsel and crunched the bitter tidbit, forcing himself to swallow the dry and brittle flakes. Pulling an unlovely face, he spat out the crumbs disgustedly. “Tastes like buggery."

  "Then dinna eat it,” sugg
ested Dalcorne. “What exactly is it?"

  Rewrapping the nibbled bar, Parndolc enlightened him after washing away the foul taste by grossly swilling the watery contents of a fingerbowl. “One time I fixed the broken axle of a gypsy wagon. In return, the grandmotherly head of the family gave me this as a counteragent for binge drinking."

  "A snack?"

  "Nah. Instant sobriety, worse luck."

  The gypsy concoction kicked in and Parndolc unhappily felt his ale induced merriness ebb. His uncoordinated hands steadied, his soupy mind cleared, and his slurred speech grew more intelligible as he regretted, “Blow me down with a quill ... it actually works! What a waste of perfectly good ale. Oh well, if it gets me fit to travel."

  "You're planning to hike up to Dalcorne High now,” guessed the prince. “I'm coming with you."

  "Won't you face a court martial for deserting your post?"

  "Woodflint doesn't really need me here. My duties aren't exactly essential. Besides, in all honesty, can you picture him arresting the king's grandson?"

  Suddenly obstinate, preferring his own company again, Parndolc dug his sandals in. “I have wizard stuff to attend to, boy. I don't need to be worrying after you."

  "I'm sixteen, old enough to handle myself."

  "I'll put that to the test,” murmured the wizard, slyly unhooking the trusty claw hammer from his belt and giving Dalcorne the gentlest of taps on the noggin. Easing the senseless teen back onto his stool, he propped him up against the stout log wall and informed a pair of curious barmaids. “Little bugger can't hold his liquor. Do me a favor, girls, and put the lad to bed. I really must dash.” The waitress eyeing up the eligible prince earlier hustled in like a barn owl swooping on an unaware mouse.

  Pulling up his fallen socks, tightening his loosened belt another notch, Parndolc made for the exit. Every fresh, halting step along the lengthy hallway stretching down the middle of the longhouse further dispelled his drunken state. With a grudging admission he muttered, “Flavor that charcoal bar with a sprinkling of chocolate and that old gypsy might be on to a winner, curse her."

  The door banged open a second time, letting the chill, moist wind whistle through the place. “What's this ... rush hour at the Midden?” grumbled Parndolc, glancing up to see the caller.