Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Shockingly, he was Goblin.

  The dumbfounded wizard joined the alehouse in coming to a stunned standstill. Merrymaking was quashed by incredulity, sobering the revelers. The only sound intruding upon the gasps of astonishment and stifled cries of outrage was the unheeding crackle of logs burning in the fireplace, followed by a tankard clattering to the floor. Taking full advantage of his show-stopping entrance, the uninvited Carnachian strode jauntily into the mountain lion's den, a choir of crossbow-toting backup warriors swarming in from the muddy courtyard outside. Fanning out behind him, they unerringly secured the hall's only exit, ready to unleash a fusillade of quarrels at any Dwarf foolish enough to object.

  Kitted out in commonplace furs, made stinking wet by autumn showers that steamed in the hall's toasty firelight, the ugliest Westie ever to set foot this side of Eastalps was personalized by a tin nose strapped to his unlovely face. His unclenched left hand was gloved by a leather gauntlet wreathed in articulated steel plates, while a metal cup, from which projected a wickedly toothed spike, covered the unseen stump of his right. Unnecessarily clapping his oddly gauntleted hand against the iron blade to command the attention of the room, the impudent Carnachian bawled in a challenging tone, “I seek Faldhim's chief!"

  "So will his missus if he's late home again tonight.” Nervous titters from the roomful of suddenly clear-headed Highlanders applauded that clever attempt to defuse the volatile situation.

  At a nod from the irked clansman in charge, one of the Blackbolts on loan to him fired indiscriminately from the hip. Parndolc reflexively shrank away when the luckless cook standing at his side, lured out of his safer kitchen by the cessation of bar noise, hurtled backwards, the impacting projectile slamming him against the swing door, pinning him to the scratched and dented timber.

  His knife-scarred upper lip curling into a sneer, betraying a mouthful of gold teeth, the Goblin in charge asked insidiously, “Anybody else want to be a wiseass?"

  Fearful silence answered his query, all Highlander eyes in the longhouse riveted on the skewered cook, his impalement on the flapping door ghoulishly keeping him upright, the hinges creaking crazily with the dead weight. Blood mingled with the cooking juices staining his greasy apron, messing the worn floorboards beneath in a grisly arc.

  Glancing at the cowering wizard, but seeing only a curiously robed Dwarf, the leader of the Goblin pack reiterated in a bellow, “I'm seeking the chieftain of Faldhim!” Fisting his steel glove, he emotively added, “I will spike a Shorty for every second he does not come forward, and I count fast."

  An unusually lean-figured Dwarf seated at a far table with a host of podgy companions cautiously vacated his comfy armchair. The hush smothering the beer hall was so complete you could have heard a pine needle drop. “I am he, galloglass,” affirmed the exposed Highlander. “There's no need for further killings."

  The Goblin's roving eyes locked on the forthcoming Dwarf, evaluating the red bearded Northerner garbed in casual smock and hose. “Oops ... too late to tell your sentries outside that. You are Fernod Woodflint?"

  "Och, I just said so hairy legs. Here's my proof.” Reaching into his shirtfront, the act tensing the primed crossbowmen, Fernod carefully produced his chain of office, dangling in plain sight a square of polished silver stamped with a sliver of timber and stone divided by a solitary flame. “What brings the likes of you trespassing in these here parts, ugly?"

  Drawn like a moth to a candle, the Goblin sauntered his way over to Woodflint's table. “I bring a message,” he partly explained.

  "You don't look like a feathered messenger for the local pigeon post,” Fernod foolhardily punned.

  Swinging his steeled knuckles, the Goblin's abrupt backhander split open Woodflint's cheek as if it was rotten fruit. Staggering from the vicious blow, the howling Dwarf was kept from falling by two enemy warriors scooping him up, firmly grasping his arms and squeezing them hurtfully, quieting his outburst. Stepping close, their unsavory leader caressed Fernod's bloodied face perversely.

  "Order your countrymen to disarm. They'll obey you quicker than me.” When Faldhim's wincing chieftain clammed up, the insistent Goblin raked his metal fingertips across the wound, telling more than asking at the end of it. “You have sons, yes? All Dwarfs sire males."

  Squirming from the torture, Fernod admitted so with a pained growl.

  "How many brats?"

  "Three."

  "They are here now?'

  Bravely refusing to answer again, Fernod grumblingly obliged after the Goblin changed hands and cruelly dug the point of his spike into the suffering Dwarf's wound, scoring the rendered tissue. “One ... is upcountry,” he rasped.

  Stepping back from his victim, the tormentor barked, “Woodflint's whelps! Come out, come out, wherever you are."

  Scraping chairs announced the angered brothers revealing themselves in unison, though their carrot-topped heads were a dead giveaway. Impatiently waving his spiked stump for his goons to drag them out from behind the table, the Goblin headman looked them over predatorily. Similarly attired in casual daywear, Fernod's portly, whiskered son moved protectively in front of his skinnier sibling, glowering defiantly at their captor.

  "Your middle cub is the one absent.” Too startled by the Goblin's astuteness to confirm, Fernod listened helplessly as his foe rationalized. “It's what I expected. Your eldest is favored heir, the youngest always cosseted; so both are kept close to home. That makes the piglet-in-the-middle usefully expendable."

  Singling out the beardless younger of the pair, the Goblin shoved his bigger brother out of the way, warning him not interfere with an intimidatory snarl. Cupping the frightened youth's chin in his gauntleted hand, he snarled, “Order them, Woodflint. Or lose one third of your sons."

  Fernod's hesitation evaporated. “Toss your weapons over, lads."

  Murmurs of dismay and disgust buzzed the anxious room, finding clarity in a lone voice raised in protest. “Chief, we can take them!"

  "At what cost,” he barked, the crossbowmen made edgier by the outburst. Reducing his tone to a pleading whine, he implored, “For all our sakes, surrender your arms. Do it now."

  The longhouse filled with the racket of every conceivable type of hatchet, axe, tomahawk, mace and hammer being piled on tabletops swept clear of mugs and jugs. When one of the Goblin guards pointed his crossbow menacingly at the unmoving wizard, Parndolc unbelted his tool pouch and dropped it compliantly to the floor. After the clatter of disarmament subsided, the anonymous Goblin posed a chilling question to the fort's keeper.

  "Make your choice, Fernod Woodflint."

  Puzzlement dulled the chief's soreness. “I already did."

  "And a roomful of clawless marmots is a fine start. But I need you completely tractable, Dwarf. Getting my point across, that you will do what I say when I say, requires a demonstration you won't ever forget. And personal loss teaches best of all. I demand a supreme sacrifice on your part. Which son dies?"

  "What? You can't be serious, Carnk."

  "Be thankful I'm letting you select the son you'll keep. But won't the loser feel unloved."

  Struggling futilely against those restraining him, Fernod swore, “I'll chop you into firewood, you beastie!"

  Waving his spike hypnotically in the air, he pressed the serrated blade against the boy's trembling throat. “Guess that leaves it up to me."

  "No, not Camlin!” begged Fernod. “He's just a lad."

  Pivoting to clamp his metalled hand over the eldest son's mouth, the uncaring Goblin rammed the serrated spike deep into Bilthor's unprotected stomach, cutting upwards. The Dwarf's piteous gurgles drowned out the grisly sound of metal shearing flesh, the teeth effortlessly sawing through the muscle of the abdominal wall to perforate his large intestine, leaking contaminants into the gut. Carving up the right kidney then shredding the liver, its ruinous journey ended only after nicking the lower bones of the ribcage.

  Thrown into hemorrhagic shock, Bilthor sagged in the arms of his gloati
ng guards. Unable to comprehend the mechanics of the thrusting saw severing the vein draining blood from the liver, actually hastening his excruciating demise, Bilthor nonetheless grasped that in minutes he was going to die. He weakly lifted his head, focusing his agonized stare on his horrified father, tears of disbelief trickling down the cheeks of the death mask forming on his tortured features.

  Mindful of rust, the murderous Goblin shook the teardrops off his gauntlet, callously wiping the blood and guts off his dirtied blade on his victim's curly hair before motioning for the expiring Dwarf to be hauled away.

  "Bilthor, my firstborn,” sobbed Fernod, helpless to prevent his gutted son being dumped outside like yesterday's garbage. Grief burned away by rage, he seethed, “Carnk, I'll skin you alive as revenge for today's senseless bloodshed, then wear your hide as a kilt.'

  Smirking mirthlessly, Bilthor's killer disclosed, “I survived a day on a mountainside caught in a raging blizzard that iced the air solid. My nose turned black and shriveled with frostbite before falling off. I cut off my own hand when it too blackened and went gangrenous. Pain holds no meaning for me, Shorty, other than as a measure to gauge commitment. I will gleefully gut everyone in this room, everybody in this settlement, every Dwarf I catch in this forest, without blinking an eye. But don't misjudge me. I do not kill without good cause. People I slay are done so for valid reasons, whether it's retribution or to be made an example. Your eldest died in order for you to give me utter obedience."

  "But you murder innocents for your own depraved amusement too!"

  "Your boy was hardly guiltless, Woodflint. As a warrior he knew the risks of serving the sword. It punishes, as well as protects. As for me, I'm not a random killer. What I am is an efficient businessman. I kill for profit, not pleasure."

  "Just what master do you butcher for, mercenary? I doubt you're freelancing."

  "I am affiliated to no clan or person, but serve the highest payer,” the anonymous Goblin revealed. To his warriors he instructed, “Take the boy and hold him hostage out back in the kitchen. If he acts up, ensure he's main course on the dinner menu.” Returning his detestable attention to Fernod as the youth was forcibly ushered into confinement, the pitiless assassin sniped, “You really should've fathered more sons. Unless the middling cub returns, I've only got Camlin left as leverage."

  "There's no need to harm the lad. I'll do your bidding."

  "Undeniably, Shortstuff.” The Goblin cackled, abruptly ending his gratification with a booming announcement. “Listen up, you sad pile of mountain goat dung. Fernod Woodflint is hereby sacked. I am Faldhim's new proprietor ... temporarily, until I head out east. I'm told the Northern Heights look picturesque when the snows fall.

  "And the message I deliver is from Ahnorr, Chieftain of Grihaloecke, Clan Leader of the Grizzlies, and owner of the entire northlands. He simply wishes me to pass on this public announcement: From this day forth, Carallord is under Goblin management."

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