Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "You all alone out here, granddad?” asked the smaller of the two, his weasel-like countenance in direct contrast to that of his bullish companion. “Kind of lonesome."

  Shudonn backed towards the porch steps, idly fingering his belted hammer. “What is it that you want?"

  "Relax, old-timer” said the ferret-faced man. “We'll trouble you for directions and a cup of water. That's all. A little hospitality for lost and thirsty travelers such as ourselves ain't too much to ask for."

  Shudonn tensed. Nobody journeyed this far west without good cause and in his service days he campaigned against enough brigand bands to recognize this cagey pair for the crooks they were. “Keep walking due east and you'll hit Orvanthe in under a month. Or turn south and in a couple of weeks you'll reach Haston."

  "Much obliged. How ‘bout that drink."

  "There's a creek running yonder,” Tylar coolly informed the mangy twosome, pointing beyond the trees.

  "Not going to invite us in to sit a spell then?” pressed the bull-necked man.

  "No,” Tylar said flatly. “Be on your way."

  The two interlopers appeared undecided as to their next move and simply stood before the old man, nervously surveying the cabin. They seemed to be waiting for a cue. A shout from behind Shudonn goaded them into action.

  "There ain't anybody round back, Sylos."

  Sliding the hammer from his belt, Shudonn leapt swinging at the pair of bandits as they struggled to free concealed weapons from beneath their stupidly restrictive ponchos. The retired soldier struck the smallish robber square in the face on the bridge of his nose, instantly killing the man. Exchanging his makeshift cudgel for the tarnished short sword the hapless ruffian had only half drawn from its scabbard, Shudonn narrowly dodged the arcing mace of the larger outlaw. Sidestepping, he came inside the burly man's guard as he swung and missed again, driving the point of the rusty blade underneath his attacker's ribcage. Thrusting upwards before jerking the sword free, Shudonn stepped back as his bigger assailant stiffened and, eyes rolling back into his head, crumpled to the ground gurgling as he drowned in the blood filling his punctured lungs.

  Footfalls alerted Shudonn to the approach of a third scoundrel rounding the corner of the cabin to confront the oldster. His adversary took the form of a forty-something scruff of a man awkwardly gripping a dilapidated pike as if it were a pitchfork. Attired in the type of smock that generally garbed serfs, Shudonn guessed the unlikely duelist to be a runaway vassal of a feudal lord. This bandit reluctantly advanced with the blatant uncertainty of an unskilled warrior loath to unduly risk his life for profit, his eyes wide with fright.

  "Amateurs,” Tylar scornfully griped under his breath. He would dispose of this poor excuse for a fighter and grab his broadsword from the racked weapons inside the cottage before scouring the immediate forest for stragglers. How dare scum like these invade his privacy! A man's home was his castle, after all.

  The faint twang of a bowshot registered on Shudonn's battle attuned senses. His eyesight might be dimming, but the retiree's hearing and mind remained as sharp as ever. A pity his reflexes were slowed by age. The turning oldster reacted too late to evade the speedy arrow flying from the treeline to lodge between his shoulder blades. Tylar gasped and pitched forward, the sword tumbling from his unclenching hand.

  "Pretty good shot, sir!” exclaimed the pikeman. “You killed him."

  A distant, haughty voice laughingly said in reply, “Never let it be said that conscripted service in his majesty's armed forces was time misspent. Where else could you learn such a useful skill before being returned to Civvy Street?"

  "You were cashiered, fancy pants,” a second voice growled. “The army takes a dim view of gambling rackets run from the barracks, Ezlah."

  "The ingrates failed to fully appreciate my talents,” retorted the named brigand, his lofty voice growing louder.

  Tylar Shudonn sprawled face down, his entire body unfelt except for the stab of red-hot pain lancing his upper back. With a monumental effort he turned his head and nearly blacked out for his trouble from the agony erupting behind his eyes. Blood-flecked spittle foamed from his mouth as he struggled for air. Curiosity drove men to extremes and the fatally struck oldster desired to see his executioner.

  Dressed like a popinjay, the nearing archer was festooned in the gaily colored apparel commonly worn by palace courtiers: garishly yellow dyed hose complemented by a doublet of blue and white brocade, topped by a plumed floppy hat of green velvet. The short bow and quiver he carried seemed out of place alongside his finery, the rapier strapped about his waist a fashionable accessory. Flanking the dandy lumbered a brutish, pockmarked fellow dressed in leather armor sporting a short handled, double-headed battleaxe and plain round shield.

  "The old man is still alive, hotshot,” remarked the axeman, noticing the watchful elder with a contemptible degree of indifference. He smirked chillingly. “You're not nearly as good as your ego leads you to think you are, peacock."

  "I'll soon remedy that,” vowed the bowman, shouldering his arms and unsheathing the slim dagger protruding from the lip of his boot. Stooping over his prostrate victim, Ezlah cupped Shudonn's chin in a strongly veined hand to expose his throat to the bared blade—and unaccountably stopped. “Do I know you, old-timer?” he said in a puzzled whisper. “You seem oddly familiar. Perhaps from my army days..."

  "Milord, what ‘bout Syros and Kubal?” It was the cowardly pikeman's plaintive query.

  "What of them? They're dead."

  "Yessir. Does we bury ‘em?"

  "Have you got a shovel on your person?"

  "No sir."

  "Then unless you plan to dig the graves with your bare hands we leave them where they lie. Strip their bodies of any personal valuables. We'll divvy up later. The larger share goes to me."

  The axeman objected. “Who died and put you in charge of our little band of merry men."

  The archer looked pointedly over his shoulder at the corpse of Syros. No more objections were forthcoming. To his compatriots he said, “You both know the routine. Hop to it then. And when you're finished get a fire lit. I'm getting a chill."

  The pair promptly laid down their weapons and looted Falloway Cottage.

  Returning his attention to Tylar Shudonn, the cavalier looked into his pleading eyes and said, “Sorry, old boy. Business you understand,” before callously slitting the pensioner's throat.

  —

  Garrich wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his forearm.

  "Trained with sword and spear, mace and knife ... and for what? To become a lousy woodcutter,” he bitched to the stoical trees.

  The teen resumed chopping at the small bole he had earlier felled, hacking off the branches then dividing up the main trunk itself. Shards of bark flew in all directions as his axe repeatedly bit deep into the timber, the dull thud of metal striking wood the only sound in the otherwise still forest. The actual chore did not bother the brooding boy. What rankled Garrich was the senselessness of wasting his talents on lumberjacking when he could be better employed as a first-rate trooper embarked on some adventurous mission. Perhaps that dreamt of adventure lay in store when the enigmatic owner of the floating head showed up to collect him.

  Garrich threw down the axe in disgust and took a swig from the waterskin to slake his thirst. Whatever Tylar groomed him for must be related to his obscure lineage. In a few short days all would be revealed: who he really was, his undisclosed role in life. Contrary to the placation he gave his adoptive father, keenness gnawed at Garrich's patience like a hungry shrew. Sixteen years of deceit, an eternity of lies stunting the boy's emotional growth, was a cobweb soon brushed away. Garrich could barely stand the wait.

  The day waned and a good hour's trudge home stretched before him. He decided to finish chopping up the remainder of the tree on the morrow. Undoubtedly Shudonn would berate him for his slackness, but the boy offered up a genuine excuse. Were not all teenagers lazy? Besides, winter lurked two months away
and there was no urgency to stockpile firewood.

  Parking the handcart by the hewn tree, Garrich tossed the axe inside the tray then thought better of it and retrieved the chopper. His father would certainly have his guts for garters if he failed to care for the tool as if it were his own personal weapon. He returned his water carrier to the haversack, carefully arranging the contents of the pack so as not to crush his treasured childhood memento.

  Waking with the pelt pressed tightly against his chest, Garrich completely forgot to remove it before preparing breakfast. Only when on the forest trail and out of sight of the cottage did he remember it remained on his person. Too late to return the irreplaceable keepsake to its drawer, the youth placed the wrap of fur in the rucksack where it had stayed.

  Whistling tunelessly, Garrich struck out through the wood at an unnaturally fast pace, heading west. Wivernbush unsettled him at a primal level and he did not wish to be caught in this strange forest after dark. The copse was filled with unimaginably ancient trees that eerily stood on guard like vigilant sentinels. Too strong a word to describe the uneasiness the woodland generated in the youth, fear came startlingly close. The aged forest seemed to breathe with a restless life of its own and, while not outwardly malignant, resented unwanted intrusion.

  A bulky shadow flitted overhead and Garrich halted, glad to have remembered the axe. During regular sojourns to the grove as a child collecting kindling, he periodically glimpsed inexplicable shapes skulking in the trees. Shudonn dismissed the sightings as the fancy of an overactive imagination and the trusting boy accepted his father's judgment. But upon reaching his thirteenth year and still seeing on occasion mystifying winged silhouettes in the overhead branches, the adolescent got informed they were likely to be bats.

  "Strange bat,” muttered Garrich, anxiously peering upward and tightening his grip on the axe handle. Shudonn's revised explanation never entirely satisfied him. For one thing, the sheer size of the apparition ruled out the flighty mammals, despite his father's assurance that giant bats were rumored to exist somewhere in the far northwest of Terrath. For another, what bat openly flew in daylight hours?

  All of a sudden the mystery shadow was nowhere to be seen. Garrich listened intently to the forest sounds and heard nothing untoward. Alone again, he nonetheless hastened through the stands of towering ash and maple, anxious to be free of the claustrophobia generated by the closely-knit trees. The hurrying teen cleared the brooding timberland less than an hour later and stopped to regain his breath. He scanned the pinkish skies, painted by the blood-red setting sun, and to his relief found them empty, though he could not shake the disquieting feeling that something secretly watched. The homely odor of wood smoke drifted to the teen's nostrils and he readily inhaled the whiff of roofed safeness. Home was a hop, skip, and jump away.

  Trotting through the scrubland bordering Wivernbush, Garrich veered to the south. He spied a pall of smoke staining the now crimson sky scudded with purple-hued clouds and pictured the rosy glow of the banked firepot, Shudonn hunched over busily cooking a plain, but filling, supper. Racing for the fringe of alders encircling Falloway Cottage, Garrich broke through the trees and was brought to a heart stopping halt. Shocked beyond comprehension at the ghastly scene before him, he could only stand and gape.

  Where Falloway Cottage should have stood there was in its place a jumble of charred beams and planking. The sizzling flames that earlier consumed the timbered dwelling with fiery gusto had died away to isolated pockets of flickering orange that crackled defiantly against the encroaching twilight and sporadic wind gusts. A ring of scorched earth radiating outwards from the burnt out remains of the cabin testified to the blistering heat that engulfed the family abode and reduced it to smoldering cinders.

  Garrich stumbled forward in a daze. What on Terrath had happened to cause such a calamity? His reeling mind came up with the only probable scenario: a stray spark from the stove must have ignited the varnished wood lining the cottage interior, resulting in the devastating blaze. Horror clutched his heart. What of Tylar Shudonn? Had his father been dozing at the time to be caught unawares by the choking smoke and raging flames?

  His boot struck metal. Garrich automatically glanced down and found himself standing amid a scattered pile of fire-blackened metal. It took the boy a moment to identify the iron heads of the spade, hoe, rake and scythe, minus their wooden handles burned away to ash by the fire. His thoughts fuzzy, Garrich dimly recalled the gardening implements were housed in the tool shed, of which nothing was left but seared splinters. It occurred to the youth that he had unusually approached the cottage from the back on this occasion and he staggered around the smoking wreckage to where the front porch used to extend.

  Three corpses greeted the thunder-stricken boy. Two were complete strangers stripped of clothing, their dirty white, soot-smudged undergarments sad beacons in the enfolding darkness. The third was terrifyingly familiar.

  "Father!” Garrich shouted out. In retrospect he would wonder why he had called out to the plainly dead Tylar Shudonn on that fateful eve. But instinct can make even the most level-headed person behave irrationally.

  Garrich knelt beside the only family in his world. The old soldier lay where he had been dragged, devoid of breeches and boots. A charred arrow shaft protruded sickeningly from his back and his head rested in a pool of congealed blood. The boy turned and retched. This was his first exposure to death and what a brutal lesson it was. The only companion in his entire life gone now forever. No accidental happening, this dire event stank of cold-blooded murder! Garrich wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the repugnant taste of bile strong in his mouth. He rolled Shudonn half-over and shuddered. Vacant eyes stared lifelessly upwards; the old-timer's mouth agape in a mute death scream that spoke volumes of the cruelty inflicted upon him.

  Cradling Shudonn's limp head in his lap, Garrich sobbed uncontrollably as he stroked the old man's singed and wispy strands of thinning hair, his convulsing body awash with the floodwaters of unleashed grief. No more would he be enthralled by the veteran's engrossing war stories. Never again would he accept grudging praise for his swordplay from the hard taskmaster or suffer good-natured taunts over his abysmal cookery. The bereaved boy buried his face in the oldster's bloodstained tunic, uncaring of the enveloping darkness. The spot fires dimmed and finally faded, save for a solitary flame that burned steady with tenacious brightness, fuelled by a length of oak floor joist miraculously left unconsumed by the inferno. The shimmering light played upon the carnage, lending the murder site a surreal air of otherworldliness.

  His weeping done, Garrich raised his head. Tears streaked his pimply face, smeared also with his adoptive father's spilt blood. Rage supplanted sorrow and the youth's hard eyes brimmed promisingly. He suddenly wailed, a wretched keening that lamented over unspeakable loss. But the desolate moan that shivered the deepening night like a haunting to startle the nocturnal forest creatures from their nightly business carried an underlying note of primeval sinisterness.

  It was a cry for absolute revenge.

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  Chapter Three

  "Goodbye, father."

  The parting was simple but heartfelt. In those two short words Garrich summed up the entirety of his shattered existence. His only parent moldering in an unmarked shallow grave, for the first time in his young life the mourning teenager knew absolute aloneness—and the prospect terrified him.

  Garrich spun on his heels and faced the gutted cottage. Lingering wisps of smoke curled upwards into the sunless morning sky from the charred skeleton of the burnt cabin. The boy fed on that repellent sight, willing his grief and anxiety into a hungering desire for vengeance. Fixating upon that one thought, burying his accompanying feelings, his sole purpose in life became a quest for retribution. Garrich vowed upon his father's burial mound to track down the killers responsible for bringing about Tylar Shudonn's untimely death and exact the ultimate punishment. A life for a life: the only justice applicable.


  Shouldering his haversack, he jogged from his scorched home into the dreary trees resolutely gripping the wood-axe, scanning the forest floor as he went. Garrich had buried his father at first light beneath the spreading branches of a favored shade elm, reluctant to close that chapter of his life but driven by necessity to complete the saddening act. Afterwards the youth wiped clean the dirtied chopping blade used as an improvised excavator and honed its dulled steel edge back to razor sharpness. Two hours had elapsed since that unwelcome dawn, adding to the already lengthy head start those he pursued enjoyed. Faced with a good deal of ground to make up, time was not on his side.

  Stooping to study the ground, Garrich grunted in satisfaction at spying a telltale footprint in a patch of damp earth as yet uncovered by the falling leaf litter. Having scouted about the ruins of Falloway Cottage come daylight, he deduced from the scattered boot marks that Shudonn's assailants totaled five in number. Two slain outright by the feisty oldster sprawled where they had fallen, stripped of all possessions and dignity by their mercenary compatriots. That left the surviving perpetrators moving southward to be dealt with. The boy resumed the hunt, eager to have done with this vital chase. He smelt rain on the wind, realizing that an ill-timed downpour would wash away precious tracks and leave the trail maddeningly cold.

  "Run far and fast, you filthy murderers. It doesn't matter. I will catch you,” swore Garrich, a note of cruelty in his pledge.

  He ran solidly for the next few hours, stopping only to quench his thirst and refill his waterskin from the meandering streams infrequently stumbled across on the course of his pursuit. Hunger pangs were pointedly ignored, for Garrich carried no morsels of food in his knapsack other than the stale crumbs from the previous day's lunch, nor could he spare the time to hunt woods already scarce with game due to the changing seasons. Those the youth hounded were a half-day's journey ahead and he could ill afford to slow or waste a single moment. A tightening knot in his gut soon silenced his growling, empty stomach as the yearning for retaliation overrode bodily needs. Garrich devolved into a primal creature driven by instinct, a single-mindedness displacing conscious thought with the base emotion of revenge.