Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  By mid-afternoon exhaustion forced him to an unwanted halt. Breathless and dizzy from his demanding run, the fatigued boy dropped to his knees beside a trickle of a stream ferrying discarded leaves in its tiny current and drank his fill of the revoltingly muddy water, saving the clearer contents of his waterskin for the next leg. An inadequate substitute for food, the drink temporarily dulled his hungering for eats. Teenagers under normal circumstances ate voraciously to fuel their sprouting bodies, so that the youth's enlarging appetite was doubly troublesome.

  A discomforting drizzle filtered down through the patchy leaf canopy as the promised rain materialized. Sat propped against the trunk of a moss-encrusted birch, indifferent to the misty wetness, Garrich rested. He had covered enough leagues to be confident of overtaking the culprits by nightfall despite his weariness and the souring weather. The murderous threesome was proceeding at a sedate, even leisurely pace due south, no doubt heading in the direction of Haston: the only settlement of note in that direction, if Garrich remembered his geography lessons correctly. Their trail, undisguised and deceptively easy to follow, was a sure sign of egotistical laziness on their part. The bastards obviously did not expect to be tracked. Garrich hauled himself to his feet. Rain or no, he would intercept his father's slayers before they cleared the trees forming the westernmost tip of Wivernbush and there conduct his deadly reprisal. The youth stroked the shiny head of the wood-axe reverently, almost lovingly.

  Reaching for his haversack, he froze. Discarded in the damp undergrowth lay a valued tome of Tylar Shudonn's. “Well, I'll be...” he whispered disbelievingly.

  Garrich did not bother sifting through the burnt out shell of Falloway Cottage for any salvageable items, knowing full well that the fire would have consumed all flammable possessions and rendered anything remotely flameproof largely unusable—assuming the robbers left anything of value inside after ransacking then torching the cabin. This windfall became a treasure, a tangible reminder of a life irretrievably lost, a belonging of his father's that poignantly served to further keep alive his memory.

  Picking up the blue hardcover book with shaky hands, the sorrowing boy managed a brief smile of fond remembrance when reading the golden-lettered title. A Treatise of Ancient Weaponry & Modern Tactics was a favorite of the old bookworm's. It insulted Garrich to find the well-read text tossed negligently aside by an itinerant bunch of killers. Nobody respected the sanctity of life when patently unappreciative of a good book. Stuffing the volume in his shirtfront, oddly feeling the nearness of Tylar because of it, the affronted avenger resumed his chase, benefiting from a second wind.

  —

  Night draped the land with its inky veil and Garrich trudged through the darkness determinedly. Tiredness weighted his plodding feet as the youth willed himself to take yet another heavy step. Still he refused to quit. The boy's doggedness paid off. Glimpsed up ahead through a break in the trees flickered the unmistakable glow of a campfire partnered by the murmur of conversational voices. Garrich risked a self-congratulatory chuckle, feeling his flagging strength buoyed by the expectation of securing his revenge. Furtively creeping from tree to tree, the exhilarated teen reached the threshold of a glade ringed by mighty oaks and spied his quarry. Hunkering behind a wide trunk, with narrowed, hate-filled eyes Garrich viewed the pikeman, axeman, and archer in the illuminating firelight.

  "That's a tasty drop of ale,” remarked the axeman, his speech slurred as he refilled his emptied mug from a cask at his side. Noisily draining the tankard, he wiped the froth from his chin with the back of his hand and belched.

  Garrich scowled. Tylar recently procured the beverage during one of his periodic sojourns to rural civilization in order to toast his son's impending sixteenth birthday. That milestone celebration, earmarked to be christened by the youth's first taste of beer, signified Garrich's passage into manhood. Cheated of officially ending his boyhood, he ticked another black mark against his slayers.

  "You're so boorish,” the disgusted archer complained of his uncouth companion, slowly turning the brace of spitted grouse roasting over the fire, ensuring the dressed wildfowl cooked evenly. “I honestly don't know why I bother with such a pig of a man."

  The axeman sneered. “You need someone to do the dirty work for you, Ezlah. We wouldn't want you to mess your pretty hands. Ain't that right, peasant?” He slapped the serf heartily on the back.

  The haggard-faced pikeman reluctantly tore his eyes away from the mouth-watering sight of the steadily revolving game birds to regard his compatriots and said nothing.

  "You'll insult me once too often someday,” warned the bowman.

  Lurching drunkenly to his feet, the axeman bellowed, “Hah! You're just as spineless as our wimpy serf mate here,” tipping forward to fall flat on his face, narrowly missing landing in the fire.

  "Is he right, sir?” the pikeman asked Ezlah.

  Giving the passed out axeman a jab with the toe of an ornate boot, the archer was rewarded with a rattling snort. “The buffoon will be like a bear with a sore head come morning, but sadly he'll live. Drag him away from the fire before the pong of his unwashed body spoils these delectable birds."

  The pikeman complied, rolling the inebriated axeman onto his back and hauling him feet-first to where the ring of firelight held back the dueling black of night, draping him with a tatty blanket afterwards. He returned to the campfire to stare longingly at the browning poultry.

  "Why is that slob's welfare such a concern of yours?” Ezlah enquired of his rustic associate.

  "Me and him goes back a ways, milord. ‘Twas him that told me to get myself free."

  The archer considered the answer with a puzzled look on his boyish face. Only recently taking up with the brigand band formerly led by Syros, he knew little of his cronies’ personal histories other than their shared crime of banditry. “You were a serf, were you not, my illiterate friend?"

  "I was, sir."

  "Serfdom is not something you can readily walk away from. Did your lord willingly release you?"

  "Sort of.” The pikeman glanced conspiratorially back at the snoring axeman. “He got himself killed."

  Ezlah grew suspicious. “Where do you hail from?"

  "Sir?"

  "The lands you tended for your lord, imbecile. Where are they situated?"

  "Up nears Orvanthe."

  "Oh, that's just dandy,” moaned the fancily dressed bowman. He ranted and raved, employing a host of gutter-language expletives at distinct odds with his courtly mannerisms and finery.

  "What's the matter, sir?"

  "Your stupid, drunken friend slew a noble—that's what. If avoiding the Prince's Constabulary isn't enough to contend with, we'll have to also watch out for the Knights of Torth Valcnor. Those armored watchdogs will not rest until they've avenged the death of this no doubt minor landowner of yours on behalf of that pig Baron Savanth."

  Garrich resisted the impulse to contradict the archer. The eavesdropping youth intended to execute this murderous bunch long before the proper authorities caught up with them.

  The runaway serf stared hard at the roasting grouse. “Sir, them birds look just ‘bout done."

  The appalled archer lifted the cooked fowls off the stand and thrust the succulent morsels at his slavering partner in crime. “Bon appetite. I seem to have lost mine.” Sulky eyes downcast, he contemplated with a shudder the dread Orvanthian knighthood astride galloping chargers, lances lowered killingly.

  A cloying sense of propriety curbed Garrich's urge to rush from the undergrowth and slay the disparate trio. His father taught him the code of honor associated with battle and challenging a senseless drunkard, disconsolate popinjay, and starving peasant eager only to fill his belly seemed wildly inappropriate. Frustrated by Tylar's overriding morals, Garrich promptly removed his pappy's book from his shirtfront and shoved the tome roughly into his rucksack, as if doing so distanced Shudonn's teachings. The disgusted teen then flung his pack aside and settled down to wait for a more opportune c
hance, the haft of the axe never once leaving his grip. He hungrily watched by firelight the ravenous serf tucking into the mouth-watering poultry, the envy adding to his festering hatred for the brigands.

  —

  Garrich awoke with a start, shivering. Fatigue had crept upon him and he inadvertently dozed. Dawn's light bathed the forestland in its milky radiance as the rising sun struggled to shine through the lingering overcast. Rubbing the sleep from bleary eyes, the boy silently berated himself for the lapse in concentration that caused him to fall asleep. His rebuking father would have rightly called his lack of diligence inexcusable.

  Made visible by the breaking day, Garrich studied the layout of the encampment. A dozen paces back from the bole shielding the youth smoldered the guttering campfire, the loot of the slumbering bandits heaped in an untidy pile beside them. Glistening dew saturated the ground around the unsuspecting threesome. Peering at the jumble of stolen articles Garrich could not see his father's cherished sword, assuming along the course of his chase that the thieves would have instantly recognized the worth of the blade and absconded with it. Returning his gaze to the brigands snoozing unawares in their damp bedrolls, the boy resented Shudonn's sense of morality. In no way could he justify attacking sleeping men either. Clutching the wood-axe with barely controlled anger, his knuckles whitening from frustration, Garrich reluctantly resumed his less than patient vigil.

  The pikeman became the first to rise, a legacy from his serf days where those who tilled the land customarily greeted the new day readied for toil. He yawned and scratched his armpit before banking the lowering fire. Servitude proved an impossibly hard yoke to break, the lower classes expected to perform the menial tasks in any hierarchy, whether rooted in nobility or thievery. Ezlah the archer was next to waken and this piqued Garrich's interest. Of the group, the boy branded the fancy bowman the most culpable of the lawbreakers judging by the flight embedded in Tylar Shudonn's back. But what grabbed his attention most was the scabbard of battered leather in the dandy's possession as he rolled back his bedcover and stood, stretching his gangly arms and legs.

  "Make sure you stoke that fire good and proper,” Ezlah ordered the serf, donning his rumpled doublet and smoothing out the wrinkles before disdainfully running his fingers through dank and tangled blonde locks. “I'll be glad to see the back of these dreadful boondocks when we reach someplace civilized. A visit to a bathhouse and tailor will be most welcome, after we dispose of this booty to the Netherworld Syndicate's local fence."

  "That's the truth, sir,” agreed the serf, taking a branch from a faggot of sticks to feed the sputtering campfire. The morning dew dampened the timber, so the fire smoked terribly.

  Ezlah wrinkled his nose at the grubby peasant. “What can you possibly know of bathing?"

  "Me and me chums took pigs down to the creek for washing regular like, milord."

  "Swimming with swine hardly counts towards cleanness."

  The snoring axeman surfacing from his inebriated state interrupted further discussion on the definition of cleanliness. “What's all the racket?” he grouched, belching and rubbing his groin as he threw off his worn blanket. Spitting, he coughed. “My throat tastes like the sole of a whore's shoe and there's a pounding behind my eyes like a hundred beating drums."

  Ezlah looked and sounded unsympathetic. “That's hardly surprising. You have the dubious ability to drink a tavern dry."

  "Wouldn't be the first time. What's for breakfast anyhow? A bit of grub should see me right."

  "Nothing yet, not unless you plan to do a spot of morning hunting."

  The axeman spluttered laughingly. “I can't even see straight, nancy boy."

  "That's what I figured,” Ezlah said with a resigned sigh, gathering his bow and quiver, as well as the stolen sword, from his bedding. “I shall endeavor to shoot something appetizing. For you two that would be anything furry and four footed.” Trotting toward the treeline, he was brought up short by the axeman's strident call to halt.

  "To hunt game you won't be needing that veggie slicer, kindly donated by the doddery fighter we bumped into yesterday,” said the pockmarked drunkard, gesturing to the bejeweled broadsword in the archer's other hand.

  "I'd rather have it in my safekeeping, if it's all the same to you,” refuted the bowman.

  "Don't you trust me to mind our prize, Ezlah?"

  "Frankly, no. This is an exquisitely forged sword and will fetch a handsome price from any arms dealer."

  "Split three ways, of course."

  "Naturally."

  Grabbing his battle-axe, the surly brigand came to his feet and stared hard at the archer. “We're leagues from Haston, peacock. Who could I possibly sell it to in the middle of this wilderness? A wealthy squirrel perhaps?"

  Poised to offer a scathing rebuttal, Ezlah thought better of it when his leather garbed comrade inched forward, fingering the notched blade of his ill-kept weapon suggestively to end the discussion. Electing for a compromise, he tossed the sheathed sword to the startled serf before returning to the hunt, saying, “You be the keeper until my return."

  "Sir!” bemoaned the pikeman, juggling the weapon as if it were hot coals. Gazing pleadingly at the departing bowman entering the trees on the far side of the clearing, he whimpered. Fine arms belonged to the privileged nobility and serfs, even emancipated ones, were strictly forbidden from bearing such weaponry on pain of death.

  "Give it here!” demanded the axeman, snatching the sword from the quivering peasant. He tossed Tylar Shudonn's prized blade amongst his frugal personal belongings with a clatter and resumed scratching his crutch, grumbling, “Damn pig sticker. You can't beat a good axe."

  Observing the trio splintering, Garrich decided with a mutter, “Ethics be damned!” His father's property and memory deserved better treatment.

  Sighting the enraged youth springing from concealment and bounding towards him, the serf haltingly rose, his seemingly inadequately armed attacker's silence unnerving. Too dumbfounded to reach for his pike lying handily nearby, the cowering peasant could only stare defenselessly at Garrich brandishing his axe. The teen covered the short distance with enthused quickness and swung the wood-axe mightily, catching the hapless serf squarely in the stomach, the sickening squelch of metal rendering flesh filling his ears. Uttering a strangled cry, the runaway bondman pitched forwards, vainly trying to hold in his spilling innards after Garrich wrenched the blade free and rushed off to engage his next foe.

  "We've got company, Ezlah!” the axeman roared into the enclosing forest, scrabbling for his shield while watching the former vassal crumple into a twitching heap. The bandit adopted a classic fighting stance to face his approaching assailant; shield thrust outwards, axe held firm at the ready above his head. Staring at the war paint of dried blood coating the boy's stern face and lending him a ghoulish façade, terror—not bravado—rooted the axeman to the spot.

  Shouldering past the blocking shield, Garrich did not even slow. Ducking under the wild swing aimed at taking his head from his shoulders, he hooked the brigand's legs out from under him with the haft of his longer-handled chopper. His opponent landed on his back with a grunt, the axe bouncing out of his grasp. Instinctively raising the shield to protect his torso as the youth continued his attack, the downed brigand blocked a powerful downstroke with the heavy circle of iron embossed wood. He successfully fended off a further two consecutive blows as Garrich hewed at the implacable buffer, but there his luck ran out. The swinging wood-axe changed angle mid-stroke in the fourth swing to catch the unprepared ruffian beneath the chin, splitting his skull wide open from the jawbone up like a shattered melon. The axeman's arms dropped lifelessly by his side.

  Casting aside the bloodstained chopper, Garrich made for the dead man's paltry possessions. Grasping for his father's precious sword atop the jumbled effects, the focused youth failed to flinch when a speeding arrow whizzed over his shoulder. Unsheathing the familiar blade, he whirled and sprinted toward the patch of forest he glimpsed the a
rcher disappearing into beforehand. A second arrow hummed past his cheek, the feathered tail brushing against his earlobe. Unperturbed, Garrich grinned maliciously: the bowman lacked sufficient time to notch a third flight. Ezlah emerged on cue from the trees, discarding his bow and quiver, drawing his slender rapier in challenge.

  Garrich slowed to a cautious walk. Despite having the semblance of a preening cockerel, the staunch way his dashing adversary gripped the hilt of his fencing sword suggested a dangerous professionalism with the blade. It would pay Garrich to treat him with respect.

  Ezlah looked the boy up and down with unkind eyes. “What the devil is one of your sort doing this side of Tarndeth Ward?” he demanded to know. “If the prince's law officers weren't already enough to contend with, honest Anarican banditry must now compete with the likes of you pointy-ears trespassing on our legitimate domain."

  Momentarily put off balance by the insult, Garrich barely defended against the determined lunges the sole surviving robber executed at the close of his verbal attack. Trained to combat a broadsword-wielding opponent, he had trouble adjusting his technique to counter the lightning-quick stabs of the lighter foil and consequently backed up.

  Seeing his attacker's awkwardness and slowness to adapt, Ezlah pressed home his advantage, all the while baiting Garrich. “You're a queerly attired Westie,” he taunted, the rapier swishing with cutting fluidity. “I've not met one of your slant-eyed kind before, but if hearsay is correct then you are by all accounts underdressed. Where's your mystical cloak of pelts that protects you from all evils?"

  Garrich deflected the point of the rapier directed at his midriff along the edge of his broadsword, the clashing steel making a bone tingling grating sound. “You talk nonsense, jaybird,” he snapped, edging further backwards.