The lowering fire flared with a blinding brilliance to the sound of a deafening roar that subsided the moment it broke the stillness, leaving Garrich to wonder if his ears had heard the noise at all. The bemused youth jumped back as a fiery bird with wings aflame emerged from the tongues of fire, its flickering yellow and orange plumage shimmering in the heat haze. With a raucous squawk the incandescent fledgling took flight and flapped majestically into the starry sky, circling once overhead before crying a second time and vanishing in a flash of luminosity punctuated by a thunderclap.
Maldoch seated himself beside the crackling campfire, burning normally in the wake of the impact left by his impressive charm. “Satisfied with my credentials now?” he smugly asked the dumbfounded boy gazing incredulously up at the empty heavens.
"What was that?” exclaimed Garrich.
"A creature of mythology, my dear boy: a bird reputedly devoured by fire every five centuries or so, which then arose reborn from the ashes."
"And you summoned it to appear by magic?"
"Technically, no,” professed the wizard. “I cannot recreate a beast of lore that never existed. No mortal practitioner of the magic arts is that skilled."
The awestruck youth was vexed. “Then what did I just see?"
"An illusion. The supposed image of the phoenix based on the descriptions taken from legend of old. If I may say so, it was an artistically splendid rendition.” Maldoch prodded at the fire with a long stick. “I'm rather proud of the effort myself."
"It holds some significance,” Garrich quietly intuited. “For me, I mean."
The dancing firelight betrayed a sly smirk creasing the oldster's craggy features. “Tylar never told me you were such a quick learner.” Giving an exaggerated yawn, Maldoch remarked, “I tire. We'll continue this discussion in the morning after a good night's kip."
Watching stupefied as the wizard pulled his cloak tight and settled down for the evening, Garrich protested. “But I have much to ask you."
"Make certain you don't let that fire die out,” Maldoch instructed, rolling over onto his side and presenting his back to Garrich. “My old bones feel the cold more than they used to and if I wake up shivering expect me to be real cranky."
The disbelieving youth gazed at the old man until the sound of the wizard's indifferent snoring turned him aside. Too worked up from having drunk the rejuvenating Elf potion to even contemplate sleep, Garrich sought reassurance in familiarity. Discovering his unsheathed broadsword back amongst the brigands stash, he set about scraping the dried blood from the blade and sharpening its edge, the rhythmic sound of the whetstone in cadence with Maldoch's snores. Buffing the honed steel with a polishing rag until the firelight dazzled fiercely in the gleaming metal, Garrich glanced periodically at the snoozing spellcaster, trying to gauge the peculiar old man's character.
His weekly chore finished, Garrich hunkered down across from his newfound companion, the sleeved sword possessively in his lap. Instinctively reaching for his haversack, he undid the lacing of the flap and took out the cherished baby wrap and tome tucked safely inside. Running his hands lovingly over the tattered pelt and frayed book jacket, the unsettled teen drew comfort from touching the careworn articles from home. Oldness meant comfort. He doubted that sentiment applied to the wizard.
Clutching the tokens to his chest, Garrich stared listlessly into the campfire. The lonesome howl of a solitary wolf distanced from the pack and hunting unaided in the early evening sounded off somewhere west of the campers, mournful and desolate.
"You sound as confused as I do,” murmured the boy.
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Chapter Five
He pointedly rose before first light to find Maldoch banking the sputtering fire. Having hardly slept a wink, the boy greeted the dark morn accordingly tired and grouchy. Beaten to the punch, Garrich mumbled unremorsefully, “You're an early riser."
"When you get to my age you'll appreciate the shortness of the days,” the wizard laconically said. “Time is a fleeting mistress unable to backtrack. Besides, why sleep away a perfectly fine day?"
Garrich glanced doubtfully upwards, the sun only beginning to grace the eastern skies with her warming presence. An imperceptible lightening of the predawn firmament marked the defining contrast between night and day, yet the heavens remained murky and unreadable to the frowning teenager. “How can you tell?"
"Divining weather is a hobby of mine,” Maldoch revealed, reheating the previous night's stew once the cooking fire built up sufficient hotness.
Squatting in front of the cheering flames, one of the dead bandit's blankets draped about his shoulders warding off the chill of early morn, Garrich rubbed his hands together. “What else do you do, wizard,” he bluntly asked, “other than a spot of healing, cast illusory spells, and dabble in weather forecasting?"
"Recruit future saviors of the world."
The teen's face went blank from astonishment.
Oblivious to the gaping boy's incredulity, Maldoch announced, “This stew should be warmed through enough to eat. Help yourself.” When the dumbstruck youth failed to move, the offhand wizard spooned up a helping and thrust the plate into one of Garrich's motionless hands after prising the fingers apart. “Tuck in, my boy. You'll need to keep up your strength if we're going to walk out of Wivernbush."
That shoved Garrich from his unblinking reverie. “To travel where?"
"Alberion."
Garrich bristled. ‘I can't possibly go anywhere with you.'
"I wasn't asking,” Maldoch said flatly.
Flinging the plate aside, Garrich shook off the commandeered blanket and angrily stalked away. Belting on his broadsword, he stuffed the treasured contents of his past life back into the knapsack and began striding resolutely from the small clearing, the lengthy weapon looking ridiculously oversized on his small frame as he held it clear of the ground by angling the hilt.
"Where do you think you're heading?” Maldoch called after the departing youth.
"Home, if that's any of your business."
"To what? Falloway Cottage is just ashes."
"I'll rebuild,” retorted Garrich, his gait quickening.
The spellcaster hummed. “Fabulous idea. It'll be good to see my old homestead restored to its former splendor."
That declaration stopped Garrich in his tracks. “Your what?"
"Do your ears need cleaning out, boy? Falloway Cottage belongs to me."
"That's untrue,” denied Garrich. “Father owned the cabin. What's left of it is mine."
"Not so. I built Falloway with my own hands a number of years ago. After befriending Tylar Shudonn, I offered him it as lodging upon his retirement. Happy to accept, he paid me in rent by way of upkeep of the place."
Garrich felt betrayed. Tylar despised dishonesty and lectured at length on the impropriety of falsehood. “Father led me to believe that he'd somehow inherited the place. He out-and-out lied."
"That's unduly harsh"’ chided Maldoch. “Shudonn deceived you acting on my instructions. I directed him not to divulge the true ownership of the cottage. Such a revelation might have compromised your safeness."
The youth dropped his haversack to the ground and glared directly at the mage, his hand inadvertently straying to the sword hilt. “What the N'drenoff worhl is going on here?” he demanded.
Maldoch raised his eyes to the grey heavens in disgust. “Why must the unenlightened resort to cussing using the name of Hell? Can't they be more original?” The wizard's flinty stare returned to Garrich, butting heads with the boy's intractability. “The time has come for me to reveal a number of home truths that you'll find difficult to swallow, let alone digest. I loathe repeating myself, so in order to enlighten you without being subjected to insufferable interruptions I'm compelled to employ magic."
The frosty spellcaster rapidly mouthed an incantation that darted snakelike to encase Garrich in an invisible cocoon. Feeling a constricting of the surrounding air, the boy alarmingly found
himself unable to move his arms or legs. The tightening intensified, his skin prickling from being in contact with the unseen shroud of magicked immobility.
"Don't struggle against the spell. It'll only lengthen the settling process and prolong your discomfort,” advised Maldoch. “And I wouldn't bother trying to speak either. Your voice won't carry beyond the immobilization field."
Helpless, Garrich glowered mutely at the wizard as the bindings finished taking hold, his breathing harsh in his own ears. Muffled by the unseeable barrier, the oldster's voice stayed intelligible.
Maldoch walked over to the frozen teen and professed, “This spell is a personal favorite of mine. I'm saving it to use on my beastly ex-wife. She's such a witch.” Hands clasped behind his back, the mage paced thoughtfully in front of Garrich before commencing his disclosure.
"Always best to start at the beginning, I'll do just that. I found you as an infant, Garrich, and fostered you out to Tylar Shudonn. Unequipped to look after a baby full-time myself, I recalled my old friend was recently retired with time on his hands. Tylar at first objected at being lumbered with a newborn, but I can be wickedly persuasive.” Maldoch locked eyes with the entrapped boy. “You'll find that out for yourself soon enough,” he promised. “The rest you are aware of. Shudonn raised you like the son he never had. At my insistence, and Tylar wholeheartedly concurred, he trained you in the ways of a soldier. You might ask why, could you but speak. I'll tell you then.
"No doubt during the course of your military instruction you covered the border skirmishes involving Goblins and Dwarfs, Goblins and Men—practically Goblins and the rest of Terrath! Vicious as those episodes were, they remain minor, unconnected incidences. View them as brotherly squabbles. Generally the Fellow Races coexist as one big dysfunctional family, so spats between the siblings crop up every now and then. Sadly such quarrels result in more than bloody noses for the combatants, but at least the violence stays contained, helped in no small part by the Dwarfs erecting the barrier across Frelok Pass."
And the tireless efforts of the Borderland Patrol Garrich proudly added, restricted to thinking, not talking.
"Now consider this horror,” proposed Maldoch. “Warring and bloodshed on a grander scale than Terrath has witnessed before, embroiling four of the Fellow Races in a nationwide conflict.” Letting that shocker sink in, Maldoch emphasized the point he was leading up to. “That terrible eventuality will come to pass if Carnach stages its planned incursion into Carallord."
Garrich's mind reeled. Goblins invading the north? If Maldoch's outlandish claim proved true, a full-blown race war seemed imminent. As warlike as their western neighbors, the Dwarfs would retaliate with force and drag Anarica into the fray. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, might perish in the ensuing tussle. But what had this to do with him?
As if reading the lad's thoughts, the wizard stopped pacing. “You're thinking that I've not explained your link in all of this, young Garrich. Well, my boy, it is simply this. The East is in dire need of a champion to thwart the West, and you are it."
The only reaction the stationary teen could give was to rapidly blink his eyes in disbelief, a gesture not lost upon Maldoch.
"Hard to take in? Think about it, son. Why else did Tylar mold you into the expert swordsman you now are, despite your greenness? A born warrior who's ably demonstrated his fighting prowess, all you lack is a cause."
Forced to agree, for Garrich key pieces making up his jumbled life fitted snugly into place like a coalescing jigsaw; the ceaseless lessons in warfare, theoretical and upon the practice field; his father's innuendoes hinting at an unspecified future greatness. No wonder Tylar so strenuously objected to him enlisting in the army. Already mapped out, Garrich's existence could be likened to an unimplemented battle strategy: worked out to the last detail, ready to be put into play.
"Why you?” continued Maldoch. “The world needs an impartial champion, a universal warrior free of personal and nationalistic ties. Who better than an orphaned Goblin, product of a secluded, Eastern upbringing."
This second revelation stunned Garrich with equal force. With disarming frankness, the wizard confirmed what the slain bandit leader had so mockingly labeled him. The teen's magical restraints abruptly dissolved and he teetered on unsteady feet, the sounds of the forested world unbearably loud.
Maldoch arched a shaggy eyebrow at the freed youth. “Hmmm, the spell's degraded faster than anticipated. I must tweak the recitation to remedy that for future use."
"I'm a Goblin?” Garrich blurted incredulously.
"What did you think you were boy? An Elf?"
"Actually, yes,” admitted the dazed youth. “The upswept ears, slanted eyebrows..."
Maldoch chuckled cruelly. “You're a little on the short and dark side to be a native of Gwilhaire."
Garrich sulked. In the absence of any other clues, his guess was a reasonable assumption. But to now be named a member of the people to whom the general evil of the world was attributed, and who were considered the black sheep of the Fellow Races, was disconcerting.
"Gather up your stuff,” ordered the spellcaster. “We're leaving for Alberion shortly."
"You seriously can't expect me to accompany you who-knows-where on some unnamed idiotic adventure after dropping those bombshells?” said the moping teen.
"Why ever not? The matter of your ignorance is resolved; you're aware of your place in the grand scheme of things. Destiny awaits you, my boy. Embrace it."
"Nothing at all has been settled! You've revealed who I am, but not where I come from. Who are my parents? What were they like? To which tribe do I belong? Have I any surviving family—brothers or sisters, cousin's maybe?"
The wizard raised his hands. “Whoa, Garrich. Those questions will be answered all in good time, if you but journey with me."
"You're blackmailing me?"
Maldoch considered the accusation. “Swaying you sounds kinder."
Made speechless by the mage's effrontery, not wizardry, Garrich fumed in silence.
Taking advantage of the boy's dumbness, the crafty old spellcaster employed his legendary powers of persuasion. “Let us review your position from a logical angle. Firstly, there's no home to speak of you can return to. Even if Falloway Cottage was rendered habitable again, legally the cabin remains my property. In the second place, Tylar Shudonn—may the blessed Maker watch over his soul—is dead, leaving no guardian to watch out for you. Incidentally, I'm the closest thing to family you've got right now, whether you like or not, so get used to my being around. And in the third instance, what can an eastern raised Goblin do with his life? You'll be shunned wherever you go, including Carnach, unless I take you under my protective wing—which I'm fully prepared to do."
Suspicious, Garrich asked, “What's the catch?"
Maldoch smiled cunningly. “Here's the deal. You travel with me to the Anarican capital and help me conduct my business. In return, I'll divulge all the information at my disposal regarding your Goblin parentage. Perhaps I'll even throw in the deed to Falloway Cottage as a bonus, depending upon your congeniality."
Garrich considered the wizard's “offer". Maldoch's terms smacked heavily of manipulation and yet the teen had to concede the rightness of his argument. The life known to him, comfortable as a well-worn slipper, fled lost and unrecoverable. Garrich needed to move on and with no better alternative it transpired that traveling in the company of the mysterious spellcaster presented the best option.
Admittedly intrigued by the prospect of becoming the saviour of Terrath and whatever adventures such distinction entailed, he said, “I'll go with you,” amending, “but I won't trust you."
"Delightful. Faith shouldn't be given freely. It ought to be earned.” Beaming, Maldoch shot the boy a look of pure cynicism. “Between you and me, trust nobody. It's safer. Now that everything is sorted, let's get underway."
The breaking day turned out to be as sunny as Maldoch predicted. A deceptively blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds unfurled over
head, flaunting the approach of winter, though the wind blew crisp. After kicking out the campfire, the unlikely twosome shouldered individual bags and tramped from the clearing. Garrich traipsing a pace behind, Maldoch took the lead, funnily enough steering them due south in the direction of Haston.
Garrich toted nothing extra than some measly dried foodstuffs, a bedroll, and a waterproof poncho liberated from the packs of the slain banditry, plus his newly claimed broadsword strapped across his back. The youth's smallness discarded wearing the lengthy blade belted about his waist for travel, as the tip of the scabbard dragged noisily along the ground behind him. When Maldoch suggested the boy sift through the brigands’ collection of loot in search of Tylar's belongings, Garrich had refuted the notion. The possessions of personal worth he valued most—the moldy pelt, well-thumbed book, and bejeweled sword—were his already. The remainder of the booty belonged to a past that died along with Shudonn.
The pair journeyed in silence, each lost in his private thoughts: Garrich struggling to come to terms with the monumentally eventful changes in his life, Maldoch submerged in contemplating the unknowable affairs troubling a wizard. When night fell they routinely made camp amongst the ancient boles comprising Wivernbush, nestling within the tangle of massive roots until daybreak banished dark. The pleasantly sun-dappled first two days of travel degenerated into rainy squalls by midday of the third as autumn reasserted her damp and gusty presence. Taking their noon respite at the base of a gargantuan oak shedding its orange-yellow foliage like hair, wizard and boy-warrior ate an unappetizing cold meal, sheltered against the miserably inclement weather.
Breaking the monotonous quiet, Garrich asked, “Why do we travel to Alberion?"
Absently watching a wind-blown leaf drift past his hooked nose, the spellcaster answered, “I have a coronation to attend. Anarica will soon be crowning a new monarch."
"Did the old ruler die?"
Wizard's Goal Page 7
