"Indeed,” concurred Maldoch. Glancing about, he stroked his beard musingly. “Pity there are none on hand. Can you even ride?"
"Er, no."
"Me neither. I guess we stay walking."
Garrich fell in beside the tramping enchanter, the butt of the oldster's staff clacking rhythmically upon the flagstones.
"Do you know the story behind the constructing of the royal roadways?” asked Maldoch.
Garrich's answering shake of his head was lost within the shadowed recesses of the cowl. “My education was limited to military texts and atlases."
"I'll add history lessons to your tutelage then."
"You sound like father,” groaned the teen. “Forever keen to make me learned."
"Thanks for the compliment. Keep pace now, boy. You know I hate to repeat myself,” said the single-minded wizard, smirking behind his flowing whiskers. “Way back in 480, Prince Karda Coramm entertained a vision..."
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Chapter Six
The road wore on. The novelty of treading a pathway leading to a broader if uncertain future vanished for Garrich after five or so leagues. Maldoch's recounting of historical events droning incessantly in the youth's ear did nothing to lessen the boredom of trudging along the deserted Western Royal Roadway. As foretold by the wizard, they encountered no other travelers during their passage along the cobbled highway that day, leaving the unlikely companions with the unsettling notion that they were the only two persons traversing Terrath.
Absently preferring the oldster's earlier reticence to this wearying bout of talkativeness, Garrich let his mind drift away from the current topic regarding the formation of the House of Nobles a thousand years earlier to consider his partly revealed ancestry. Knowing his race became the first part of a tangled puzzle that demanded solving.
He went over in his mind his limited knowledge surrounding Goblins and their homeland of Carnach in the mysterious west. Gleaned solely from military texts, the confounded youth realized with a growing amount of dissatisfaction that those accounts seemed terribly one-sided and biased against his people: Anaricans typically stereotyped Goblins as godless child killers hell-bent on warring amongst themselves and with weaker elements of their Fellow Races, committing heinous atrocities in the process. The authors of such tomes invariably concerned themselves with detailing the bloodthirstiness of their subject matter and rarely delved into the truths behind the myth. Guilty himself of regarding the westerners in that self-same colored light as a result of Tylar's tutelage, Garrich subsequently had to revise his thinking. Reading between the lines, he concluded that Carnachians were spirited survivors justly deserving of their fearsome reputation but equally accorded respect for their prowess as warriors. That said, Garrich still knew less than nothing about Goblin culture and way of life beyond their warring. He would have to rely on Maldoch to fill in those gaping blanks and that disturbed him.
"Have you killed anyone, Maldoch?"
The spellcaster stopped in mid-sentence to regard Garrich with those predatory eyes of his. After a moment's consideration, he replied, “That's an uncommonly bold query."
"You haven't answered the question,” pressed the inquisitive youth.
"Generally speaking, enchanters are pledged to preserve life rather than take it. That is not to say a murderous thought or two has not crossed my mind over the years. I could happily name a couple of people for whom the world would benefit greatly if they suffered an early death. Why do you ask?"
"Father prayed I'd never have to use my sword in anger."
"That was rather naïve of him, considering he trained you from birth to be a fighter."
Garrich grew serious. “I know now what he meant by guilt-ridden."
Maldoch halted in the middle of the roadway, compelling Garrich to follow suit. “Are you experiencing culpability over slaying those ruffians back in Wivernbush?"
The teenaged Goblin threw back the hood of his borrowed cloak and screwed up his face in an unseemly frown. “Not exactly. I carried out what needed to be done. It's just that I can't shake those images haunting me whenever I close my eyes."
"Your pesky nightmares?” perceived the wizard.
Garrich nodded mutely. Gruesome dreams continued permeating his sleep, denying him the chance for proper rest.
"Understandable. Blame is a powerful feeling that plays upon the subconscious, especially when one of those you slew happened to be unarmed."
The youth glanced sharply at the wizard. “How did you know about the serf?"
"Observation, remember?” confided Maldoch, tapping his temple with a bony finger. “The bloodied spot where he you downed him was devoid of a weapon and a dying combatant customarily clutches an implement of war to his breast when fighting off death. It's a standard ritual. Yet your bondsman died weaponless."
"A pike was within his reach, had he wanted it, when I attacked,” Garrich said in his defense.
"Don't get your hackles up, boy. I'm not judging you. All I'm saying is that the unthinking mind can do strange things to even a guiltless man. What might have Tylar's counsel been for this precise situation?"
Shrugging, Garrich guessed, “He probably would have reassured me by saying that the first kill a soldier makes is predictably the hardest of his career and to simply accept that pain as the norm for committing such a deed."
"Sound advice,” complimented Maldoch.
"Father warned me how a soldier never entirely learns to live with his actions."
"We all have regrets. The trick is not to let yourself become trapped in the past. You butchered Shudonn's killers. Congratulate yourself and move on."
"That's a trifle cold-hearted coming from someone who advocates the preservation of life,” challenged the youth.
Maldoch was unrepentant. “The death of those miscreants is no great loss.” A timely rumble of thunder in the lowery heavens prompted the mage to lift his bearded countenance skywards and bellow, “Forgive me, master. It's the truth!"
Garrich peered dubiously at the swirling clouds overhead. “Who are you shouting at?"
"The Deity of Goodness and Light. Your illiteracy is deplorable. Perhaps I'll introduce you to the Maker Himself one day."
Skepticism creased the teenager's brow. “Are you some kind of religious nut?” he asked tentatively, bracing for the dressing down that must surely follow.
The wizard abruptly laughed. “Me, a priest? Good god, boy, no! Let's just say that I'm a faithful servant of the true path"’ He glowered reproachfully at Garrich. “Pull up your hood. There's about an hour's daylight left and we can travel a good league before nightfall."
Garrich fell in beside the pacing mage. “Maldoch?"
"What is it now?” grunted the spellcaster.
"Back in the clearing, after burying those bandits, I half expected to be lectured by you on the inappropriateness of seeking revenge."
Maldoch's stern face showed puzzlement. “You want me to berate you now?"
"No. I was wondering why you failed to do so, that's all. I'm thinking that any responsible adult would have."
"Vengeance is hardly a commendable pursuit, my lad, but it is admittedly a passionate goal."
"I'm not sure I take your meaning."
With a wicked glint lighting his eyes, the wizard lengthened his stride to outpace the shorter teen and simply said over his shoulder, “I have no problem in wanting revenge. It has been my driving force for the past sixteen hundred years."
* * * *
Three and a half weeks of continuous walking broken only by the odd shower of autumn rain ended with the duo approaching a township strung across the princedom's western thoroughfare like an afterthought. Viewed from a rise overlooking the curving descent of the paved road leading into it, the strange settlement of tents straddled not one but four highways like the spoked hub of some flimsy wheel.
"Name that town,” Maldoch dared Garrich.
Concentrating hard, the youth offered, �
�Woldsham."
"Too far west,’ the wizard growled. ‘I despair of you ever being able to find your way out of a leather bag, boy."
"Geography isn't my best subject,” grumbled Garrich.
"Do tell. Down there lies the Midden. It has sat on the crossroads of the four Royal Roadways for close to twelve centuries. Watch your step. The place is a converging point for roughnecks and the unsavory citizens of the realm."
"We're going down?” Garrich asked eagerly.
"Against my better judgment,” confirmed Maldoch. “We need supplies. I'd prefer to leave you in hiding off-road someplace, but I'm afraid you'd get lost in the wilderness."
Ambling downwards, Garrich felt a mix of nervous jubilation. His introduction to the Anarican populace was thus far confined to a grouchy wizard and three dead robbers, supplemented by the occasional mail rider and ambulant peasantry met in passing on their otherwise empty route. To be now finally exposed to common folk at once thrilled and terrified the anxious teen. Garrich wished Tylar were alive to talk with. Maldoch had allayed the youth's concerns over his killing spree, but Garrich did not confess to the spellcaster his harboring guilt at being unable to prevent the old soldier's violent death in the first place. Shudonn's demise weighed heavily upon him; Garrich missed his father terribly.
Sponsoring the minor's ongoing education, Maldoch demanded from Garrich as they reached the flat and moseyed into the makeshift town, “Tell me what you know of the Midden."
"Virtually nothing from a soldiering standpoint,” professed the youth, his shadowed eyes darting about in fascination. Garrich's patent ignorance was predictable, considering the martial nature of his imperfect reference material.
"My fault for not letting Shudonn give you a broader education,” rued the wizard. “Once a year this otherwise godforsaken place comes alive with a festivity oddly enough called the Cross Fair. Buyers from all over Terrath converge to purchase bloodstock for their farms and estates, at the end of which they throw a massive shindig. It's quite a party—drunken carousing, rampant whoring, plus the odd duel."
"When does the fair take place?"
Maldoch detected a note of stringent curiosity in the young man's inquiry. “Not until late summer, so your virtue is quite safe.” He grinned, patting the teen's sagging shoulder.
Carrying onwards, they met the first living souls on the outskirts of town: a rowdy group of ill-mannered men wearing filthy sheepskins that collectively smelt like a barnyard and stood idly about sharing a bottle of cheap spirits. Casting suspicious stares at the strangers, the inebriated bunch gave the spellcaster and his charge a wide berth as they staggered off toward a collection of motley tents, leaving the newcomers free to enter the town center unmolested.
The Midden did not sit squarely upon the junction of the princedom's highways as its name suggested. Rather, the township was divided into four suburbs bisected by the cobblestone thoroughfares before they intersected in the precise center to form a cross, marked by a signpost. Two of the quarters encompassed ramshackle tents of patched canvas housing the settlement's transient community, while a third formed a street of sorts occupied by a pair of adjoining dilapidated timber buildings.
"What are those used for?” Garrich asked, pointing to his right at the sprawling network of stockyards comprising the fourth division of the Midden, as he and Maldoch trod the final leg of the Western Royal Roadway.
"Those are the races used at the completion of the annual Stock Drive, when cattle beasts and strings of horses are herded up from the southern plains to this dingy marketplace around mid-spring and corralled for inspection by potential purchasers. For the remainder of year they otherwise stand empty.” The faint bleating of livestock from somewhere within the maze of pens proved Maldoch a liar.
Strolling past the guidepost denoting the meeting point of the four principal roads, Garrich glanced up at the directional arrows sprouting from the apex of the shoddy pole coated with flaking white paint and was struck by the grim humor of the original signwriter, for they read: NORTH; SOUTH; EAST; PURGATORY. The West clearly bore an unflattering reputation everywhere.
Heading along the eastern road, Maldoch stepped on to the footpath fronting the run down structures that shared split planking, cracked tile roofs, and rickety verandas, but little else in common. The first was a low slung, windowless affair overshadowed by its triple-storied neighbor sporting glass paneling of dirtied panes that stared out from the facade like unblinking eyes. There was a marked lack of signage to identify the function of either construction, so that an air of disconcerting anonymity hung over both.
"Shops?” inquired Garrich, coming to a halt beside the wizard outside the frontage of the larger of the two shabby buildings.
"The first is the trading post, while this den of inequity is the local inn and brothel,” elucidated Maldoch.
"Women and booze,” mouthed the entranced teen. To date, he frustratingly had no experience of either.
"Don't get all excited. The ladies only frequent this establishment over summer. They leave to spend the winter months back in Jarde. As for the ale, calling it pig swill is doing an injustice to what hogs gulp down.” The wizard looked upon the hooded youth in a profoundly grandfatherly way and added, “It's for the best. Beer and broads lead to nothing but trouble."
Garrich did not favor abstinence. He yearned to try life's pleasures for himself. “Why are these the only two wooden structures in this canvas town?"
"Permanence is a rarity here. Tents are regularly pitched and collapsed as people come and go, but the general store and watering hole, as well as the stockyards, remains year round."
"That doesn't explain why more permanent accommodation hasn't replaced the tents."
Maldoch shrugged. “The Midden originally sprung up around the Stock Drive. Since that event happens only annually, nobody bothers to erect proper shelters. That factor, coupled with the cost and hassle of transporting lumber down from the north, keeps the tent-makers profitably employed."
The door to the inn creaked open as a portly, ruddy-complexioned fellow in his forties sporting curly ginger hair and wearing a stained apron shuffled on to the veranda to greet the wizard. “Sulca, you old scoundrel. Where'd you blow in from?"
"Sulca?” laughed Garrich.
"Hush boy!” Maldoch snapped in a harsh whisper. “Travelling under a non-de plume has its advantages. Now hold your tongue and let me operate.” Clasping the other's proffered hand warmly, he responded, “Well met, Olben. How's trade?"
"Slow as ever at this time of year. You'd do me a great service by telling me that we're in for a short winter this year. My shrinking profits will be a lot healthier benefiting from an early Stock Drive. The sheepherders hanging round at present are stingy drinkers."
The wizard chuckled. “Come now, Olben. You surely don't expect me to give you a free weather consultation?"
"You always were a shrewd bugger, old-timer. Name your price."
"A room for the night."
"Agreed."
"Including supper and a hot bath."
"Alright, done,” conceded Olben, “but only because you're so darned accurate with your forecasting.” The pair spat in their palms and shook on the deal. The innkeeper looked interestedly around the tall diviner at his robed and hooded offsider. “You'll be needing the double room."
"A single will suffice."
"Suit yourself. Pleasure to meet you, friend,” offered Olben, extending a pudgy hand toward Garrich.
"I wouldn't do that,” cautioned the mage. “Leper."
Olben hurriedly withdrew his hand and backed away. “Are you insane?"
"No, compassionate. I ran into this poor chap down outside Yordl. His leprosy made him an outcast, forcing him to live on the fringe of Jungular Forest like an animal. I showed pity and invited him to accompany me north. I'm betting the cooler clime will be more conducive for his condition."
"Get him out of here, Sulca."
"A bargain's a bargain.
"
"You tricked me!"
"Nonsense. Don't be so hasty to shake on a pact next time before you know all the facts. Show us to our room."
"On condition that you keep your friend upstairs. I don't want him scaring my customers off."
Maldoch brushed past him and stepped through the doorway into the empty common room. “What customers?” he sniped.
Garrich, trailing after the wizard with Olben a measured distance further back, a grimy handkerchief pointedly covering their nervous host's mouth, frowned in disgust at his first real taste of civilization. The spacious room was low-beamed with a sooty ceiling blackened by the handful of burning oil lamps strung from the rafters on rusty chains. To one side stood a bar, if a plank of scratched varnish perched atop a pair of spaced out wine barrels, in turn backed by shelves stacked with assorted beverage casks and bottles, could be labeled as such. Scattered across the hay-strewn, dirt floor were rackety tables and chairs riddled with woodworm, whilst similarly wobbly benches lined up in haphazard fashion before a massive hearth in which a guttering fire kindled. The air smelt heavy with the cloying pungency of the burning oil and gagging stench of stale beer. Garrich was unimpressed by his first trip to town.
Maldoch made for the rattletrap of a staircase at the back of the common room leading to the upstairs lodging, beckoning for Garrich to hasten.
"Take your usual room, Sulca,” directed Olben, his voice muffled by the kerchief. “If you want me I'll be downstairs cleaning the place."
"That'll take him the rest of the year,” Garrich whispered to the mage.
"Shush, boy.” Climbing the stairs, Maldoch called down, “We'll have supper served in the common room Olben, if you please."
The innkeeper disagreed. “You're welcome to, but your friend will dine in his room. I told you, I won't stand for the likes of him frightening my evening crowd."
Smiling condescendingly, the wizard said, “As you wish."
"I'll bring up an extra mattress for your guest when I'm done here,” Olben called after the diviner, casting an unfriendly glance Garrich's way before hurrying about his chores.
Wizard's Goal Page 9
