Garrich's mind went blank. What had Maldoch introduced him to Aliana as?
"You must know your own name,” prompted the Senior Constable.
"It's Lenta. Yeah, that's it. I'm Lenta."
"And what sort of work does a mongrel like you do, Lenta?"
"A bit of this, a bit of that."
The surprise uppercut caught Garrich squarely on the chin and he staggered from the underhand blow. “Hold him, Namson!” ordered Pickerd, unclenching his fist. Stepping smartly behind the dazed youth, the junior constable grabbed him by his arms.
"Elf my foot,” muttered Pickerd, fishing in his pouch for the iron manacles used to restrain suspects. “His story's got more holes in it than an archery target."
"Whatever do you mean, Senior?"
"I served with the Borderland Patrol for ten years before becoming a Redjacket, patrolling Tarndeth Ward out of Serepar. Having seen my fair share of Westerners, I'm telling you that this boy here ain't no Elf. He's Goblin born."
"Get outta here."
"Granted, the only Goblins I ever did see were dead ones, but I'll never forget the evil faces of those slant-eyed devils. We've got ourselves a real live Carnachian. Sure, he's yellowed his hair and dressed himself eastern style. That don't mean nothing. A wolf in sheep's clothing stays a wild, rabid dog.” Finding his restraints, Pickerd said to his partner, “Lift his arms so I can handcuff him."
Namson fumbled with Garrich's wrists. “What's a Goblin doing in Alberion?"
"Black-market trading, spying, stealing—take your pick. They're natural thieves. Whatever this Lenta is up to is no good. I can see us getting promotions out of this, Namson. Two coppers apprehending a Goblin in the middle of Alberion right under the noses of the SHICs has gotta count for something, right? At the very least we'll get out of the graveyard shift. Hold him still, blast you. I can't manacle him with his arms flopping about like that."
Abruptly coming out of his stupor, Garrich kicked Pickerd away. The startled Senior Constable stumbled backwards and fell on to the cobblestones with a loud clatter. Shaking off Namson's grip, the feisty youth spun around, lashing out at the junior officer with his flying fists. Tylar Shudonn had taught his ward the gentleman's sport of boxing, rounding off Garrich's training in armed and unarmed combat. Namson, his nose bloodied by the flurry of jabs, was put on the ground by the furious assault.
Wheeling about, Garrich ducked Pickerd's wild swing as the Senior Constable hauled himself to his feet after freeing his trusty truncheon again. The boy unthinkingly went for his father's sword strapped to his back; his heart skipped a beat when his groping hand found nothing but empty air. He had carelessly left the prized broadsword back on the bed at the boarding house! Pickerd swung again, aiming at the Goblin's legs, knocking Garrich's feet out from under him. Hitting the cobbled street hard, the bruised youth managed to roll away as the butt of the truncheon banged on the paving stones behind his head. Reaching inside the folds of his robe, Garrich jerked a dagger out and upwards, rashly plunging the blade into the copper's ribs. Pickerd pulled free and came at Garrich, his face a painless mask of astonishment and outrage at being knifed by this impudent Westie. Garrich halted him by driving the dagger home deep into the charging copper's left eyeball until the point jarringly struck bone. Twitching on the end of the knife, Pickerd slid off the blade to crumple lifeless on the cobblestones.
A shrill piping pierced the predawn stillness and Garrich glanced over at Namson. The beaten constable had roused from his daze long enough to start blowing madly on the tubular whistle fumbled for in his pouch. Garrich made to get up and winced. Pickard had done a first rate job of hobbling his prisoner. The clamor of booted feet running through the streets sounded close as every constabulary officer on the beat within earshot converged on Namson's call for help.
Slumping back down, Garrich muttered despairingly, “Sulca's not going to like this."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Eight
Maldoch was peeved. Trying for the last half hour to gain entry into the royal palace he could not get past the obstructive guard sergeant and his squad manning the gates, steadfastly refusing him admittance, getting the frustrated spellcaster dangerously hot under the collar. Having just walked the entire length of the silver birch-lined boulevard joining the city to the center of the realm, uncomfortably exposed the whole way to a cool northeaster blowing in off Fisher Lake, he loitered not in the best of tempers.
"Listen, you power-mad little twerp, I simply must see the prince. Let me through this instant or so help me you'll regret it."
The two Housecarls stationed behind their sergeant, the shafts of their halberds crossed to form an effective barrier, sniggered quietly. The giant of a man commanding them could hardly be called little.
The bearded colossus blocking the entranceway behind the wrought iron gates folded his arms resolutely, shrugging off the threat. “Go home and sleep it off, old man. You've plainly drunk too much cheap ale than is good for you."
"I'm not drunk, you idiot. Just mad."
"You're not wrong there, you old loony."
The infuriated wizard spluttered. “Get me someone in authority I can speak with!"
"I am the one in charge here, old-timer. You talk only to me."
Maldoch sneered. “I want the driver of the cart, not the ox."
Bristling at the insult, the beefy soldier bellowed an order in a parade ground voice. “PRIVATES—ESCORT THIS GENTLEMAN TO THE NEAREST GUTTER, AT THE DOUBLE!"
"Sergeant! Stand your men down."
The issuer of that no-nonsense command marched from the gatehouse into the flickering light cast by the sputtering torches set in iron stands either side of the stone blocks on which the barred gates were hung. Garbed in typical Royal High Army fashion—a metal breastplate emblazoned with the royal crest buckled over a grey tunic and breeches, brown leather knee-high boots, a heavy red cape, and a short sword slung from a shoulder strap—his rounded helm bore the prominent cheek-guards endemic to the palace bodyguards and carried a feather plume on top denoting his officer rank, as did the silver cast of his body armor. Enlisted men were bedecked with brass breastplates, whilst more senior officers were armored in gold plating. The feathered helmet crests further identified commander rankings, from the short sergeant's badge to the flowing general's insignia.
"Captain Dikor!” The guard sergeant crisply saluted the commander of the Housecarls even as his squad of two snapped to attention.
"What's all the commotion?” demanded Starf Dikor. “I could hear you all the way from the guardhouse."
"This here gentleman is making all the fuss. He's just an old drunkard foolishly insisting on seeing the prince. Claims he's here in some sort of official capacity. I was just about to have him escorted away."
Starf pointed a finger at Maldoch. “Don't you recognize who this is, sergeant?"
'Sir?"
"It's Sulca, the royal weather adviser."
"He is?"
"That's what I just said.” Dikor looked Maldoch's way. “I assume you've come because of the coronation, Freeman Sulca?"
"Indeed I have, captain."
Placing his hands on his hips, Starf bawled at his sergeant, “Then what are you waiting for, man! Unless you want His Highness crowned on a day teeming with rain, I suggest you unlock the gates."
Scrambling to obey, the guard sergeant took his own chastisement out on his unlucky privates by exhorting them to open the gates as quickly as possible lest they feel the toe of his boot kicking their backsides. Courteously ushered inside, Maldoch started crossing the broad torchlit courtyard in the company of Captain Dikor after the abashed Housecarls resumed their guard duty.
"I thought I'd never get in, Starf,” the wizard complained to his escort, his staff clacking irritatingly on the paving stones.
"You very nearly didn't, Maldoch. At first I took you for just another beggar. When I did cotton on to who you were, your alias completely escaped me. Afte
r all, it has been six, no seven years since I last saw you over at Bridgewater. Letting you into the palace as a weather forecaster is a pretty flimsy pretext."
Maldoch chuckled. He genuinely admired the pragmatic, thirty-something captain of the Housecarls. Starf Dikor was one of those ruggedly handsome types with a square jaw, dark hair, and perpetually boyish good looks. Single-mindedly pledged to protect the royals, he had never taken a wife and broken many hearts of the swooning ladies at court. Established as a dedicated force of royal bodyguards, the Housecarls were considered the elite soldiers of the principality and took their protection duties seriously.
Noting the officer's immaculate state of dress, Maldoch joked, “Don't you ever sleep?"
"Bodyguarding the monarchy is a fulltime job. What strife have you brought with you this time?"
The spellcaster feigned offence. “Whatever are you implying, captain?"
"Oh, nothing much, other than trouble follows you around like a bad smell."
"Occupational hazard, my dear Dikor. It comes with the job of being Guardian of Terrath."
"Rather you than me,” laughed Starf. “I have enough concern babysitting the royal family without worrying about the entire continent."
Leaving the courtyard, passing through twenty-foot high doors of paneled hardwood inlaid with diagonal bands of alternating gold and silver, the immense doorway guarded by a vigilant Housecarl rigidly standing off to the side, they progressed down a corridor lined with torch-topped brass stanchions between which intricately woven tapestries depicting portentous events in Anarican history hung like windows to the past.
"Whatever brings you had better be good or bad enough for me to disturb Lindan in the middle of the night,” Starf warned Maldoch, their footfalls echoing off the slabs of white marble streaked with gray flooring and walling the lengthy corridor. “Now is hardly the best time to be troubling the Crown Prince. He's having a tough time getting over his father's death."
"My timing always has been lousy,” the spellcaster conceded. “I'm sorry about Jannus."
Starf was philosophical. “We've all got to die sometime. I only wish my prince had left it a little longer before he went to meet the Maker."
"I did hear confidence in the succession is shaky."
"Jannus reigned for almost forty years. This might sound treasonous, but Lindan is just a sixteen-year old boy. Despite being born a prince and tutored in statecraft, he's got a lot to learn about governing a realm."
"Shorn Coramm wasn't much older when he came to power back in 918."
Starf glanced sharply at the ancient wizard, the old man a walking encyclopedia of olden lore. “And also assassinated two years later,” the captain grimly added by way of a footnote. Maldoch was not the only one learned in the lineage of Anarican princes, especially when the notorious end to that decade marked the only time the Housecarls failed in their sworn duty to safeguard the royals.
The pair walked the remainder of the hallway to where it terminated at a set of closed double doors of precious metal embossed wood, from which small corridors curved away in opposite directions. Pushing open the heavy portals, Starf ushered Maldoch inside with a hand gesture. “Wait here. I'll go wake the prince."
"Thanks, Starf. You make a lovely doorman."
The Housecarls captain smiled thinly and disappeared down one of the side passages.
Maldoch regarded his waiting room. The passing of many years since he last set foot in the court of the Anarican princedom had not appreciably changed the throne room. The candlelit chamber remained ostentatious, massive fluted pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling lost in the shadows five stories overhead. Arched stained glass windows portraying key historic figures posed in their defining moment rose magnificently between the huge columns, though such colored grandeur, lost in the gloom, was best sampled in daylight. Traipsing past rows of empty, velvet upholstered divans on which the court flunkeys lounged during the day, the wizard came before a dais mounting a high-backed throne of bejeweled gold worth a king's ransom piled high with cushions. Emeralds, rubies, and gold might signify prestige, but that did not make them comfortable to sit on.
Climbing the stairs to the fancy chair, Maldoch sprawled on the most powerful seat in all of Terrath, faintly amused by his surroundings. The original palace constructed by the founding prince existed as a functional log fort, long since torn down and rebuilt into a structure more decorative than defensible. Ruchard Coramm, the eleventh monarch who happened to be dubbed “the Refined Prince", lavishly spent treasury funds on upgrading the royal residence into the opulence that it now was, importing materials from Carallord at enormous cost to the crown. Staunch critics refuted the regent's argument that the capital should outshine its satellite towns, but the prince's policy for a palatial makeover prevailed, making Alberion's stately citadel a building to be envied or, in Maldoch's opinion, derided.
An hour elapsed before a connecting door banged open from a side passageway at the rear of the throne room, admitting four figures from the adjoining royal apartments. Maldoch was slouched dozing on the throne when Starf Dikor politely coughed to announce his return.
The napping wizard stirred and shivered. The epitome of eastern decadence, the palace harbored a discomfiting dampness in its walls due to its position backing on to the lakeshore. Stretching languidly, he gazed down his generous nose at the approaching party, the Housecarls officer escorting three others: a mousy teenage boy in a royal blue dressing gown and slippers, accompanied by a gaunt, almost skeletal man in his early fifties wearing a striped, baggy nightshirt one size too big and a ridiculously tight fitting skull cap, trailed by a nondescript fellow of medium height and build clothed in a gray woolen smock and black hose, whose sole distinguishing feature was a nick of a scar beneath his piercing left eye.
Giving another discreet cough, Starf motioned with his head for Maldoch to vacate the throne. The lounging wizard refused to budge. Sensitivity was not one of his strong points. ‘And you must be the young Holbyant,’ Maldoch unceremoniously said to the sandy haired boy with bright blue eyes.
The walking skeleton at the royal's side stiffened, but the Crown Prince raised a hand to stifle any outbursts. He bowed floridly to the relaxed spellcaster. “That I am,” he affirmed, his voice that odd tone hovering between boyish and manly timbres. “Captain Dikor informs me that you divined weather for my father, Freeman Sulca. Only that you are not here to give a forecast."
Maldoch glanced enquiringly at the Housecarls officer. “His Royal Highness was only nine when you last visited,” supplied Starf. “Prince Jannus considered his heir too young to be told of your standing in the East."
"That was only fit and proper,” interjected the corpse in the nightgown, glowering at Maldoch. “Princes should not trouble themselves with carnival attractions the likes of him."
"Good to see you again, Drey Wynsorr,” responded the wizard. “You really should try and eat more, old boy. You're looking like a bag of bones."
"Will somebody have the decency to tell me what's really going on?” demanded Lindan. “This man Sulca obviously knows the Chancellor of the Realm, so he must have known my father in more than a professional capacity."
"Jannus and I were acquainted,” confirmed Maldoch. “In fact, I've personally met every Anarican prince who has ever lived."
Lindan stood stock still while that claim seeped into his sleep-muddled brain. “But that would make you...” Quickly doing the sums, he gasped. “You're over twelve hundred years old!"
"Actually, I'm a lot older than that,” the sorcerer said cheerfully. He loved stunning people with his longevity.
"That's impossible!” declared the disbelieving prince. “Just who are you?"
"I am Maldoch. Does my name ring any bells for you?"
The prince's jaw fell to the floor from shock. This staggeringly old man was a legend of antiquity sprung to life: Maldoch the Magnificent, magical shepherd of Terrath.
Chuckling, the beaming wizard sh
owed his mirth, Lindan's reaction to his identity far more enjoyable entertainment than Garrich's lukewarm response.
"Highness, this man is an impostor,” claimed Drey Wynsorr. “Maldoch is a person of fable only. Down through the centuries there've been literally dozens of counterfeit magicians purporting to be this mythical figure in order to gain notoriety for themselves or, as in his case, curry favors from the crown."
"If I might intercede, my Lord Prince.” The plain man had spoken. Mute until now, Maldoch almost forgot him standing there.
Lindan recovered his wits. “Can you shed some light on this puzzle, Embah?"
"Certainly, Highness. I can verify this man's identity and partly authenticate his age."
"And who might you be?” Maldoch said curiously.
"Blain Embah, at your service.” The unremarkable man introduced himself with a half bow. “Currently the highest ranking SHIC operative."
"What are the royal spies doing in the palace at such a late hour?"
"Internal policing,” said Blain, decoding his ambiguous reply. “Ensuring that the succession goes off without a hitch by monitoring politicking nobles."
"Snooping is snooping, whatever you call it."
"Semantics aside, we have dossiers in the SHIC archives dating back to the formation of the service in the early 1400's detailing the movements of the man seated before us. At the very least, he is nearly two centuries old."
"This is nonsense,” protested the Chancellor. “Any half-rate actor could pose as the infamous Maldoch of old. Gluing on a fake beard, even I could pass myself off as him."
Maldoch looked Drey Wynsorr up and down. “I'm not that thin,” he contradicted.
Lindan Holbyant ignored the bantering. “Blain, do you believe that this man is indeed Maldoch himself."
"I have no cause to doubt him. He travels with impunity throughout Terrath and has been witnessed on occasion to perform what can only be described as feats of magic."
"Trickery!” shrieked Wynsorr.
"Oh, do be quiet, Drey,” commanded the prince. “What sort of feats?"
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