"I have a reliable firsthand report stating that an old man fitting Maldoch's description did a few years back turn a man into stone up nears Naprise."
"That's an exaggeration,” disclaimed the wizard. “I only changed his head into rock."
The boy prince blanched. “Whatever for?"
"The loudmouth was a blockhead, so I made my point,” confessed Maldoch. “Don't worry; I made him normal again—after a week."
Lindan surrendered with a gulp. “Maldoch, it appears I have no choice but to take your word and accept you at face value. That said, what's the meaning of barging into my palace tonight? I've only just entombed my father in the family crypt and now face the rigmarole of my coronation."
Adjusting the cushion he leaned on, Maldoch said casually, “I'm the bearer of bad news, Lindan. There's a very good chance that the first ever race war will soon be happening in your lifetime."
"I knew he was bringing bad tidings,” Starf mumbled under his breath.
To his credit, Crown Prince Lindan Holbyant took the second revelation of the night in his stride. “You know this for a fact?"
"I have impeachable sources,” was all that Maldoch divulged. Mystical indicators pointed to the Western Provinces gearing up to trespass in the East, possibly precipitating the interracial conflict he worked so long to prevent.
"Borderland Patrol hasn't reported any build up of arms on the western reaches,” challenged Blain Embah, “and to my knowledge there hasn't been a Goblin Potentate charismatic enough to unite the clans under one war banner since the days of Ghranu the Grizzly's abortive attempt."
"And that beast was hung from a tree for his audacity by his own people,” contributed Starf.
Maldoch chuckled scornfully. “You'd better rewrite the history books, gentleman. Ghranu was just a bit player in tribal politics. The real power emerged after his demise in a Carnachian by the name of Ahnorr and he's been plotting an incursion for the past twenty-seven years. The Goblins strung up the wrong guy and his replacement's gonna come banging on Dwarven doors real soon."
"That's why you brokered the Western Transgression Alliance, to cement relations between Anarica, Carallord, and Gwilhaire Wood in case hostilities flared up,” Blain accused Maldoch.
"You're very astute,” complimented the wizard.
The realm's chief intelligence gatherer smiled tightly at the reclining spellcaster. “I don't spy for the fun of it."
"I suppose we had better prepare for the worst and honor the treaty when petitioned to. That means lending military assistance to our northern neighbor,” declared Lindan. Groomed from birth to run the princedom, duty took precedence even over grief for the youthful royal.
"Highness, we can't afford a war!” protested Drey. “Wars are horrendously expensive. The treasury is not bottomless."
Maldoch stared down the penny-pinching chancellor. “Not even after you raised taxes last month?"
Drey promptly shut up, that argument falling flat on its face.
"Her Highness will have to be informed,” Starf boldly suggested, unafraid of stepping outside his rank on official toes; Princess Devorna was her son's principal adviser.
"I'll tell Mother as soon as this coronation business is done with,” agreed Lindan. “One earth-shattering event at a time."
"We'll have to apprise the various military commanders,” said Blain. “Can't ready for war without the army in the know."
Maldoch wholeheartedly approved of Anarica's chief spy. Blain Embah exhibited a keen mind and wickedly dry sense of humor. “Not so fast, boys,” he cautioned, putting a dampener on proceedings. “By all means mobilize the Armies of the East, put your soldiers on standby, but keep it low key. We don't want to tip off the Goblins."
"I'll have my agents monitor the border from Montaine Divide to Humbril Crest long before any battle plans are drawn up by our gung-ho generals,” promised Blain.
"Alert the Borderlanders to step up their patrols—discreetly,” advised Maldoch.
"They'll first see signs of increased tribal activity."
"Any chance this might be a false alarm?"
Starf Dikor accomplished dashing the boy-prince's hopefulness. “I've never known Sulca's forecasts to be wrong, Highness."
"My work here is done for now,” concluded the wizard, coming down off the throne.
Lindan frowned. “You're not staying for my coronation?"
"Anarica is just one of the children in my care, prince. I'll be in touch. Just ensure you're ready when the call to arms is sounded. Oh, incidentally. Dress for rain on Coronation Day."
Maldoch turned his back on the delegation, smartly making his way out of the throne room. Starf excused himself from his prince and started to follow the wizard. “I can find my own way out, captain,” the old man called back over his shoulder. The commander of the Housecarls dropped back.
Halfway down that interminably long corridor Maldoch heard the soft shuffle of leather shoes racing up from behind. “Is there something you want, Blain Embah?” he said, not slowing or turning around.
"Ever considered a career as a spy?” said the foremost SHIC, breathlessly pulling alongside the wizard. “You've got the ears for it."
"I've done my share of skulking about in shadows eavesdropping,” Maldoch unashamedly admitted. “Talking about spying, why have SHIC agents been keeping tabs on me?"
"Professional interest. You are a legendary figure and every legend is rooted in fact. A spy's job is to uncover facts. It's that elementary."
The noted keeper of the Fellow Races was unsettled by the notion that he himself was under surveillance by those he watched over. “Find out anything interesting on me?” he grumped.
Embah became evasive. “Let's just say there are plenty of blanks left in your file waiting to be filled in."
Maldoch liked this man! “What's on your mind then, Arrow."
Blain gripped the wizard's arm and spun him around, hissing, “How do you know my codename?"
A glint of mischief entered the old man's eyes. “I invented spying, my dear fellow. You jogged my memory back there with the story about that poor wretch being made into a giant paperweight. I remember hearing afterwards that someone going by the cryptic name of Arrow was nosing around in affairs that didn't concern him. Sensing your knowledge of that episode was more than just reading an account on a sheaf of parchment, it wasn't hard to put two and two together from that deduction. You were there in person."
"And fresh out of the academy,” acknowledged Blain, releasing the sorcerer. “That had been my first chore—somewhat of a joke assignment. Let the rookie investigate some wizardry. Admittedly, back then I was terribly sloppy when I snooped around, making pretty basic mistakes that obviously made it easy for you to learn my codename.” Blain sighed reflectively. “I went in with a very closed mind. What I found surprised even me. There is such a thing as real magic and it became my lifelong obsession to mine the truths behind the mighty Maldoch."
"I'm flattered, but you've been wasting your time."
"Is that so?"
"I wasn't up at Naprise around that time."
"Witnesses said you were. There aren't that many old men wandering about the countryside casting spells."
"I didn't go up until three or so months later,” maintained Maldoch, “when I was conducting my own investigation of the matter."
"Then who...?"
"I have an evil twin. You've probably spent half your time tailing the wrong wizard all these years."
That shook Blain's confidence in his own spy network. “Why take the credit for it back there?"
"Anything that enhances my reputation can't be a bad thing. Anyhow, you came after me for a reason."
Blain recovered fast. Agents unable to quickly adjust to changes out in the field usually did not stay in the spy business very long. They never lived long enough to explore new job opportunities either. “Who's your source concerning the Goblins? I've got contacts in Carallord and there hasn't been o
ne whisper about a possible encroachment."
"I have it on very good authority that it'll come to pass within the decade."
"Whose?"
"A Troll that lived two and a half thousand years ago, partnered by a crazy monk dead these past fifty years.” Maldoch left Arrow standing slack jawed and carried on down the extensive corridor, mumbling with pleasure, “I do love my job!"
* * * *
The wizard arrived back at the boarding house well after daybreak. Aliana was off in the city somewhere, according to the cook who also grouchily informed the old man that he had missed breakfast before shooing him out of her kitchen so that she could think about readying lunch. Grumbling all the way to his room over his empty stomach, Maldoch's foul mood stood no chance of improving when Garrich failed to unlatch the door in answer to his urgent knocking.
"Wake up, boy!” the spellcaster urged in a strident whisper, rapping harder on the painted wood.
No response.
"Lenta, get up and open this infernal door! We have a great deal of forecasting to do."
Still no answer came.
Losing his temper completely, Maldoch kicked the door in on his third attempt and lurched into the deserted room on the heels of splintering timber. Taking in the drawn curtains and discarded broadsword on the unoccupied bed at a single glance, he let loose with a mouthful of expletives that would have made a sailor blush.
Raiding his steadily lightening purse, Maldoch tossed a couple of silver coins on the bed to cover the expense of fixing the broken door, gathered up their belongings—not forgetting the treasured broadsword—and left the boarding house in an almighty hurry by his favored exit: the backdoor. Over the centuries the nomadic sorcerer had exited many such establishments in haste, which was why he always settled his bills in advance. He strode down the surrounding backstreets of the Poor Quarter searching in vain for the missing teenager, cursing the boy's obvious desire to be a tourist that lured him out of the room. With no clues as to the whereabouts of his errant charge, the wizard reluctantly contemplated using magic to locate Garrich when a crowd gathering on a street corner a block away peaked his interest.
Joining the throng of onlookers, he asked one of the bystanders, a balding merchant, “What's so curious, friend?"
Wiping his hands on the grimy linen apron tied loosely about his waist, the shopkeeper pointed at a crimson pool staining the cobbles that was the center of attention for the ghouls. “A man got himself killed here early this morning. That's the spot where he bled to death. Markon down the street reckons he saw the stiff; the unlucky bugger had a knife rammed into his skull. Messy business, make no mistake."
Maldoch was unconcerned. Muggings and murders were commonplace in this part of the city. Hard as it sounded, one more victim was inconsequential. Purely out of habit he enquired, “Did the law boys catch the culprit? I don't see any of them hanging about."
"I'll say they did, mister, considering it was one of their own that got stabbed."
"A constable?"
"A senior one at that, or so Markon says. Damn queer too."
"Why's that, friend?"
"Markon copped a look at the fella that did the deed and swears it was an Elf he saw."
Maldoch was off and running—no mean feat for a 4,000 year old man burdened with two haversacks, a broadsword, and a staff—even before the bemused storekeeper finished remarking, “Now isn't that the queerest thing."
Sprinting down the street and around the corner before running out of steam, the lanky wizard puffed, “I'm getting too old for this guardian lark,” catching his breath in the doorway of a cobbler's. There was no real need for Maldoch to hurry; he knew exactly where to head. Garrich had stupidly got himself in trouble and arrested for it. The Prince's Constabulary surely manacled the youth and marched him to the local jail prior to transference to the main city lockup pending his appearance before the magistrate.
The spellcaster wended his way through the side streets to where one of the stone cottages that were dotted all over Alberion and used by royal law enforcement as district stations squatted between two bullying warehouses. An unlovely low and square construction with barred windows, a freshly renewed sign hung over the sturdy door featuring a stylized gold crown on a field of blue beneath which the motto of the Prince's Constabulary was inscribed in silver runic lettering: To protect through servitude. Maldoch guessed this was the place Garrich was being held, as it was the closest jail to the murder scene and crawled with an unusually high number of grim-faced Redjackets out front.
Considering his options, the wizard discounted the direct approach. Dealing with officious little men in uniforms was tedious and futile. This situation warranted sneakiness.
Liberating a half-consumed bottle of cheap wine from a snoring drunk sleeping it off in an alleyway, Maldoch poured the contents over his face and cloak then staggered over to the station, singing and swearing loudly.
"Hey there, old timer,” one of the coppers on the porch called out to the approaching wino. “What are you celebrating?"
"My retirement, sir.” Maldoch belched, deliberately slurring his speech. “Forty years at making swords for the army over in the royal smithy. Forty long years a hammering and a banging on that cursed anvil. And now I'm a free man."
"Good for you, old boy. Go take your party someplace else, eh. We're kind of busy here."
Maldoch took a hearty swig from his empty bottle. “Forty damn years, and what did I get for all my hard work? A pension? A gold hourglass? No siree! They done give me this here sword.” He waved Tylar Shudonn's broadsword about theatrically. “What do I need with a sword? Ain't any good for drinking nor eating."
The officer stepped down off the veranda. “That's a sad story, pops. But like I said, you've gotta drown your sorrows elsewhere. We're expecting a contingent of soldiers to come riding through here anytime and it'd really inconvenience me to have to scrape your drunken hide off the cobbles if you get mowed down in the street."
"Soldiers? Maybe I can sell them this here boil lancer and make a tidy enough sum to get me a heap more grog."
"Think again. Those troopers are coming to make a special pick up and you aren't going to impede them. Be on your way."
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll be a staying here and making some money off them soldiers."
"It's not. I'm trying to be pleasant here, old man. Just get going will you, before you force me to turn nasty."
Maldoch stood swaying before the officer, refusing point blank to move on. The constable took him firmly by the arm to lead him off and griped, “Phew, you smell like the inside of a wine barrel.” The play-acting wizard burped and knocked the man's cap off. Picking up his hat, the policeman attempted herding the lush away again.
"Get your hands off me, you lousy copper,” ranted Maldoch. “Youse all the same—failed soldiers the lot of you."
"Don't push your luck, pops. We've lost a colleague today, even though he was a disliked son of a whore. I'll brook no insults from you."
Maldoch groaned. What did it take to get locked up in this town? “Time to be direct,” he muttered, smashing the wine bottle over the constable's head.
Five of the city's finest piled atop and pinned the wizard to the ground before their fellow member finished his unexpected descent to the cobblestones. Confiscating Maldoch's property, they roughly threw him into one of the two cells housed at the rear of the station, clanging the iron bar door shut. Picking himself up off the unswept floor, he overheard one of the Redjackets tell another, “When he dries out, make him presentable for the magistrate. That old souse is going to wish he'd stayed sober today. And for the Maker's sake keep him away from the other prisoner. I don't think I could stand any more excitement. Where's Namson?"
"Down the street at the surgeon's getting his nose mended, sergeant. Pickerd's killer broke it good."
"Fetch him then, constable. The army goons will be wanting his eyewitness account when they arrive."
&
nbsp; "Right away, sarge."
"Meantime, I've got to write my report for the Chief Constable. That'll take me forever. Pickerd is as big a headache dead as when alive."
There followed the thud of an iron bound wooden door shutting and the turning of the key solidly in the lock.
"Am I glad to see you, Sulca!"
Dusting himself off, Maldoch glowered at Garrich through the bars of the adjoining cell. Chained to the floor, the youth's joyful face bore the same bruises and abrasions the wizard sported as a result of police hospitality. “I'm not happy at seeing you in here, boy!’ thundered Maldoch. “Whatever happened?"
I had an impulse to see the city,” Garrich said lamely.
"I'm not talking about you playing tourist. There is the matter of a dead constable."
"He saw through my disguise and attacked me. I defended myself."
Maldoch pinched the bridge of his beaky nose and exhaled, dropping the pretense. “Garrich, do you have to kill every person you meet for the first time?"
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
The old man scowled. “Get packed, boy. We're leaving."
Unamused, Garrich lifted up his shackled wrists as high as the restraints permitted, rattling the chains irritably. “This is some rescue. You get beaten up and chucked into the cell next to mine. Are you sure you're a wizard?"
"What were you expecting? That I'd magically appear in a puff of colored smoke and spirit you out of here."
"Something like that."
"Sorry to disappoint you. Get used to it. Life's full of little letdowns."
That blunted Garrich's barb. “Just how are you planning to get us out of here then?"
Maldoch winked at the young man. “You want magic, I'll give you magic.” Executing a rehearsed spell, the wizard blocked the shackles in blue ice, freezing Garrich's arms from the elbows down. He gestured encouragingly for the boy to jerk his hands upwards. Doing so, the brittle metal shattered and fell away. Suitably impressed, Garrich rubbed warmth back into his cold arms and smirked when told, “But wait, there's more."
The working spellcaster wiggled his fingers, the air in the cells charging with static electricity. Blue sparks danced between his weaving hands and he aimed them at the back wall of the lockup, releasing the building incantation with a flick of his wrist. Bricks and mortar blew outwards with tremendous force and noise to leave a gaping hole in the blasted wall. Floored by the release of destructive energies that correspondingly ripped the door of his iron-barred cage off its hinges to send it clattering across the jail floor, banging up against the portal dividing the front desk of the station from the cells, Garrich huddled showered by debris, hands covering his hurting ears.
Wizard's Goal Page 13
