Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "Don't change the subject, Sulca. We had a deal."

  "As I recall, Lenta, the terms were conditional on you helping me wrap up my business. So far you've been more of a hindrance and in fact put a major kybosh on my plans."

  "You're not going to renege on our pact."

  "You haven't fulfilled your end of the bargain."

  "Am I not this champion of yours already?” sputtered Garrich.

  "I'll let you know when you make the grade.” Maldoch plucked his staff out of the gravel. “Since you can't begin to save the world without my guidance, forget this petulance and we'll get going again."

  Garrich fell routinely into step behind the wizard, feeling out of sorts. Since crossing over into the west his repressed Goblin ancestry stirred his blood, tugging at the orphaned youth to find a sense of belonging. To do so he had no choice but to continue following the mystical weatherman.

  "Best keep up,” Maldoch warned him. “Gales round here are real savage and come inshore off the Sea of Storms blindingly fast. I'd hate to see you get blown away."

  "I'm not afraid of the wind,” Garrich said through clenched teeth.

  "That'll change,” asserted the wizard.

  —

  A week on, Garrich was roughly being shaken awake from a fitful sleep.

  "Rise quickly, boy! They're coming."

  "You're forever telling me to get up, Maldoch,” he complained, rubbing his eyes. Garrich looked in disgust at the darkness. “What time is it?"

  "An hour or so after midnight,’ the spellcaster estimated. He hovered over Garrich in the moonless black, the tip of his grand beard annoyingly brushing the youth's sullen face. “Will you get to your feet? They'll be here soon!"

  There was a chord of alarm in the mage's command that promptly roused the Goblin, compelling him to draw the broadsword tucked under the folds of his bedroll.

  Hearing the steel slide out of its leather casing, Maldoch scoffed, “Your blade will be no good against what we're about to face. Put it away."

  Garrich was not about to sheath his only weapon. The arresting officers of the Prince's Constabulary had confiscated Ezlah's knife as evidence, leaving him Tylar Shudonn's blade to arm himself with. “Who's coming?” he demanded to know, his brain still fuddled by sleep.

  "The Banshees."

  Just then, up in a dark western sky bereft of stars—Garrich thought it was west because the wind blew constantly from that direction and carried with it the tangy salt of the sea—swirling lights danced in the blustery heavens. Impossible to tell distances in the pitch black of this late, overcast night, it took Garrich a moment to register the sparkles were drawing nearer. The tensed, battle-ready Goblin imagined he heard what sounded like distant wailing. A groundless fear enveloped him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. He gripped his sword tighter, whispering fiercely, “Maldoch, what are they?"

  "I told you. Banshees. Put away your sword. You can't fight the wind, so don't waste time trying."

  "The wind?"

  "Banshees are wind spirits and noisy ones at that. They'll drive you mad with their incessant screaming if you don't protect yourself and a sword won't do the trick."

  Garrich scabbarded his broadsword. “What will?” he asked in a quavering voice, anxious eyes fixed on the approaching lights. They appeared to be gyrating in a billowing cloud as a deathly cold wind rustled his hair.

  "Me.” Seizing the boy's head in his hands, Maldoch turned Garrich to face him. “Focus only on me,” the wizard exhorted. “No matter what you see peripherally or hear, look only into my eyes, listen solely to my voice.” Garrich did so as the spellcaster began muttering ancient words of power. The old man's eyes glowed with an inhuman luminosity, snaring the youth like a rope net, wrapping him in a shielding web of magical strands. And all the while those disquieting sparks of light advanced, the far off wails becoming clear-cut moans voicing utter despair.

  The gusting wind hit them hard, impossibly hard. Sedentary columns of rock shattered under the force as twisters sprung up around boy and wizard, scooping up the loose pebbles into deadly hurdy-gurdies of whirling stone. Rocky shrapnel flew like crossbow bolts in all directions. Amazingly, Garrich and Maldoch stood untouched by the turmoil, protective wizardry holding them steadfast against the onslaught. The tempest abruptly died away to nothing when the roiling cloud that was a vessel for those pulsating lights swamped the unharmed pair. Engulfed by an eerie mistiness, the twosome remained locked in their gaze of mutual support as the accompanying moaning, terrible and terrifying, assaulted their ears.

  Ghostly figures flitted on the edge of Garrich's vision and he fought the temptation to look directly at them. Something other than Maldoch's admonition kept him from being distracted. Deep-seated commonsense warned that gazing upon whatever shapes were darting in the cloudy air would be the death of him. That left his hearing for fear to play upon. The keening oddly dropped to an inaudible murmur before gushing back as a continuous and unintelligible screeching that stretched already tautened nerves to breaking point. Garrich teetered on the brink of a precipice, at the bottom of which lay unrecoverable madness. Maldoch's steady voice droned as a chant, conjuring up the image in Garrich's mind of a wave-lashed island holding fast in an ocean of fury. The conjurer's string of indecipherable words anchored the youth to the bluff of sanity, preventing him from falling into the abyss of lunacy.

  Abruptly, the storm was over.

  Maldoch ceased chanting, releasing Garrich from his spell and grasp. “That was a mercifully short visit.” The wizard's light-heartedness seemed unbearably loud in the oppressing silence.

  Blinking furiously, his breathing loud and rapid, Garrich copped a glance first right then left. There was nothing to see but black, empty air with no breath of wind whatsoever stirring their assaulted campsite, also magically shielded and left undisturbed by the invasive gusts. “Where did they go?"

  "Back out to sea. Most storms originate over the briny."

  Badly shaken by the experience, Garrich needed answers. “What exactly were they? And don't fob me off by simply saying wind."

  "Banshees are elemental beings that harness the wind for their own destructive purposes. They've been around since the dawn of Time creating whirlwinds on both land and sea."

  "For what reason?"

  "Envy. They've taken on female personas and nothing is more dangerous than a woman scorned. Banshees are insubstantial creatures insanely jealous of beings with substance. They'll torment any person they happen across and, as they haunt this coastline religiously, if they can't rip apart a traveler by sheer wind power then they'll render him insane. That's female logic for you."

  Garrich scanned the night sky apprehensively. The overcast started clearing and a few stars peeped shyly through the thinning clouds. “Will they be back?"

  "No. As a stranger they were sounding you out. Over the years they've learnt I'm immune to their temper tantrums and to leave me well alone. But you're someone new to the area. They found out tonight that you can't be affected either. They won't bother to try again."

  "Am I immune?” Garrich asked hopefully.

  "Only if I'm with you,” said Maldoch, followed by the noise of him settling into his bedroll.

  Garrich was incredulous. “You're not going back to sleep after what just happened!"

  "If I can,” the wizard snorted indignantly, folding his travel blanket over him. “You do snore awfully loud, boy."

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  Chapter Ten

  The coronation proved a soggy affair. Rainsqualls blowing in from the eastern ranges inundated Alberion with heavy showers that began falling during the morning lead up services at the Capitol Cathedral of the state church, persisting intermittently throughout the formal investiture of Anarica's forty-first prince in the palace itself mid-afternoon. An inauspicious start to the monarch's reign weather-wise, the downpours did nothing to dampen the spirits of the capital's citizenry. Crowning Day was a n
ational holiday, the peasantry celebrating the succession with a welcome daylong respite from work, feasting and partying in any number of the marquees erected by the crown to cater for the revelry.

  Lindan Holbyant sat bored to tears on his padded throne as an endless stream of nobles presented themselves to their young, new monarch. His mother, feeling unwell, excused herself at the closure of the coronation ceremony, retiring to her chambers. Grieving deeply for Lindan's father, she needed time alone. The mourning Prince Mother had not left her son to fend off the ingratiating nobility on his own. Chancellor Wynsorr perched behind his regent like a watchful gargoyle, introducing each of the fawning lords and ladies, advising him of their idiosyncratic strengths and weaknesses. Custom dictated that the minor aristocracy had first dibs on toadying up to the newly crowned ruler, followed by the upper ranks of the landed gentry, enacting a 500 year old tradition implemented to promote humility amongst the peerage. To date the practice had not worked. Jealousy remained rife within noble ranks.

  Squirming, the Prince of Men adjusted his ermine trimmed robe of thick, red velvet. Heavy, hot, and uncomfortable to wear, like all royal affectations the mantle was designed for show, not comfort. So too was the weighty jewel encrusted gold crown placed upon his head by Presbyter Jhonra, head of the Anarican clergy, well over two hours ago. Shifting the solid silver scepter cradled in his lap, Lindan stifled a yawn at the parading viscounts and earls. His one break thus far in the monotony had been the presentation of the armor clad Baron of Orvanthe. Asked if he was dressed for the outbreak of war, Ormish Savanth replied in all seriousness, “Politics is organized warfare, Highness. The palace grounds the battlefield, my peers the opposing army. And I don't take prisoners.” Perturbed by the intimation, the prince received grateful reassurance from Starf Dikor that all nobles were divested of ceremonial and functional swords and daggers by his dutiful Housecarls before entering the palace. Bouts of impromptu dueling might tend to sour the festive occasion.

  Enduring their obsequiousness and eccentricities long enough, Lindan was on the verge of screaming aloud when the tedious instructions took an interesting turn.

  "Highness, permit me to present Lady Ittoria Coramm, the Marquise of Stranth,” Drey said in his haughty voice.

  A proud looking woman her early twenties eyed Lindan with a mix of amusement and contempt. She possessed a beauty and grace tempered by a visible hardness reflected shockingly in her attire. While other ladies at court dressed in fine silk gowns patterned on the latest styles, parading increasingly elaborate hairdos in an effort to outshine competitors, the Horse Lady flouted convention by wearing leathers: a laced, black bodice worn over a white linen blouse, matched by a similar knee-length skirt rounded off by tan calf boots. Her ebony hair tied back in a ponytail was a further statement of practicality over fashion.

  "Stranth Tor cheers our prince on his ascension. May he live and reign long.” Ittoria Coramm bit off those congratulatory words. Latest incarnation of the founding family of Anarica who by a cruel twist of fate lost control of the princedom to the Holbyant line 700 years earlier, there was understandably no love lost between her and the throne.

  "We thank Stranth for her well-wishing and extend our hand in continued friendship,” Lindan smoothly answered, offering his ring finger up to be kissed in an informal swearing of fealty.

  Drey Wynsorr approved. Visibly the most influential woman in all of Anarica, Marquise Coramm was second only to the Prince of Men in terms of ruling power. Alberion needed to keep Stranth Tor onside to maintain stability in the west of the realm, a requirement Lindan easily grasped from his tutors in diplomatic maneuverings. Sycophancy ran both ways.

  Unimpressed by the flattery, Ittoria blatantly refused to kiss the prince's signet ring. She instead executed a half-hearted curtsy and sauntered away.

  So taken aback by her flagrant breach in etiquette, Chancellor Wynsorr almost missed his cue to present the final noble at the end of a long and essentially undistinguished line. “Prince Lindan, might I introduce the Duke of Karavere, his lordship Sollerd Widham."

  A weasel of a man haired with a straggly beard and greasy locks the dirty brown of muddied water eased up to the throne. Garbed in an ill-fitting doublet and baggy hose of mismatching colors, the ruler of the coastal duchy doffed his outsized hat and literally scraped the unrolled strip of plush red carpeting the marble floor on this day with an extravagant bow.

  Leaning over, Drey whispered behind a concealing hand in Lindan's ear. “Tread carefully, Highness. This one's a snake in the grass. A sea snake, that is."

  The reminder was unneeded. Lindan's political science teacher made doubly sure his sole pupil was well versed in court intrigue, the Widhams figuring prominently in any suspected takeover plots. It seemed every man and his dog in Anarica wanted to sit their rump of the coveted throne.

  "Ah, dear boy, might I first offer my condolences over your father's death,’ smarmed Duke Widham. ‘Prince Jannus was a fine, fine man."

  "Thank you, my lord duke."

  "That said, you'll make an admirable successor. Would it be imprudent of me to raise the issue of customs levies? The shipping magnates I represent are finding themselves crippled by—"

  "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss economics, Your Grace,” intervened the chancellor.

  "Quite right, Wynsorr, quite right. Perhaps we may talk this matter over at the banquet, Your Highness."

  Lindan watched Sollerd ooze away, certain the highborn toady had been sizing up the royal ring of office for his own finger after slobbering over the signet. “What a repulsive little man."

  "And laughable too, My Prince. Duke of a seaport, Lord Sollerd gets seasick the instant he sets foot on a boat. Be that as it may, he is no buffoon and does not hide his royal ambitions. I suggest you keep a close eye on the Widham dukedom, as your father prudently did."

  "You're a mine of information."

  Drey inclined his skull-like head. “You are too kind, Highness."

  "How long have you served my family?"

  "A shade over twenty years in the chancellorship."

  "And before that?"

  "I worked in the treasury. Your father appointed me to this position based on the sterling recommendation of my former employer, the old Earl of Lorrens. I cut my teeth in administration as his secretary. That is one earldom you can wholeheartedly count on for support."

  "That's good to know. I'll be leaning heavily on you for counsel. I fear my mother will not be up to the task anytime soon."

  "In that case, about this Maldoch matter."

  Lindan's upraised hand signaled the chancellor to stop. “Like you said, this is not the time for talking shop."

  The customary coronation feast held in the columned marble banquet hall adjoining the throne room was suitably lavish. Guests were seated at an elongated table of varnished redwood carved from a single log in the shape of a lengthy T, at the head of which was enthroned the disinterested Prince of Men. Platters of assorted meats ranging from stuffed geese and roasted quail to steaming sides of wild boar and venison were followed up with exotic delicacies such as caviar and truffles imported specially from Carallord; all washed down with uncorked murky reds and bubbly whites bottled in the vineyards of Lorrens. Chancellor Wynsorr, occupying the chair on his prince's immediate left in the company of his protégé, Dorin Ulc the Royal Treasurer, strangely spared no expense for banqueting the finicky nobles. Lindan Holbyant recognized his mother's hand in prising open the royal coffers to fund this extravagance.

  Dressed in pearl studded black, Princess Devorna stiffly sat on her son's right, her regal duds exchanged for a more somber gown and headpiece reflecting her bereavement. She emerged from her rooms uncalled to attend the formal dinner, Lindan prepared to spare his sorrowing dam further public appearances. Red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose told of weeping alone on her bed, but the Prince Mother put on a brave face for the sake of her boy.

  "Be on your guard, Lindan,” Devorna w
arned after an intoxicated minor noble finished slurring the last of the obligatory toasts to his liege.

  "Mother?"

  She waved a desultory hand at the bloated and drunken gentry. “They're like a pack of hounds baying around a cornered fox, watching and waiting for the right moment to run in and tear it apart."

  "And I'm the fox,” surmised Lindan.

  "My son, you merely represent the fox, which is in actuality the crown."

  Devorna squeezed Lindan's hand firmly. Now in her mid thirties, the then Goodwoman Venwry was scarcely older than her newly crowned son when wooed and wedded by the smitten fifty-year-old Prince Jannus. Raised in the cosmopolitan earldom of Jarde, the daughter of a prominent banker took to court life like a duck to water despite her upbringing as a commoner. She quickly exhibited an aptitude for choreography in the shifting ballet of palace politics, a shrewdness that kept her husband on top of his game for the latter two of his four decades as Prince of Men. Equally determined to do the same for their son, she periodically enlisted the chancellor as her dance partner.

  "Baron Savanth likened the ins and outs of palace life to a battle campaign,” related Lindan.

  "He's not far wrong. Your succession was not wholly guaranteed because of your bloodline. It required ratification by the House of Nobles and that was a bumpy ride. Watch your toes around Ormish of Orvanthe. One of your prime enemies, he's likely to tread on your feet."

  "As will the Duke of Karavere."

  "Not forgetting Ittoria Coramm."

  "At least she didn't show hypocrisy by attending tonight.” The boy prince heaved a sigh. “Do I have any friends at court?"

  Patting her son's hand, Devorna smiled wanly. “You have me. There are others too. The earls of Lorrens, Jarde, and Naprise are staunch royalists. The Baron of Yordl will generally side with the crown in spite of his allegiance to the Tor. What was your impression of Eflam Khun?"

  Lindan recalled meeting the bull-necked, muscular Count of Serepar attired in rattly chain mail beneath clothes whose cut was ten years out of date. “He seemed ... aloof."