Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "Where might they be then?” he pondered aloud. Maldoch often talked to himself, boorishly thinking there was no other person in Terrath worth conversing with. Of course, the fact he spent centuries alone without another soul to speak to had nothing to do with it.

  He found his attention gradually drawn to the immutable west tower, much like Omelchor's unsubtle spell use drew him out of Parin Olc's coach and diverted him home. Miraculously left unscathed by the storm of spells that assailed the island citadel two weeks earlier, the turret stood defiantly as a proud reminder that a shred of goodness survives no matter how much evil is dumped on it.

  A damn good enchantment helps too smirked the wizard. That tower had been magically sealed against intrusion, and for good reason. It housed the greatest book in all of Terrath, one of twin tomes that could harness the elemental forces of magic able to wreak havoc or bring prosperity to whole nations. It was also a jolly good read.

  Maldoch gawped up at the heights of the pencil-thin structure to where the ragged remains of the balcony running the inner circumference of the dome dangled uselessly either side. The impregnable, magically reinforced wooden door leading to the tower stairs was splintered and hanging off its hinges.

  "Bugger it!” swore the wizard, plagiarizing Parndolc's foulmouthed vocabulary. Eyes closing beneath his shaggy brows, he concentrated absorbedly on the burgled tower, murmuring an incantation of farseeing. Emotions swirling, Maldoch bungled the recitation. Rather than restart the tricky spell from scratch, he resorted to the old fashioned approach and climbed.

  Scaling the tower was not that difficult a chore. Chunks of mortar, shaken loose from the vibrations that leveled the rest of Earthen Rise, provided handholds for the ascending wizard. It also helped that he only had two stories to climb. Maldoch was soon hauling himself inside the tower and continuing his ascent up the stairs. Stone dust was everywhere, so by the time the wizard gained the chamber at the top he was coughing and sneezing in a fair imitation of a head cold.

  Hazy sunlight rayed through the unshuttered window, the slatted panels untidy ashes on the sooty tiles where they had drifted incinerated to the floor. Dust played in the streamer of spring light, shrouding the lump of melted metal that once had been a lectern standing upright in the middle of the room. Stuck on top of that shapeless blob of silver balanced a hefty volume with gold leaf lettering scripted on a spotless white jacket.

  Maldoch went for the massive book with covetous hands, wrenching it free from the cradle of cooled, liquefied iron. Flakes of red crystal dropped away from the tome's underside, residue from the heat of magic-sourced fire responsible for turning the innards of the turret into a furnace. The mage ran his trembling fingers over the hardback's unblemished cover before hugging the tome to his chest.

  "Omel's not as mighty as he imagines. That quack couldn't have singed you had he magicked himself into a fire-belching volcano,” scoffed the wizard, addressing the book as if it were a person and stroking it fondly. “He'll pay dearly for trying ... and I always keep a promise.'

  Triggering a cleverly concealed catch hidden in the spine, the book magically shrank in size to the dimension of a postage stamp and Maldoch happily inserted the miniaturized copy into the sleeve of his cloak. At least today was not a total washout.

  Now what?

  "Look for Garrich, fool,” he instructed himself. “And don't backchat me, Mal. You feel that the boy's alive. Go find him.” The wizard slapped his bearded cheek. Hard. “I'm answering myself again. If I'm not careful I'll need a shrink. Then he can charge me for being nuts."

  Reclaiming his staff and haversack after the climb down, Maldoch could not help but pose the question, “If I was Parny, where would I go hide?'” After a moment's consideration he reeled off a spell, banged his runic pole on the ground, and vanished.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty Two

  "You took your sweet time."

  Garrich and Parndolc stumbled out of the midnight woods into the ring of firelight beating back the enfolding darkness. Squatting by his campfire, Maldoch used a long crooked stick to stoke the cheering flames heating a billycan.

  "I've been waiting four months. I thought you'd gotten lost,” he added, accusing Garrich with a glance.

  "That's hardly a nice welcome considering we just traversed seven hundred leagues,” Parndolc said wearily, slumping on the ground beside his criticizing brother. “You could've come looking for us, you old layabout."

  "And risked Omelchor finding you again, by leading him straight to you? That would have been foolish. I figured you'd be coming this way and stayed put to secure the area."

  "There was nowhere else to go,” conceded Parndolc.

  "I had hoped otherwise,” Garrich bitterly wished. The Goblin was uncloaked and in his leathers, broadsword drawn at the ready in the summer heat. Relaxing, he slid the gleaming blade into its scabbard and dumped at his feet the bulging backpack he lugged. “Find any orphans lately, Maldoch?” The young man was clearly dissatisfied.

  "What's it like coming home, boy?” goaded the spellcaster.

  Close to three years had gone by since Garrich hiked out of Wivernbush on a wizard's leash, and now he had a pair of the mystics to share his unplanned homecoming with. The boughs of the great oaks were no longer autumn bare but foliaged in green finery. The splendor of the trees went unnoticed by Garrich. Maldoch was camped in an alder-ringed clearing all too familiar to the unsettled Goblin. In the shadows beyond the glowing fire what was left standing of the blackened framework of Falloway Cottage lurked with the ghostly presence of an unburied skeleton. Overgrown with weeds, the mute ruins had not yet been fully reclaimed by the regenerative forest.

  "Park your bones,” invited the spellcaster. “You make the place untidy standing there."

  The Goblin sat cross-legged across from the wizards, engrossed by the shell of his boyhood.

  Parndolc was thirsty. “You got anything to drink around here? I've gone sober for the last hundred leagues."

  Maldoch tapped the side of the billycan with his poker. “Water's just about boiled. How about I fix you a calming cup of tea?"

  "How about I shove that staff of yours where the sun don't shine!"

  "I see sobriety has had an adverse effect on your adage composing. Perhaps some food will take the edge off.” Maldoch fixed his guests a cold supper and afterwards the trio lounged around the hearth on a log serving as a crude bench, sipping tea out of tin cups. Even Parndolc. Any port in a storm, after all.

  "You've lost weight,” Maldoch noticed about his peaky brother.

  'Heaps of walking does that to you,’ bellyached Parndolc. He enjoyed being stoutish and disliked what exercise had done to his figure.

  "Shame he didn't shed a few pounds a lot sooner.” When Garrich voiced that complaint he rubbed his left forearm soothingly.

  "Let's be having your tale of woe from the start,” the intrigued spellcaster prompted. “I came in on the end of things after Omel had done his whole trash the castle routine. What went before?"

  Parndolc told all: the appearance of the skunk precipitating the aerial evacuation of Earthen Rise, the crash-landing in Rocky Sheer and ensuing boat trip up Ysurl Wash in a smack.

  "That's why we didn't pass each other on the Sheer,” Maldoch worked out.

  "Had to steer clear of the Banshees. A hammer and saw is no shield against shrieking women,” explained Parndolc.'

  He then related how they made their way on foot to Havenstock, sneaking a ride from there to Haston in the back of a supply cart part of an army wagon train trundling to Serepar. Contrary to his complaint, the wizard and boy had ridden most of the way north, only taking to their feet again when going cross-country through the scrubland of Upper Wade after the column rolled out of Haston, eventually reaching the western fringe of Wivernbush where the forlorn cottage ruins moldered.

  "How did you get by?” asked Maldoch.

  "Well enough.” Beaming, Parndolc produced a
jingling purse from the pouch of his tool belt. “I worked from time to time as an odd job man along the way, so that we could afford to eat and drink. Sadly, these parts boast no taverns after Haston and it's been a rottenly dry trip since then.” Swilling a mouthful of tea in his gob, he forced himself to swallow, pulling a theatrical face in the process. He hated roughing it.

  When pressed to, Garrich corroborated the technical wizard's story, revealing details conveniently left out by Parndolc. “I was lucky to survive the crash,” he moaned. “Parny was fine and walked away with hardly a scratch, because I cushioned his fall.'

  Parndolc reacted in an injured tone. “I said I was sorry your arm got broke. But I did splint it, and snapped bones do mend."

  "I was one-armed for eight weeks!"

  "Pity your jaw didn't break,” he muttered back. “You've been whining about the incident the whole way here."

  "Don't get me started again,” warned Garrich.

  Parndolc nudged Maldoch with an elbow. “The boy'll whinge about our pleasure cruise up the Wash now."

  Sure enough Garrich did. He related how Parndolc commandeered a derelict sailboat, patched the leaky hull and jury-rigged a makeshift sail, of how the pair braved the choppy waters of Ysurl Wash, weathering the occasional blow of weakly banshee wind until the hulk grounded on a gravel beach fronting a stockade of sawgrass-topped sand dunes southwest of the cleft.

  "Garrich gets seasick worse than he does airsick,” charged Parndolc. Travel sickness was plainly a Goblin thing! “Omelchor tracked us down because of you, correct?” he said, pointing the finger of blame at his magic using brother.

  "You may be right,” accepted Maldoch. “Remember the night I called you from Pendalth, when there was that fuzzy purplish interference? I suspect our crafty brother came up with a locater spell and employed it to suss out where I was."

  "You weren't anywhere near Rocky Sheer back then,” puzzled Parndolc. “How could Omel make the leap from Pendalth to Outcrop Isle?"

  "Easily enough,” deduced Maldoch. “We know magic leaves an invisible yet detectable residue. What if Omelchor managed to trace my call all the way from the source to the destination? He would simply have had to follow that strand of magic back to you."

  "I thought that kind of interception of magic was an improbability."

  "But not impossibility, especially if he's been tampering with his book."

  Parndolc gasped, “He wouldn't dare!” And instantly revised his exclamation. “Yeah, on second thought that loony bugger would be mad enough to try that."

  "He tried incinerating the White Grimoire,” Maldoch said deprecatingly.

  That piece of news amused Parndolc, and he guffawed. Zooming completely over Garrich's head, he admitted so to the wizards.

  Retrieving the tome from his sleeve and activating the switch restoring it to full size, Maldoch handed the mystified Goblin the untarnished book. Resting the priceless volume on his knees, Garrich gingerly opened the cover and slowly leafed through the stiff, carefully preserved pages of the illuminated manuscript. The text was a beautifully lettered language alien to Garrich that swirled around side illustrations of fanciful winged and horned beasts, plus surreal landscapes depicting scenes as abstract as spired castles rising out of serene pastoral settings to the phizogs pasted on the celestial bodies shining from the firmament.

  "Garrich, what you're holding in your hot little hands is proof positive that the pen is mightier than the sword,” Maldoch explained to him. “The White Grimoire is one of only two genuine books of magic found in all of Terrath. It is incredibly ancient, predating the Anarchic Years. The contributing authors, and there have been many, were the founders of modern spellcasting. Contained within its hallowed pages are the time-honored instructions for every usable incantation dreamt up, tested, and set down on parchment."

  "Tested, like Parny's inventions?” broke in Garrich. For some reason, he was under the impression that spells came out of a box ready to use straight away.

  Maldoch accommodated the interruption. “That's what links magical and technical wizardry,” he said.

  "By the thinnest of threads,” contradicted Parndolc.

  "The methodology is identical. Somebody has a brainwave and makes a model of the prototype to see if it works. You build contraptions of wood and iron, the conjurers who went before me worked with phrases. The end result is the same however: workable designs. The White Grimoire is a collection of those tried and trusted enchantments. It's crammed full of assorted spells as varied as boiling an egg inside a chicken to freezing an ocean. The book is a one of a kind manual of magic, irreplaceable and indestructible, with the power to alter History, change Fate, or cement Destiny."

  The Goblin hastily shut the book and thrust it back into the lap of the smiling wizard. That sort of clout was not for him to handle. “You said there is another?” he asked in a small voice.

  "The Black Grimoire,” contributed Parndolc.

  "It's as vile as its name implies,” affirmed Maldoch, shrinking the tome and returning it to his sleeve. “Opposites are the staple ingredient of the universe. Night and day, salt and pepper, etc. Magic is no different. The black book is the evil mirror image of its partnering white tome. They're an indivisible pair. It was authored in secret by a renegade member of the founding party of spellcasters as a counteraction to the catalogue of good magic. He perverted the standard of spells already written down and added a few destructive ones of his own formulation."

  "If it's part of a set, where is the book now? Does Omelchor have it?” speculated Garrich.

  Parndolc gave a complimenting nod to his brother. “The boy's sharper than an arrowhead."

  The spellcaster responded with only a grunt. Unresolved issues were seeing the light of day again, making it hard for him to talk.

  Taking up the story where Maldoch left off, Parndolc said, “Omel put his grubby mitts on the Black Grimoire back ... when was it, Mal?"

  "Ida the thirteenth, in the month of Shunn, during the Troll calendar year two thousand and twenty three, or thereabouts."

  "Word of warning,’ Parndolc whispered to Garrich. “Don't tick Mal off. He'll bear a grudge for centuries!"

  The Goblin was not listening. “If the white book can't be destroyed, why did Omelchor have a bash at burning it to a crisp?"

  "Madmen don't think rationally. That's why they're mad,” was the sole reason Parndolc offered.

  Maldoch voiced his own theory. “Omelchor attacked Earthen Rise to steal back the White Grimoire. He's finally worked out that the magic of the books is strongest when bonded. When he couldn't release the tome from the enchantment anchoring it in place in the west tower, in a fit of rage he tried reducing it to ashes. The backlash of thwarted energies leveled the rest of the castle."

  "I thought whisky was in that tower?” Garrich fired at Parndolc.

  The inventing wizard sighed wistfully. “A case of scotch would've seen more use than that musty old book of spells. Mal, can you be sure our bugger of a brother wasn't after Garrich?"

  "The both of you would be dead if he was."

  "Could he track us here too?” Garrich put to Maldoch.

  "Omel does have the bad habit of returning to the scenes of his crimes,” said Parndolc.

  "That's why we'll be splitting up in the morning,” announced Maldoch.

  "We only just arrived! I'm too stuffed to go on safari again so soon."

  The spellcaster relented. “Alright Parny. Take a week to get your bunions fit for travel."

  "Half the year would be nicer."

  "I'll give you one month, no longer."

  "You're generous to a fault.” Parndolc yawned. “I'm buggered. I think I'll turn in.” Getting up off the log, he untied and spread out his bedroll with a flick of his wrists before bedding down, using his backpack for a pillow.

  Offering Garrich more tea, Maldoch remarked, “Aren't you tired?"

  Declining the proffered cup, the Goblin replied, “Not enough to slee
p."

  "It's been a while since we shared a camp together, Lenta."

  "Not long enough, Sulca."

  "You still mad at me for dumping you at Earthen Rise? It was for your own good, Garrich. There wasn't any place safer."

  "Until Omelchor shook it apart."

  "We can't always predict the future.'

  That reminded Garrich. “I lost the Ode of the Shamanist."

  "When the castle was fired?"

  "Afterwards. It's litter out on Rocky Sheer."

  The wizard did not seem terribly upset by the Goblin's admission. Perhaps it was due to Garrich's carelessness mitigated by him sharing the news that the Codretic Text was safe and sound stuffed in Parndolc's tool pouch.

  "Tylar's book is gone too,” lamented Garrich.

  Maldoch was unsympathetic. “It's only binding and paper. Glad to see you didn't lose his blade though."

  The wizard's callous attitude rankled Garrich and his hand unthinkingly strayed to the sword hilt behind his neck. Maldoch's own hand darted out quicker than a striking adder, gripping the Goblin's wrist fiercely.

  "Save it for the battles ahead, boy,” he counseled. “Don't misdirect your anger at me. Channel it at the real villain of the piece."

  "Omelchor?"

  "The one and only.” Maldoch unhanded Garrich. “You can choose your friends, never your relatives. Don't tell Parny I borrowed his maxim."

  "What do I know of family?” the Goblin orphan muttered and went to bed himself.

  Maldoch stayed up. Freshening his cuppa, the wizard permitted himself the luxury of a spot of stargazing. The heavens were ablaze with the pinprick fires of numberless suns dotting the unending black of galactic space. Pretty though the stars were, he was enthralled by the striking yellow moon shimmering high in the eastern horizon and wondered dreamily. The spellcaster had seen many moons rise and fall, but on this particular night he was put in mind of the legendary, but fragmented, histories of the Ancients known exclusively to those in the wizardry and witchery clubs. One such fable maintained that the technological masters of the Olde Worlde jetted to the moon on a plume of fire and walked the cratered lunar surface. Parndolc was alone in not scoffing at the absurdity of that fanciful notion, for everyone knew that magic outdid machinery every time. Yet, as Maldoch pondered the Maria and what sort of dark seas stained the moonscape, he could not help but imagine the walk as a muddy stroll.