Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  The wizard was wise enough not to discount the Troll's natural feel for the desert pulse. “What makes you think so, J'tard?"

  "There's strange red lightning in the storm's center dead ahead of us."

  Maldoch did not need three guesses as to the cause of the electrical display. Even Garrich sussed out it was Omelchor's doing and put it to the wizard, “Can your brother manipulate the weather to that extent?"

  "Spells exist to induce weather patterns,” admitted the wizard, ‘though it requires intense concentration casting them. One incantation takes a full hour to recite. On top of that drawback is the fact that once you conjure up freak weather, it's next to impossible to control it. The conjurer runs the risk of being enveloped by his own tornado or tidal wave. I suspect Omelchor has been rewriting passages of the Black Grimoire again for his own benefit, the reckless fool.” Chewing his bottom lip, Maldoch ruminated, “I'd like to take a peek at it if he has."

  "How did he find us a second time?” wondered Garrich.

  The spellcaster thought on it and came up with, “The call I made to the Elf Shipmaster back at J'tard's place ... he must've traced it somehow.” Maldoch swore like a trooper. “Damn and blast! He knows we're heading for Gwilhaire."

  "How?” asked the Troll.

  "He likely tweaked his locater spell to not only trace a signal back to its source, but to tap into the carrier wave so he can eavesdrop on the conversation as well. That's why he has put up a roadblock to the coast, so we can't hitch a ride on that Elven vessel.

  "It also means he is close. An incantation of that magnitude demands the spellcaster to loiter in the region. If I know my magic, and I do, Omel is on the beach directly behind the sandstorm, adding layer upon layer of wizardry to increase its momentum."

  "Can't you neutralize his dark magic with a spell of your own?” said J'tard.

  "Only if you have no objections to a large chunk of the Great Desertland going up in smoke,” responded Maldoch.

  "We're blocked then,” said Garrich. “Do we turn back for Kha-Rell?"

  "We'd never make it. That storm will bury us before we're halfway home,” predicted J'tard.

  Coming up with the alternative of digging in properly, Garrich was rebuffed. “I could weather the blow,’ asserted the Troll, “but you two aren't of the desert. You'd surely suffocate."

  A shield of magic, like the one Maldoch employed against the Banshees, popped into Garrich's head. Unfortunately his idea was beaten to the punch by the wizard's reproval. Guessing the Goblin's train of thought, Maldoch explained, “Even if I could sustain a protective shell for more than a few days, it would give our exact position away to Omelchor, inviting trouble of an even greater magnitude. Besides, burying our heads in the sand will make us late for the coastal rendezvous."

  "Won't our ride wait?” asked Garrich.

  "Not if we're a week overdue. Hennario easily gets bored and will set sail for homeport when we are a no show. J'tard, the storm's moving due west in a solid front, trailing arms right and left, correct?"

  "Yes, Magnificent One."

  "That rules out making a dash for the south.” Maldoch cussed again. “I hate being outmaneuvered.” Holding his twisted staff out to the Goblin and Troll, he barked, “Grab on, boys. And shut your eyes."

  "What for?” questioned J'tard.

  Gripping one of the giant's thick wrists and directing the meaty Troll hand onto the staff before clutching the carved wood himself with a sweaty palm, Garrich inexplicably sniggered. “You really don't want to know."

  * * * *

  The predawn darkness shimmered. Three figures popped into sight from out of thin air, looking warily around them. Daybreak had yet to banish the night shadows of the gloomy, indistinct landscape, forestalling recognition of the unlit surrounds.

  Letting go of Maldoch's staff, Garrich put wobbly hands on hips and said in a peeved tone, “Where did you jump me to this time, old man?"

  The wizard played with his beard, plainly stumped as to their whereabouts.

  Acclimatizing remarkably quickly to the translocating process, J'tard released his grip on the spellcaster's prop and cast about. Immediately noticing a conical bulk at his back thrusting up out of the insipid flatland with oppressing nearness, the Troll whispered in awe, “Dahad Byrakhum,” bowing his head reverently to the volcano.

  Vexed by the pronouncement, Maldoch scowled. “Drat, I overshot. I was aiming for Kha-Rell."

  "For someone who doesn't like jumping from place to place, you do an awful lot of it,” criticized Garrich.

  Maldoch's comeback was a gem. “Only since I began travelling with you,” he fired back at the Goblin. He sniffed loudly, saying, “Forget something, Garrich?"

  The youth smiled ruefully. “If it's a bath, then in my defense there is a shortage of washing water in the desert."

  "No, dolt, our supplies.” The wizard sighed crossly. “Where's your girlfriend?"

  Glancing down at his empty hands, Garrich exclaimed, “Bugger, we left the unihorn behind."

  "We?” contested Maldoch. “You were the one not holding on to the reins of our pack animal, and now we haven't any supplies."

  "We can't go back?” Garrich lamely asked.

  His face darkening, the wizard said in a voice tight with controlled anger, “You still haven't caught on. Translocating is an imprecise, hit-or-miss affair."

  J'tard lurched out of his adoration for the sacrosanct ground at his feet. “Is that why you didn't transport us direct to the coast, Magnificence?"

  "For all concerned, yes,” confirmed Maldoch in a tiresome tone. “Never had any cause to journey to the Falke Tropicana before now. It's hardly a holiday getaway spot and I can't leap somewhere I haven't visited. It's one of the few places in Terrath I've not walked. Even if I had, I would not have risked magicking us over, past, or through that sandstorm. Atmospheric distortion plays havoc with translocating. It doesn't take much to scatter a disembodied form to the four winds.” The part pertaining to colliding magics went without saying. If the goodly wizard's moving incantation bumped energies with Omelchor's storm spell, the resulting fireworks would light up the entire eastern seaboard.

  "What now?” Garrich put to Maldoch.

  "We hole up for the day and then make for Gwilhaire on foot by way of the Lower Wade. Hopefully, we won't faint from starvation or lack of thirst."

  "But that's almost a thousand leagues of walking!” protested the Goblin.

  Maldoch patted Garrich condescendingly on the head. “Glad to see your math coming along so nicely too."

  They sheltered at the base of the stratovolcano while Sol climbed to its blistering zenith, edging around the mount's twenty-mile circumference to stay in the marginally less hotter shade provided by its shielding bulk. A site of pilgrimage for the devout, Dahad Byrakhum was equally appreciated for its stunningly symmetrical cone, the steep-sided slopes, unmarred by irregularities, tapering up to the mile-wide cratered summit 12,000 feet above the desert plain. The prime source of inspiration for Troll poets and artists, the once fire-breathing peak bestowed a blessed respite from the unblinking sun.

  Curled up between two boulders with his cloak draped across the rocks acting as a sunshade, Garrich had his catnap disturbed by an irksome murmur. His sleepy eyes caught site of J'tard kneeling a stone's throw away in the shimmering midafternoon heat, mumbling a chant while fingering his necklace. “Is the Troll praying?"

  "He's asking T'harius for his blessing,” mumbled Maldoch, lightly snoozing beneath his own unfolded robe.

  "That's the famous dead Troll."

  "The Sulanders prefer the term beatified. His bones are enshrined in the caldera atop Dahad. Legend has it that the Maker collapsed the crater at the instant of the Troll founder's death to provide his people with the perfect place to preserve his remains."

  "Something wrong with a simple burial?"

  "Ever tried digging a grave in sand."

  Garrich stretched, coming fully awake. “Camping a
t the foot of a volcano makes me nervous. What if it explodes?"

  "Dahad has never so much as rumbled in all the years I've been roaming Terrath,” mused Maldoch. “Of course, I have slept from time to time, so might've missed a growl or two."

  "I don't think an overnight burble counts,” sneered the cheeky Goblin.

  "Garrich, I periodically sleep away the odd century. Anything could happen in a hundred years and generally does."

  They moved off when the relief of night came, marching southwest under cover of the cooler darkness, Garrich and Maldoch wrapped up warm in their robes, J'tard cloaked in a sleeveless woolen mantle woven with bands of bright color subdued by the milky starshine. The issue of supplies was not exactly the quandary Maldoch made it out to be, though by no means was it resolved effortlessly. J'tard, an adept desert survivalist thanks to his wanderings, was equal to the task of providing for his companions.

  Fifty-foot tall candelabra branched saguaro cacti proved a critical water source. Tapping into the fluted central column of spiky green produced a bitter tasting, but eminently drinkable, liquid that moistened parched throats. Likewise, food came in an unflattering yet palatable package in the form of desert hedgehogs, caught and cooked in their own juices over flat rocks kindled by wizardry. Worried about being detected magically, Garrich was assured by Maldoch that his storm-rustling brother was far too busy conducting his tempest to take much notice of a piddling fire spell masked largely by the broad desert heat. Bigger enchantments were a different proposition and more readily traceable, so the spellcaster relied heavily on the Troll's resourcefulness.

  Eleven days of traveling between sundown and sunup, subsisting on cactus juice, spiny flea-bitten animals and the odd welcome sand grouse, brought the footsore trio to the southern tip of the curving Shieldrock Range.

  "Fog?” Garrich expressed his surprise.

  Where the eastern mountain chain petered out before reaching the coastal bluffs overlooking Murant Basin, a forty league wide pass blanketed in a haze of ground hugging white vapor joined the Great Desertland to the rest of Terrath.

  Naming the rift, the wizard said, “Misty Gap. So called for obvious reasons."

  Garrich was put in mind of Gortal's Cleft, for good reason. His nose wrinkled from the rotting stench of swampland tainting the breeze. “Not another bog."

  "Afraid so,” affirmed Maldoch. “Shadfenn's not as big as Solke Dharr, but just as smelly.” He inhaled deeply. “Hmmm, maybe smellier."

  "Does every pass in Terrath sport a swamp on the far side?"

  Maldoch grinned maliciously. “Only three of the five."

  Rapt at the prospect of becoming the first Troll in modern history to set foot outside the desert homeland, J'tard broke his habitual silence to eagerly ask, “Are we crossing the fen?” Reading old texts about marshy ground was far removed from the luxury of actually treading upon waterlogged earth, feeling the squelch of mud between the toes.

  The wizard dashed his expectations. “Shadfenn lies in the other direction. Once across the Gap, we're pushing due south through Jungular Forest."

  The Troll heaved a loud sigh of disappointment and trudged behind as Maldoch took the lead, entering the thick swirls of mist. The peculiar geography of the region, where blazing desert converged on steamy jungle and dampish fenland, created the perpetual foggy conditions. Garrich hastened after, orienting on the wizard's lecturing voice to guide him through the opaque whiteness.

  "It'll take a couple of days of brisk walking to get through this bothersome fog, Don't lose sight of my staff,” advised Maldoch, the tip magically lit with a beacon of faintly pulsating blue light.

  "I look forward to a change of diet when we reach the woodland. A hedgehog can only be cooked so many ways,” said Garrich. “A nice rabbit stew will go down a treat."

  Maldoch's correction filtered through the mist back to the salivating Goblin. “Jungular is a tropical, not temperate, forest. You won't snare a single hare, bear, vole, mole, rat, or bat."

  "What animals are to be found then?"

  "The usual nasties ... snakes, leeches, mossies, plus spiders as big as your hand."

  "My hands are pretty big,” J'tard rumbled fretfully.

  "Be warned,” continued the wizard. “Bloodsuckers and poison fangs are the least injurious of the dangers facing us. Remember, it's a jungle out there."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The ship swung hard about. Hennario braced his legs on the sterncastle deck and gripped the running rigging while his groaning helmsmen manhandled their respective heavy steering oars as Stormrunner heeled over to the lee quarter. When the ship had completed the U-turn and righted herself, he bellowed to his bustling crew, “Put on extra sail! I don't want those sea rats nipping at my rudders.” Additional canvas was unreefed from the boatmast yard and the Elven ship seemed to jump forwards, skimming over the wave tops.

  "Are they giving chase?” Hennario grilled his approaching bow officer, his eyes habitually focused on the billowing sails.

  Signaled from his command platform behind the prow of the ship, the summoned Elf bounded up the three steps to the quarterdeck after hurrying along the 120-foot length of Stormrunner and glanced over his captain's shoulder. “They..."

  "Pull in the slack on the port mainsheet!” Hennario interrupted with an instructive bellow. Sailors scrambled to comply and the luff of the mainsail went taut, the flapping canvas ballooning with the gusting northerly.

  "...don't appear to be following, Shipmaster,” finished the bow officer.

  Accepting the news without comment, Hennario turned the helm over to his newly arrived second, who prompted his captain, “What course?"

  "Nhern. Faerohc must be warned of corsairs on the eastern seaboard. I don't want to lose time on the shoals around Skerr Vel'orm, so bypass Bornae Strait by sailing the open ocean side of the island. The water will be rougher, but our passage speedier.’”

  The bow officer pulled back the hood of his oilskins, the frown that marred his deceptively youthful elvish features increasing the angle of his acutely slanted eyebrows. With the tailwind blowing his golden locks over his pointy ears, he queried, “Aren't we waiting for Maldoch as planned?"

  "You saw the corsair anchored off the desert coast."

  "We've gone bow-to-bow with Goblin raiders before and sunk every one of them."

  "This time's different, Aborlath. There's black magic in the salt air. Can't you feel the sting of it?"

  Maldoch was wrong in assuming his brother was spellmaking from the white sands of a Fal'ke Tropicana beach. Omelchor sat safely ensconced on an Otter warship anchored in the coastal shallows, laboring madly to sustain the sandstorm he whipped up to hamper the forces of Good.

  Facing sternwards, Hennario leant on the railing of the quarterdeck and glumly watched the troubling vista of the dust shrouded coastline race by on his left. The Gerent from Illebard had sailed the charted oceans since he was an unschooled cabin boy, learning early on that the sea was a seductive and cruel mistress filled with mystery. The deep waters offshore harbored strangely finned denizens oftentimes glimpsed frolicking in the swells of stormy seas, while on the surface terrifyingly spontaneous waterspouts menaced shipping. Was a lone Goblin longship aglow with the angry red of evil magics really such a bombshell? It was when it coincided with an unseasonable northeasterly that had necessitated an exasperating tacking course upwind since exiting Bornae Strait.

  Contrary to the agelessness exhibited by Elf-kind, Hennario's looks matched his 192 years, at least by a third. A lifetime on the briny left indelible marks on the Illebardian, whitening his blonde locks, tanning his fair skin, and engraving a tracery of wrinkles around his blue-grey eyes. Like all Sea Elves, the distinguished Admiral of the Illebard Squadron was at six feet a tad shorter than his forest cousins but more robust in build, his heavier frame concealed by the bulky waterproofing oilskins necessary for sailing the coldwater southern ocean.

  "
How is the Magnificent One supposed to get to Lothberen?” Aborlath tentatively asked the Shipmaster.

  "Maldoch is a wizard. He's bound to conjure up a spell for walking on water."

  The seas were running high a week on when Stormrunner was ploughing through heaving whitecaps pounding the chalky cliffs walling the channel into Hjari Inlet.

  "Best take in the bonnet on the main'sl,” Hennario recommended to Aborlath. Hoping to be appointed command of his own ship one day, the bow officer abided by the curious order.

  Reducing the size of the mainsail by removing the additional strip of canvas attached to the trailing edge was one method of rigging for bad weather, but in Aborlath's opinion general reefing was called for to lessen the area of sail exposed to the mounting wind. He wisely opened his gob only to convey the Shipmaster's opinion to the hardworking sailors. Hennario wanted the upmost rate of knots to get ship and crew back into home waters, and was prepared to risk shredding canvas and snapping sheets in the choppy seas to do so.

  Dipping into a trough, Stormrunner wallowed at the bottom then churned up the sloping wall of water before cresting the frothy summit, the drenched bow watch receiving yet another spraying of spindrift as the spume broke over the ship's prow. As fine a seagoing vessel as she was, Hennario's flagship was finding this leg of the voyage heavy going.

  Similar in length to a Goblin Raider, but broader in beam by ten feet, Stormrunner was the lead ship in new class of Elven ocean craft constructed to the Shipmaster's personal specifications. Square rigged like her single masted predecessors, the carvel built oaken vessel had the additional forward slanting boatmast put ahead of the mainmast to increase sail area and hence speed. Both stern and bow were beautifully curved: the latter carrying a figurehead of sculpted wood—in this case a flattering, double life-sized bust of Hennario's stunning daughter—while below the waterline jutted an underwater, copper-plated ram for holing pirate ships. Raised decks were a novel feature in Illebard naval design borrowed from Anarican merchantmen, aft and forecastles providing sheltered accommodation and fighting rostrums for the crew. Make no mistake Stormrunner was a fighting ship. Unwarlike in nature, Elves nonetheless defended their land and sea aggressively, equipping and provisioning their protectors with the very best.