Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "And the normal Elves aren't aware of this history?"

  "They couldn't stomach such a perversion. Elves are purist to a fault. A caricature of Elfkind of this magnitude will break their vain hearts. That's why I keep this from them. And the fact of sparing the Mdwumps genocide."

  "By who?"

  Turning away from the pleasing woodland view, the wizard snapped, “The Elves, you ninny. They don't tolerate trespassers or defects, and solve both those problems in one handy way—by simply getting rid of the culprit."

  Garrich gave a mental shrug. “The slugs are baddies. Terrath would be better off without them."

  Maldoch disagreed, sharply. “Some people detest the rain. Maybe we should remove that as well. Of course, crops wouldn't get watered, lakes won't refill, and civilization as we know it shrivels up like a prune from unending drought. Just because a thing is perceived as unpleasant doesn't automatically mean it should be eliminated. It's called ecology. Deleting one part of an ecosystem is detrimental to the whole."

  "That's what you're planning for the Western Provinces,” accused Garrich.

  "It's what I'm trying unsuccessfully to avoid.” Shaking his head in futility, Maldoch barked, “Stop putting words in my mouth, boy. Thwarting Goblin land bids doesn't entail wiping them out. Culling them certainly, but not rendering them extinct. I am the warden, not the executioner, of Terrath's peoples."

  "That job will probably fall to me when we journey to Carallord,” Garrich gloomily assumed. “Just what am I meant to do as Savior of Terrath?"

  "Not get killed will be helpful."

  When his glower failed to make the standoffish spellcaster elucidate, Garrich picked holes in the Mdwumps tale. “There are inconsistencies in your story, old man. I don't understand why the Elves didn't head straight for Lothberen. It's on the way to Galinorf and nearer to hand."

  "My, aren't we the atlas now. Lothberen wasn't around then. Back in those early days, Illebard and Nhern were the only elvish settlements."

  Garrich tried again. “You stated the Elves were hurrying from Berhanth. Did they have reason to flee?"

  "I'd say so. Being chased by angry Dwarfs speeds up your pace."

  Garrich waited for more. Made impatient by Maldoch's reticence, he prodded, “Want to elaborate, Mal?"

  The wizard declined. “That part of the story is seedy and not for your ears. Overexcitement is bad for you. Get plenty of rest. I'll pop in later with your dinner."

  "More veggies,” whined Garrich. “They're edible, but not very filling. How about sneaking me some meat?"

  "Will poultry do?"

  The sated Goblin smacked his lips at the mouth-watering prospect. “That'd be scrummy"'

  "In your dreams, boy,” said Maldoch, his hand closing about the timber door handle. “Even if I reached up on tiptoe to wring a Garvian's neck, pluck its mountain of feathers and find a spit big enough to roast the sucker, you'd never wrap your gums around a six foot drumstick."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirty One

  "Any race war doesn't involve us."

  Maldoch rebutted Eroc's argument with a contemptuous snort in the gerent's ear. “Hiding away down here in the trees won't keep the Elves safe."

  "It has worked thus far, wizard."

  "Take a good look around you, Eroc. Terrath is changing radically and Gwilhaire must adapt to those changes. When was the last time a Troll visited Lothberen?"

  Letting Eroc stew, Maldoch sauntered smugly away to plop himself down in a wicker chair beside J'tard while he indulged Merainor's proclivity for formalities. An Elf Queen had not played host to a Sulander dignitary for nigh on 700 years and, contradictory to recent circumstances, Merainor felt a compulsion to entertain.

  "I'm a simple Unihorn dealer,” J'tard demurred as Queen Merainor made a welcoming speech in front of a tickled crowd thronging Traders Clearing. Wherever and whenever they went outside their sandbox, Trolls unfailingly caused a sensation, making J'tard the center of attention since he rode into Lothberen. Incidentally, so too was his giant of a horse, which the Troll insisted on keeping as compensation for his rough treatment. Penned one paddock down from Eggcrusher, the Clydesdale attracted the volatile Reypt's hungry eye more than once. Lucky for the mare her neighbor was a lousy jumper and could not hurdle the fence.

  "You're a rich Unihorn dealer,” amended Maldoch.

  "She's treating me like a prince,” complained the unassuming Troll.

  "Enjoy it while you can. I'm Maldoch the Magnificent, wizard extraordinaire, and I don't even rate rolling out the welcoming mat, let alone the red carpet."

  Finishing her oratory with the sentiment of bridging desert and forest with a span of friendship, Merainor extended her hands to J'tard, encouraging him to stand. Doing so, the Troll then knelt to accept the lei of flowers the miniscule Elf Queen placed over his hairless head. Afterwards, she exhorted him to say a few words.

  "Thanks for having me here,” was all that the overwhelmed Troll could mumble before sitting down again.

  "You're worse at public speaking than me,” decried Maldoch.

  When the ceremonialism was done with and the nattering throng dispersed to their tree houses to discuss the newcomer in-depth in the privacy of their own lofty homes, Maldoch accepted Merainor's invitation to retire to her private lounge deep in the bowels of her queenly maple. Tucked away out of sight at ground level, the inner circumference of the trunk formed deeply grooved circular walls to the secluded chamber, while the beginnings of the extensive root system had been trained into odd-shaped hardwood chairs and divans softened with cushions of reed-bound ferns. A single row of bulbous-headed mushrooms sprouting from the middle of the mossy floor exuded a pale whitish luminescence that softly lit the Elf Queen's windowless inner sanctum, necessitating those descending the rope ladder into her personal lair to step carefully when taking their seats.

  Shadowed predictably by Terwain and Eroc, Maldoch waited patiently for J'tard to squeeze his hulking frame into an armchair of twisted roots opposite him before starting things off. He was made to wait longer by an Elf maiden bringing down a pitcher of aftermelk, balancing the tray expertly in one hand. “Merainor, have you picked out a champion to join us?” he grilled her once refreshments were served and the maid disappeared back up the ladder with the empty tray.

  "As a matter of fact I have,” confirmed the waiflike Elf Queen, raising a wooden goblet to her lips and tasting the milk made from groundnuts sloshing inside. Smiling, she commented, “Mmm, scrumptious. Take a sip, Maldoch. 1605 was a very good year."

  The wizard declined. “I haven't supped only on milk since I was a suckling babe and I'm not inclined to start up again now. Who and where is your champion?"

  "We'll get to him in a moment,” promised Merainor, setting her goblet down on the flattened head of the Royal Maple's taproot utilized as a coffee table in the closeted milk bar. “I would like to know more about this quest of yours before committing Elven resources to it."

  "I thought all this was behind us,” retorted Maldoch. “Isn't my say-so good enough for you?"

  "Course not,” sniped Eroc.

  "That's enough, love.” Merainor took her gerent to task. “We settled this earlier, after speaking at some length. Gwilhaire will be fighting a defensive action only. Maldoch assures me of that. In return, you're to give his Magnificence the benefit of the doubt."

  Eroc begrudgingly grunted and went back to sulking alongside Terwain on the bench they were sharing in the background. Misery loved company.

  "What's bugging you, queenie?” Maldoch asked testily, his patience thinning.

  "What are you hoping to achieve with this fellowship you're gathering?” Merainor was curious to know. “What's your end goal?"

  Maldoch bared all. “World peace."

  "You aim impossibly high,” remarked Terwain.

  "Doesn't hurt to think big,” rebounded the wizard. “You satisfied working towards that, Merainor?"

 
; "I will be if a concord between Gwilhaire and Carnach is included in that."

  "I'll not be a party to this!” Eroc roared his objection, his outcry ricocheting echoingly off the timber walls. “There can never be harmony between the Losther and us.” Springing to his feet, the outraged gerent made to leave.

  "Sit back down, love,” the queen quietly commanded him.

  "Go. Stay. Make your mind up, Merainor,” Janyle's sullen gerent spat. “Either I'm in or out of the decision making."

  "Somebody better tell me what specific problem Elves have with Goblins,” insisted Maldoch.

  Merainor glossed over that touchy subject again. “Eroc, I'm merely thinking ahead. When this terrible race war is over, I want things back to normal in Gwilhaire. I'd like to see an end to all warring in Terrath. That means putting aside any and all differences with the Losther. I'm sure the Magnificent One is agreeable to that."

  The wizard gave her the nod. “Too right I'll go along with that. I'm after the Fellow Races living in complete unity. I hold no illusions of that coming to pass in your lifetimes, or even your children's lifetimes, but ultimately it's a worthwhile objective. Family squabbles can't go on forever."

  Eroc listened aloofly as Merainor implored him. “I need you at my side to achieve that, my love. All I want is peace and prosperity for our people. Will you help me make that so?” She flashed her winning smile at him.

  In the subdued lighting Terwain conferred with his partner in crime, whispering in confidence to the incensed Queen's Consort. Whatever he advised Eroc had the desired effect, for the gerent gave in with a helpless shrug.

  "I can never resist those pearly-whites of yours, Merainor. Do as you see fit. I may not like all of your decisions, my queen, but I won't stand in your way."

  Convinced that a bruised ego the size of Eroc's did not roll over that smoothly without an ulterior motive hoisted in the wind, Maldoch nonetheless ran with his small victory. He was not about to waste time pondering Terwain's scheming. “Now that the mushy stuff is dispensed with,” he gladly said, “which Elf hero is coming with me?"

  "I must see the queen immediately!’ a thundering voice demanded from the gallery above the lounge.

  "That's not permissible,” was the unseen guard's response. “Her Majesty is in conference with the outsiders."

  "Out of my way, woody! I'm going down there."

  The rope ladder jiggled furiously as the incoming intruder made his hasty descent.

  Maldoch threw up his hands in exasperation. “What's the holdup now?” Catching sight of a sly look of smugness playing across Terwain's haughty face, mirrored faintly in Eroc's stony countenance, it appeared the adviser's contrivance was coming into play right about now.

  All except J'tard knew the elderly Elf that touched down. “Hennario, this is a rare pleasure,’ said Merainor, rising to take the Shipmaster's hands in her tiny own and ushering him to a vacant seat. “What brings you all the way from Illebard?"

  Bowing his head perfunctorily, the flustered coastal gerent apologized. “Sorry for barging in, Merainor. I come bearing strange news.” Glancing about at those occupying the lounge, Hennario's roving eyes locked a frosty gaze onto Terwain, then landed momentarily on the immense Troll, before finally coming to rest on Maldoch. “I see you made it even after missing the boat, wizard."

  "There was a slight hitch to our excursion to the coast. A sandstorm in the way is rather bothersome."

  "That's partly why I've come,” said Hennario. He returned his unfriendly glower to the adviser. “I would have reported to you sooner, if Terwain hadn't kept me cooped up for the past day in one of the guest cottages, refusing point blank to let me see you any earlier."

  "You knew Hennario was here and didn't think to tell me?” the miffed queen put to her counsel.

  "The Shipmaster's timing was a little off,” explained Terwain, spreading his hands. “You were busy with your guests and Hennario's news, while intriguing, is trivial and not worth troubling you with straightaway."

  "I'll decide what is trivial and what is not. Your job is to present me the facts, then advise me. Not make up your own mind on what you think might or mightn't be noteworthy."

  "My duties include screening, at my discretion, all matters to be brought to your attention,” contested the Queen's Counsel. “I was doing just that."

  "Out of interest, Hennario, what got you off your bum and down here?” piped up Maldoch. “Did you get sick and tired of waiting, or was there a more compelling reason?"

  "Terwain sent for me. He was very specific about the hour I show."

  "The plot thickens,” Maldoch murmured to Merainor.

  "I'll speak to you later about this,’ the queen acidly told Terwain. She expanded her chastisement to include her smirking lover. “And don't think you're getting off either. This smacks of collusion and the pair of you are thicker than thieves.” The prospect of a stern lecture wiped the grin off Eroc's face.

  Brushing a stray lock of silvery-gold hair off her forehead, Merainor eyed the unperturbed Shipmaster. “You have my undivided attention. What did drag you overland away from your beloved port?"

  "The wizard's sandstorm for one."

  "You spotted the blow from out at sea?” asked Maldoch.

  "Bit hard to miss it,” verified Hennario. “Roiling clouds of sand do stand out, even in a desert."

  "We all know Maldoch's sideline as a weatherman,” interjected Terwain. “What's the significance?"

  Maldoch shared. “It wasn't a natural squall."

  The esteemed seafarer attested to that. “The point of origin for that black arts tempest was a Goblin longship skulking off the Fal'ke Tropicana coast no more than a month ago."

  That stirred things up a bit. “My meddling brother took a boating trip,” muttered Maldoch. “He can now add yachtie to his résumé."

  "Illebard is meant to be safeguarding Elven seaways,” Eroc abrasively pointed out to Hennario. “How did a Losther warship slip round the Horn of Dunderoth undetected?"

  Gwilhaire's leading sailor shrugged. “It's a big ocean out there. Can't watch every square yard of water."

  "My Foresters would have noticed,” claimed Eroc.

  "From what? A log raft out on the lake?” scoffed the opposing gerent.

  Merainor interceded before professional rivalry got ugly. “We're not here to cast blame, gentlemen."

  "Agreed,” leapt in Terwain, siding with his queen by capitalizing on his sneaky play. “We need to devise strategies for keeping the Losther and any other undesirables off Elf properties, whether they be land or sea."

  Seeing through the flimsy sham, Merainor swiftly shut him down. “There's more?” she prompted Hennario.

  "It may be unimportant and mean nothing, but on the voyage home to Illebard my lookout espied a foreign ship sailing like a banshee for the north. She wasn't Goblin or Anarican."

  "Even more reason for closing Gwilhaire to all outsiders,” advocated Eroc, jumping onto Terwain's bandwagon. “Consolidating Lothberen and Illebard isn't a bad idea either."

  "So that's your angle,” interpreted Hennario. “Back to the old business of depriving the Sea Elves of our individuality. Stuff you, Terwain! How dare you try to wrangle this mess to your own advantage."

  "We're getting off-track,” Maldoch cautioned Merainor. “Now's not the best time to sort out Elf politics. There are larger issues at stake than in-house posing."

  "What can I do?” she said plaintively.

  "Play mother,” the wizard encouraged her.

  Clapping her hands sharply, Merainor commanded in the firmest tone she could muster, which could have peeled the bark off a trunk, “Stop your bickering at once, boys! We can all sit down and thrash out the autonomy of the Wood and Sea Elves at a more conducive time. Let me remind you all of a little inconvenience called countrywide war, which will infringe upon Gwilhaire irrespective of our feelings. You will start acting brotherly, or I'll banish you to your rooms without any supper."

&nbs
p; "I'm glad you aren't my mother,” mumbled Maldoch.

  "That would be extremely difficult, considering you think of me as your daughter,” retorted Merainor. “Magnificent One, the floor is yours. Tell us what you require."

  "For starters, name the hero you'll be loaning out to me."

  "He's called Ayron and ought to meet your criteria for a champion."

  The spellcaster frowned. “I don't recall giving any yet."

  "Ayron is the champion archer of Gwilhaire Wood, having won the Golden Arrow."

  "He picked up that trophy by default,” added Terwain. “Ayron was in line for the second placed Silver Arrow when the archer in the lead accidentally put an arrow through his foot on the winning shot."

  "How does a bowman shoot his own foot?” postulated Hennario.

  "He aims downwards,” Eroc said gauchely. “That ineptitude lost him the tournament and his big toe."

  "We're sidetracked again,” grumped Maldoch. “Have this Ayron packed and ready to depart with us as soon as I give the word to go."

  "And when is that likely to be?” asked the queen.

  "Pending Garrich's recuperation, I'd say within the month, hopefully earlier. Omelchor's been creative lately and I can't afford to give him any more leeway. Hennario, can you transport my fellowship and me up to Jameru Harbor anytime soon?"

  "Braving the Sea of Storms at this time of year is foolish, not to mention the risk of sailing bow first into Goblin waters."

  "I didn't ask for the odds. Can you do it?"

  "My flagship is presently in dry-dock. Even though she took a heavy pounding from the southern seas, she'll be good to go when you want to cast off."

  "That's all I wanted to hear,” approved Maldoch.

  "We need to take extra steps to protect our borders,” Merainor reminded her general and admiral.

  "The Illebard Squadron is stepping up patrols along the coastline,” the Shipmaster assured her, “and I'll arrange with Nhern to anchor blockade ships in the Gulf of Mer'ul. That deters any Corsair from rowing too far south."