Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Catching the Forester up, Garrich fell into step beside him along a twisty path threading subtly through dense hazelnut thickets merging into a slender belt of broadleaved sycamores. The fluid melodies of nightingales and wood warblers flooded the sleepy forest air. For a brief second of similarity he was reminded of traipsing alongside Maldoch. Like the ancient wizard, Ayron was older than his years, though outwardly the Elf appeared not much younger than the Goblin he watched over.

  "You don't like me much, do you?” perceived Garrich, buckling the scabbard strap across his chest, and then adjusting the familiar weight of the blade upon his back for maximum comfort.

  "Babysitting you isn't my idea of a good time. I'm meant to be accompanying his Magnificence."

  "You and me both,” griped the Goblin. “Mal did say he'd be back to pick us up after recruiting his Underlander. I would've liked to visit Gnome country. What I've seen of Terrath so far hasn't been touristy. A jail cell, couple of swamps, and a desert aren't exactly prime sightseeing spots. Neither is a country-sized forest that's about as changeable as mountain rock.” Garrich's perception also picked up that Ayron's disgruntlement ran deeper than simply being left behind.

  "It's not your fault you're a Losther,” the Elf sullenly confirmed a moment later.

  "And Lothberens can't help being bigots."

  Ayron glowered at his companion and pointed out, “I'm a Janyler.” Returning his attention to the trail, he frigidly added, “Elves and Goblins simply don't mix."

  "Why ever not?"

  "It's our custom, has always been that way."

  "God forbid that something changes in Gwilhaire Wood."

  "A religious Losther,” pondered the Elf, one of his slanted eyebrows arching interestedly. “How mannish."

  "I'm not your usual Goblin,” Garrich said truthfully.

  "No argument there."

  "You've come across Goblins before?” Garrich barely contained his curiosity.

  "Only those depicted in the old songs,” revealed Ayron. “I must say you're more articulate and less bloodthirsty than those of your kind portrayed in the ballads. Rather disappointing actually."

  Garrich felt the same way. Elves were hardly living up to their mythical reputation.

  The sycamores thinned, giving way to the domineering oaks. Bird life changed in accordance. Yellow and black plumaged Great Tits flitted acrobatically from tree to bush and back again, hunting out insect larvae on the stouter low branches, while sparrow-sized Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers, dapperly feathered in black-and-white barred plumage, shyly looked on from their treetop hideaways. Farther on, the coastal beech forest displaced the mighty oaks, the mossy boles near enough spilling over the chalky sea cliffs they capped to take root in the pounding surf.

  "What's Carnach like? Is it really as bleak as the folk songs make out?"

  Ayron's query took Garrich by surprise. Up until now his minder showed utter insensitivity to all things Goblin. “I wouldn't know,” was his mumbled response.

  "Presumably you were born there,” challenged the Elf. Garrich filled him in on his parentless infanthood, adoption by Maldoch the Magnificent and subsequent raising by Tylar Shudonn, sending Ayron into a funk. “You're not a real Goblin then,” moped the Forester. “Probably the only thing you can be accused of killing is time."

  Offended, Garrich hit back. “At least I don't murder melodies. In point of fact, I've killed four men already."

  Ayron was sarcastically incredulous. “You can count that high?"

  The Goblin's returning grin lacked humor as he said, “Higher. I'm not above being on the lookout for number five."

  A disembodied head shimmered into view.

  Stripped to his waist in his freshly laundered undergarments, inspecting the latest disfiguring addition to his tally of healed body wounds amounting to a forearm, ear and cheek scar, Garrich jumped back in fright from the glossy wooden hand-basin he was washing his face in. The barbed vessel that had delivered the almost fatal dose of weed killer had seriously marred his youthful looks. Partially concealed by facial fuzz striving to become a beard, the star of puckered skin unavoidably left by Prilthar's surgery, faded from sickening black to a healthier looking pink-gray, was a permanent reminder of his close shave with death. But his newest mutilation was not the cause for concern; the contents of the portable sink provided that. Magically backlit reddish water sloshed over the sides of the varnished bowl, angry at being disturbed, rippling the wizard's face it was serving as a wet canvas for.

  "Maldoch?” the thrown youth said uncertainly, mopping his frowning countenance with a hastily grabbed towel. The well lived-in, hawkish likeness glowering up at him from the maple washbasin, bathed in a shaft of hazy morning light streaming through a porthole styled window mounted centrally in the tongue and groove oak wall, seemed disconcertingly recognizable and unfamiliar at the same time.

  Predacious eyes glossed over the nautically decorated room to fix on the agitated Goblin, ignoring the patchily painted timber anchor featured in the corner opposite the background hammock functioning as a trendy bed over which a fishing net wall hanging intertwined with preserved sea snail shells was suspended. Frozen by that raptor gaze like a possum caught in the oil headlamps of a night-rolling horse and buggy, Garrich made for easy prey.

  "We do meet at long last.” Omelchor greeted him with a smarmy, carnivorous grin.

  "You're the rotten wizard,” deduced Garrich.

  "My fame precedes me."

  "Infamy, more like."

  Omelchor took the insult in his stride and managed an insipid smile. “I haven't had the pleasure of your name."

  Finding the willpower to unglue his stuck limbs, Garrich shrank back from the watery vision of Maldoch's short-bearded alter ego, pointedly keeping the contents of the bowl in sight but at arm's length. Intellectually he presumed the see-through image was no more dangerous than a puff of smoke, but assumptions were risky where wizards were concerned.

  "If you're looking for Maldoch, he's not here,” he blurted, cursing his loose lips for giving his guardian's nemesis crucial information so freely.

  Omelchor appeared unconcerned by the slip. “That's no surprise. My wanderlust brother never could stay in one place for very long. Born with itchy feet, he revels in pottering about in the boondocks. Actually, it's you I was aiming to reach. I've been hunting for you for a very long time, my boy."

  His skin crawling with revulsion, Garrich had to ask, “How did you find me, here, of all places?"

  The replying laugh of the errant spellcaster emulated the mocking ring of a hyena's call as he fobbed Garrich off. “Trade secret. Suffice to say that even Treesinger passive magic can't daunt me, nor hide you entirely."

  Sorcery had nothing to do with Omelchor tracking Garrich down after ineffectually scouring the length and breadth of Terrath seventeen long years for him. Simple deduction located his sought after prize. Troll country jumped out as the obvious starting point for any scheme Maldoch was implementing. The crusader for Good, tighter than a tortoise and its shell with the ostensibly nonaligned desert folk, habitually made use of their storehouse of knowledge that was the celebrated Library of Histories. Intercepting Maldoch's magical transmission to Hennario provided the icing on the cake, presenting Omelchor with an opening to deliver the perfect setup. The delinquent wizard had realistically not expected Maldoch and company to come to grief in the Shadfenn detour he craftily steered them to ... it was more of a planned hiccup than any proper peril. The result it netted was entirely projected, the fools bolting for Gwilhaire like scared rabbits. The anticipatory sorcerer simply monitored the Elf refuge with an unobtrusive seeker spell of his own devising, subtle tracing magic tuned specifically to detect Goblin blood that took a decade to perfect. Still a hit and miss affair, he struck it lucky only when Garrich ventured south to Illebard where the shielding weave of Lothberen enchantment thinned sufficiently to be penetrated by the black magic locater.

  "Last time I clapped eyes on y
ou,” reminisced Omelchor, ‘you were sleeping like a baby. Oh wait, you were a sleeping baby."

  Gripping the bowl in tremulous hands, the Carnachian orphan demanded of the wizard face reflected back, “You knew me as an infant?"

  Another forced smile played over Omelchor's stiff features. The effort of sustaining the tricky spell was taxing his concentrative powers to their limit. Barely masking the strain, circumstance compelled him to forgo his usual pleasurable game of cat and mouse. “Want to know more about your parentage, boy? Jump the fence and I'll fill in the blanks. Maldoch is telling you squat, right? He'll only divulge what he wants to share when it suits him. Shift your allegiance to my side, the winning side, and I'll give you the full scoop on the whole family deal ... birthplace, folks, clan. Hell, I'll even throw in the date of your birthday as a freebie. You in?"

  Garrich continued to be flabbergasted. “I, ah..."

  "You expected me to be threatening? Not my style. Temptation is far greater leverage than harrying. Enticing offer, eh? Take the deal and you'll be rewarded with more than just missing genealogy. I'm promising you unlimited wealth and influence. Oh, and girls. Lots of girls. I appreciate that you young people have an insatiable sexual appetite. Goblin maidens are quite attractive, in a severe kind of way. Aid me in bringing this race war to its only foreseeable conclusion and all your dreams can come true. What do you say?"

  The Goblin's human upbringing came flooding back to him. Tylar Shudonn taught Garrich so much more than swordplay. The former soldier instilled in his malleable ward the associated traits of honor and loyalty. They were not for sale. No amount of gold could purchase a decent man's integrity. It sounded good on parchment anyway.

  "No thanks,” he politely declined. The warrior-poet had drummed manners into him as well.

  "Don't be hasty, boy. Think about the opportunity you are turning down."

  Garrich did. If what the dastardly magician offered held up to close scrutiny, the gaping void in the Goblin's well-being could be paved over, if not backfilled entirely. The carrot Omelchor dangled before him seemed perilously attractive. Surely it could not hurt to ask. “What assurance do I get that you'll be truthful about my parentage?"

  "You will just have to take my word for it."

  "I have a trust issue with wizards."

  "We are a pretty despicable lot, but this is a major decision. Don't dismiss it out of hand."

  "There's nothing to consider. I'll never go work for the bad guys."

  Omelchor harrumphed. “Mal has sure done a number on your head. He's brainwashed you with the plumb crazy notion of being Terrath's savior. How stupid is that? One person cannot make or break a continent."

  "Why then are you taking the trouble to recruit me?” Garrich pondered aloud.

  The deviant sorcerer reassessed his target. This canny Goblin obviously could never be bought and actually possessed a sense of morality! “The whole Good versus Evil nonsense the Eastern Realms buy into is terribly clichéd. Right or wrong is purely a matter of definition."

  "Demolishing Earthen Rise was right in your book?"

  "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” Omelchor said unapologetically. “Life without regrets means you'll accomplish anything, my boy. Historians will label you wicked and immoral, but think of all the fun that can be had."

  "My answer's the same."

  "I must be losing my touch at subversion. I turned Maldoch's wife with far greater ease,” grumbled Omelchor. “Mind you, sex is the best persuader of all."

  "Don't be trying that angle on me!” said Garrich, a worried lilt in his voice.

  Omelchor reciprocated with likeminded passion. “I'm a happily betrothed wizard."

  Releasing the basin, Garrich took a confused step back. “You're not at all what I anticipated."

  Amused by the youth's discomfiture, Omelchor smirked. “Am I not villainous enough? No evilly glowing eyes, no incomprehensible incanting chucking forth fire and brimstone."

  "You seem rather ordinary, politely spoken, not like..."

  "Maldoch? Not all wizards are loopy egomaniacs or magic-less drunks. I'll let you in on a secret about my brothers, kid. They'll stoop to the same deplorable tactics I use and defend their actions by saying it's for the greater good. Mal and Parny resort to bullying, blackmail, stealing, even murder to get what they want. Humph. They have the nerve to condemn my methodology! What it boils down to is, other than being on opposing sides, there's no real difference between us. Good is just a paler shade of Evil."

  "Says you."

  "Face facts, you can take the boy out of the West but you can't take the West out of the boy. Trust your feelings. You were born Goblin. I represent, proudly advocate, Carnachian interests. We'd make great partners. With my brains and your brawn, all of Terrath could fall at our feet. I envisage you being crowned the very first Goblin King with the whole of the northland your domain. I, by way of recompense, get to rule over everything south."

  Extending his invitation by way of a mesmeric stare, much the same look a stalking adder dispenses to a callow juvenile mouse prior to the blurring death strike, the disreputable sorcerer bid Garrich, “Join me. Follow your heart."

  "I will,” pledged Garrich. “Go to N'drenoff Worhl."

  "Been there. Hell's a tad hot for my liking. You might find it toasty warm once my agents catch up and send you there on the edge of a sword blade."

  Reacting to the blatant threat, Garrich spun fluidly around, reached down for his broadsword lying on the planked floor beneath the hammock and unlimbered the weapon in a swift single motion. He made a ridiculous sight leveling the tip at the unarmed washbasin.

  "Is that the sword that'll bring an end to evil in Terrath?” sneered Omelchor. “Ooh, I'm sooo scared."

  Garrich clamped his mouth shut, determined not to reveal anything further to Maldoch's archrival. He need not have bothered. Omelchor was playing him like a fiddle, learning firsthand his brother's departure from Illebard and of the talisman in Garrich's possession.

  "Vamoose,” the Goblin unsurely ordered the gatecrasher spectral head, feeling more unprotected than his half-naked form suggested.

  Done with being Mister Nice Guy, Omelchor bellowed, “You dare have the impudence to order me about, cockroach!’ The rage flushing his contorted face was hard to discern in the magical red glare of his long distance communication spell. That anger manifested itself more visually. The basin slowly spun, rocking the walnut dresser it perched atop while the reddened water contained inside bubbled crazily.

  Garrich hastily backed up until stopped by the canvas hammock straining against his posterior. Hypnotized by the rapidly gyrating bowl, he dropped his sword in downright amazement when its boiling contents gushed forcefully upwards to be deflected off the beamed ceiling, splashing onto the floorboards not three feet in front of him with a fearsome hiss and cloud of escaping steam. Where what should have been a large puddle wetting the planks there hovered a giant-sized, if rather sopping, rendering of the wizard Omelchor's incensed countenance, the blood-red droplets magically coalesced into a three dimensional watery approximation of his shape and form from the neck up that ranted insanely.

  "Fool of a boy!” he roared, spitting at Garrich with a spray of scalding water. The Goblin ducked under his hammock in time to avoid a hot drenching. “I command energies undreamt of by you and unheard of by my cheating brothers. You think to foil my long planned conquest with a hand-me-down back scratcher infused with no more magic than Maldoch's big toe? He has fed you a pack of lies to conjure up false hope. This time around is no mere border tug of war ... the East is truly doomed to enslavement. What can a misguided Goblin waif expect to achieve against my might and the weight of the Carnach nation, except his own grisly and early death? Stupid boy!

  "Throwing your lot in with Maldoch is a mistake. Your quest is already failing. The Dwarf leadership is broken, the Elves uncaring. You sided with the wrong crowd, my nameless friend, and in doing so sealed your fate. Ma
ldoch cannot protect you forever, and when we finally do face one another in person I promise you'll feel the sting of my wrath. I'll not forget you spurning my gracious chance to redeem yourself."

  Recovering his blade, Garrich defiantly pointed it at the infamous face of Public Enemy Number One, and from a pocket of resilience deep within bravely mouthed, “Have you quite finished speechmaking, you old windbag?"

  The dripping bust of Omelchor burst out laughing improperly, shedding globules of superheated water that showered the dry timber flooring beneath with a spatter of sizzling indoor rainfall, evaporating the instant it touched the planks. His guffaws subsiding into amused chortles, the shower lessening to an erratic sprinkle, the watered down likeness of the evil enchanter leered troublingly. “I'm done, for now,” he said through his crocodilian smile. “By the way, this magic will self destruct in five, four, three..."

  Flinging his sword hilt first out the open porthole, Garrich dived after it into the unpaved lane. Rolling up into a protective ball on the earthen thoroughfare, he waited for the expected boom. Tense seconds elapsed with no explosion banging his eardrums. Uncurling himself after half a minute ticked tiresomely by, Garrich realized he had been duped. Regaining his feet and broadsword, he nonetheless wandered charily over to the circular cottage window and timidly peeped in. The empty washbowl was slowly spinning to a stop on the now motionless dresser. A pool of spreading water stained the unvarnished floorboards below the airspace where the hydrodynamic head had moments before angrily floated. Aside from those minor disturbances his room seemed untouched, almost as if Omelchor's visitation was a figment of an overactive imagination.

  "Missing something, aren't you?"

  Garrich whirled to find Ayron staring bemusedly at him, the Elf's skinny arms folded across his flat chest.

  "Your pants,” the Forester took great delight in pointing out to the blank-faced Goblin.

  Feeling woefully underdressed, Garrich turned a lovely shade of embarrassed red, thankful that at this early hour on the Illebard back street there was only a skulking Wood Elf to make fun of a blushing Goblin fighting a bowl of spilt toiletry water in his underwear. “Forgetting my breeches is the least of my worries,” he muttered.