Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  Garrich did object. “Captain Hombur, you can't possibly let Ayron fire on that ship. The Elves aren't at war with Anarica."

  "Would you rather have the Karaverens tie alongside, jump onboard, and chuck you in the brig, Master Goblin?"

  The protesting youth shut up. Anarican jail cells were not on his list of hot spots.

  "I'm only defending my vessel and cargo against legalized piracy,” added Hombur, grimly hobbling forward.

  Garrich paired up with Ayron by the port railing. His minder had already belted on his holster of arrows and was removing his bow from its protective oilcloth wrap. “You have to reconsider this,” he implored the Forester. ‘It's not right."

  Stringing his unsheathed weapon, Ayron plucked the bowstring to test its tautness. Satisfied, he leant two-handed on the elegantly curved upper limb. “I've no love for the Illebards, but I'll not stand by and see Anaricans take advantage of any Elves."

  Garrich gave up. He left the Janyler nocking an arrow and climbed the short ladder up to the forecastle deck. Hombur was directing two deckhands hauling canvas sheeting off a hidden contraption. “I wondered what was beneath that tarp,” he commented interestedly on the uncovered catapult.

  "A little insurance policy I recently picked up secondhand from my Dwarf contacts,” said Hombur, helping his crewmen undo the lashings holding the artillery piece fast to the deck. “Lend a hand, Master Goblin."

  Aiding the sailors in positioning the catapult to fire by swiveling it on an ingeniously contrived turntable that locked into place after inserting iron pins into steep plates bolted on the deck, Garrich further manhandled fifty pounds of bolas into the cradle once the arm was cranked down.

  By now the intercepting cutter was a thousand yards away and executing a shallow starboard tack.

  "Helm, hold your course,” Hombur ordered his steersman, moving to the prow for a better look at the incoming revenue vessel. “Master Forester, standby."

  Ayron drew back his bow and sighted along the length of his nocked flight through the rigging. The cutter, sailing at high speed close to the wind, was 500 yards off and bearing down fast. Pinpointing the tillerman, a tallish man marked by a red woolen hat, the archer aimed for the empty deck ahead of the preoccupied man's unshod feet.

  Garrich held his breath. From his vantage point, it seemed a collision between the opposing ships was unavoidable. “Hombur, are you sure this'll work?"

  "Every Elf sailor of note apprenticed in the Illebard Squadron. I reached the rank of master's mate before jacking it in to barter for my own ship. I know my stuff when it comes to warring at sea. Who do you think trained Hennario up?"

  "Er, there is a ship heading straight for us,” Garrich reminded the waffling captain.

  "Steady as you go,” Hombur shouted to his obedient helmsman.

  The gap shortened considerably when the cutter swung sharply inwards, forfeiting fifty yards to the risky maneuver.

  Garrich braced himself as the swifter Anarican vessel crossed his line of vision. A sleeker sixty feet in length, she was half the size of her quarry but packed a wallop. Garrich clearly saw the compliment of thirty coastguard marines crowded amidships around the cutter's mainmast, grappling irons and boarding axes at the ready. He noted too the amazement on the commanding officer's passing face as the wide-eyed man registered first the staring Goblin, then the primed catapult. Shouts of panic aboard the Anarican vessel followed.

  "Anytime now will be good, Master Forester!"

  Heeding Hombur's prompt, Ayron took a final check on his target area before loosing his arrow. At the same instant, Lady Luck broached the cutter's frothing wash and rolled sharply to port. The misfired flight arced across the intervening yardage of glistening sea, the shaft embedding in the neck of the unsuspecting tillerman, its impact hurling him overboard. Pandemonium erupted on the unguided Karaveren ship as many hands scrabbled to man the vacated tiller.

  Ayron, slack-jawed from mortification at witnessing his shot go astray to eliminate the steersman, shuddered when the catapult fired in echo. Strands of rope with stone weights attached to either end hurtled from the merchantman over to the cutter, fouling the Karaveren's rigging and shredding the yard sail to effectively render her less than seaworthy and unable to mount a pursuit.

  Jumping for joy, Hombur danced a jig at the success of his gambit ... remarkable deeds for a one-legged Sea Elf on a pitching deck. “That's one for the songsters to warble about back home, Master Goblin,” he laughed, gleefully clapping Garrich on the back. “Secure and sheet up the catapult, boys. That baby's worth its weight in cod.” He hopped down the ladder to congratulate Ayron. “Cheer up, Master Forester. We got through the blockade. See."

  Glancing astern, Ayron observed the pilotless cutter floundering in the breeze, trailing the ropes of her tattered rigging like spilling entrails. “At the cost of a man's life,” the archer guiltily said. “My arrow fatally went wide of the mark."

  The Illebard merchant captain whistled reproachfully. “You are in strife, Master Forester. No doubts there. The Karaverens won't rest until they find the culprit responsible and make an arrest. Cheer up. By then, you'll be safe and sound knee-deep in Dwarfs."

  Maldoch went quiet. Putting a warning finger to his lips, he motioned J'tard to silence. Wizard and Troll crouched at the northwestern base of the Eyrie, the sky at their backs blooded by the lowering sun. The advancing shadows crept up the crag, further blackening the fractured slate rock face. Maldoch tugged the Desertlander's muscled arm and followed the creeping dusk into one of the numerous vertical clefts splitting the foot of the hulking peak. Turning frontward in their narrow place of concealment, the pair gazed upon a glorious sunset that instilled apprehension rather than appreciation.

  Their unease manifested itself tangibly in a sinister whirring that quickened the rapidly dimming daylight. Maldoch pointed up, compelling J'tard to risk a glance outside. 800 feet overhead, outlined against the crimson and purple wash, winged silhouettes streamed from caves holing the topmost section of Carnach's isolated dolomite mountain. Darkened by the combination of failing light and distance, the flapping fliers proved impossible to identify.

  For the next hour, the travelers huddled tensely while hundreds of the mystery avians departed from the Eyrie on their nightly jaunt, fanning out northwards and to the east where the treed expanse of Darkling Forest provided ample hunting grounds. Other than the uncomforting cadence of their beating wings, they flew in absolute silence, uttering no cries. Even when the drone of their exodus subsided into the dark hush of deepening night, Maldoch did not deign to speak for a half hour afterwards and only then in a strained whisper.

  "They're gone for now. But they'll return ahead of the dawn. We'll stay holed up here until sunrise."

  "What sort of birds were those, Magnificent One?” rumbled the perplexed Troll.

  "Lower your voice. Who said they are birds."

  "If not, what then?” the rebuked Desertlander whispered back.

  "Harkies."

  None the wiser, J'tard was determined to break through the spellcaster's reticence. “From the way we're hiding like a meerkat down a burrow, I take it that the non-birds are unfriendly.'

  "They have an unfussy diet,” supplied the wizard. “Any brand of meat will do, including Troll.” Making himself as comfortable as possible on the stony floor of the defile, Maldoch stretched out, pillowing his head with his pack. “You take first watch. Wake me in four hours. Oh, and definitely no loud noises during the night. I'm reasonably sure the roosting caverns have emptied, but you never know whether or not a straggler got left behind in the Caves of Blood. Harkies can hear a pine needle drop in a forest from half a league away. Any careless sound will be the death of us."

  Wondering what sort of predicament Maldoch had landed him in now, J'tard commenced the vigil with his own breathing frighteningly noisy to his ears. The wizard's hand roughly shook him awake five hours later, scarcely a quarter of the way into his own sleep period after M
aldoch had taken over the watch.

  "You're snoring!” he rasped in admonishment at the drowsy Troll.

  Mumbling apologetically, J'tard rolled onto his front and slipped into quieter slumber. The wizard allowed him to sleep the remainder of the night uninterrupted and the Troll woke shivering to the first feelers of dawn's light graying the darkness. Wrapping his mantle of rainbow-hued wool tighter about his chilled frame, he began the reborn day griping how midsummer in the northlands was no warmer than wintertime in southern Terrath.

  "Shush,” the wizard softly reminded him.

  Stretching the tightness out of his cramped legs, J'tard shuffled to the opening of their interim hideaway to view the unfurling sunrise. Leaning out, he saw extending beneath a sky of graduating blueness gold and pink backlit clouds canopying a smudge line of black-green defining the target forestland. Ebony specters were glimpsed lifting up from the faraway treeline, the separate streamers fusing into an ominous mass converging on the Eyrie.

  Pulling the Troll back into the safer innards of the cleft, Maldoch rapidly whispered, “The Harkies are swift fliers. They'll be arriving before the hour is out. We'll give them another hour to settle before making our run for Darkling Forest. When the time comes move quickly but quietly, until out of earshot of this rock. Harkies are light daytime sleepers."

  "How far to the woodland?"

  "Four days of hard jogging over rocky terrain,” disclosed Maldoch. “Are you up to the challenge?"

  The Troll flashed his ivory tusks in a grin of acceptance, blustering, “A stroll in the sand. Think you can keep up with me?"

  "I was about to ask you that,” swaggered the wizard.

  "Would you be capable of it?"

  Garrich considered Ayron's poser. Lounging on the deck amidships, soaking up the warming rays of the early morning sunshine, he cogitated. Death preoccupied the archer's thoughts in the wake of the cutter incident twenty-four hours earlier, his remorse enlarging to encompass the Goblin youth with Elven morality. To take an innocent's life, even mistakenly, was an irredeemable act in Lothberen culture.

  Ayron was about to repeat his question when Garrich beat him to the punch. “Killing anybody is not an easy burden to carry around with you."

  "We weren't taking about me,” retorted the Janyler. “Stop avoiding the issue."

  "You're the one sidestepping guilt. You must learn to live with it, otherwise the blame will gnaw at your insides and you'll wind up having more sleepless nights than a baying, lovelorn wolf."

  Sitting across from Garrich, his lean frame propped against the solid trunk of the mainmast, the tuneless lute in his lap, the Elf marred his ageless looks with a sneer. “What makes a wet-behind-the-ears Losther such an expert on culpability?"

  "I told you back at Illebard that I had slain several men."

  "I thought you were exaggerating."

  Garrich filled Ayron in on the murderous retribution he exacted upon his foster father's slayers, down to the last gory detail. “If that doesn't qualify me as an expert, nothing ever will."

  "You and me both."

  "We're alike, but hardly the same,” disputed the Goblin. “There's a fundamental difference between our two episodes."

  "You dispatched three to my one."

  "Apart from that. Mine was intentional, yours accidental. Mistakes happen, Ayron. Regret the deed and move on."

  The Wood Elf shook his disbelieving head, muttering, ‘I'm taking advice from somebody one seventh my age."

  "And I'm beginning to sound like Maldoch. Neither of us is exactly living the dream."

  That statement led Ayron to repeat his earlier question. “You've killed men, Losther. Are you prepared to slay Westerners too?"

  "It has never crossed my mind,” Garrich honestly admitted.

  "You must've taken that into account when the wizard roped you in as the linchpin in this whole affair. Exactly what role did he indicate you'd play?"

  Garrich shrugged. “We never really discussed it. I've been tutored exclusively in the soldiering ways. Maybe I'm to be given command of one of the Royal High Army regiments in order to lead the Eastern Realms to victory in a final epic battle, like any halfway decent hero would."

  'That's unlikely,” scoffed Ayron. “The Anaricans no doubt have their generals already. Be realistic. Do you think human warriors will follow into combat a member of the race they're warring against?"

  Remembering the Alberion constabulary's reaction to his presence, Garrich painfully saw the Elf's point. Ayron was not done with the troubled Goblin yet.

  "There's also the obvious conundrum. You'll have no way of knowing if any brethren you personally slay are related. For all intents and purposes, you might unwittingly kill one of your kinfolk."

  Focused on the confrontation as a whole, rather than divided into a series of struggles, Garrich had overlooked the certainty of fighting his own people. Factoring in his ignorance of his parentage and clan, the oversight was excusable. That was worthless consolation if he happened to hack down a family member without even realizing it. Such a consideration changed his entire perspective on the impending race war. Not simply combating evil, Garrich battled his own past.

  Just then Captain Hombur clumped up. “Ahoy, shipmates, there's been a lucky wind shift. We'll make Naprise by noon tomorrow at the latest, a half day ahead of schedule."

  "Naprise!” exclaimed Garrich. “You said we're shipping for Berhanth."

  "Too true, Master Goblin, except Berhanth lies eighty leagues inland. Naprise is only a quarter that distance from the coast. We anchor in a cove offshore and ferry the cargo to the beach by barge. From there the goods are carted by wagons to the warehouse of my agent in Naprise and swapped for the return shipment. He then forwards the offloaded cargo on to Berhanth for distribution."

  "What's the agent's cut?” asked Ayron.

  "A third of the consignment."

  "That's awfully steep."

  "Dwarfs are small in stature, not greed."

  "I can't possibly go to Naprise,” interjected Garrich.

  "A Losther showing his face in an Anarican settlement will cause an uproar,” conceded the Wood Elf.

  "More than you can imagine,” grumbled the Goblin. “My face is already known in the principality. I'm a Westie wanted for murder."

  "Not those thugs you slew to avenge your adoptive father?"

  "Nothing that forgivable.” Garrich went sheepish. “I killed an Alberion peace officer. But it was accidental ... kind of."

  Hombur guffawed. “At least the pair of you has something in common now ... killing men by mistake."

  "Not even remotely funny,” moped Ayron.

  "Don't fret, Master Goblin. I'll put you ashore a safe ways from Naprise. You can easily cut through the bottom of Northwood to bypass the town and reach Berhanth. From there you can walk anywhere in Carallord. Only mind your step. My Dwarf contacts say that the lands upcountry from the Shibar Flow on the west bank are teeming with patrols. Some fool castrated their king and they're paranoid about a repeat attack."

  "I'll ensure we stay on the right side of the river,” promised Ayron. “I've no intention of getting my feet wet."

  With things sorted, the Sea Elf skipper began clomping his way back to the quarterdeck. He was halted by Garrich's curiosity.

  "Hombur, if it's not too personal I would like something clarified.” The questioning Goblin pointed to the captain's wooden pin. “I overheard the crew boasting how you lost that leg to a shark."

  "Don't believe everything you hear. The truth is more often than not a boring piece of fact. I invented the shark tale to jazz up my otherwise dull reputation. Nobody is impressed when you say that a healer sawed off your gangrenous leg as a result of a wood chopping mishap in your careless youth. It doesn't exactly have a ring of excitability to it.” Hombur heaved a sigh. “I'll have to think up a different cover story for the amputation of the other leg when it finally happens."

  Frowning, Ayron had to ask, “What's wr
ong with your good one?"

  "Highland brandy, Master Forester,” professed Hombur. “It's a wicked fertilizer for gout."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirty Five

  "There's something on the path up ahead."

  J'tard thought Maldoch generous labeling the twisty, brush-choked game trail struggling through the tangled undergrowth a path. Impediment was nearer the mark. Overhanging branches clutched at the travelers’ mantles like groping hands, while underfoot protruding roots vied to trip the frustrated walkers. It appeared Darkling Forest resented their intrusion and was doing everything in its power to hinder the journeying wizard and Troll. Blocked by a moss-coated log, impossible to climb over or under, straddling the route, the focused spellcaster snapped his bearded face around when the high-pitched alarm call of a sparrowlike treecreeper sounded nearby.

  Glancing uncomfortably over his shoulder, the perturbed Sulander added, “Seems we've got company behind us as well. Friend or foe, do you think?"

  "We're in the thick of Carnach, J'tard. Friendlies are a bit thin on the ground."

  Dangers unlimited abounded in the notorious wooded tract of Terrath's far northwest. Over centuries of wandering Maldoch learnt to avoid or counter the nastier creatures the continent offered up to imperil him, Darkling Forest abnormally hosting the greatest concentration. Most were ndigenous ... menacing, but predictably so. Except the unnatural spawn Maldoch feared was attempting to trap them.

  "Flee or fight, Magnificent One?"

  "My, aren't we just full of questions this morning. Got any suggestions to go with them?"

  "How about staying alive."

  Making a run for it was out of the question. Ranks of obstructing conifers walled the trail, their perennial emerald-sheathed boughs perpetuating the murk that named the disreputable timberland. Daylight, much like hope and goodwill, strived to make an impact in this near sunless, soulless wood. Crashing through the underbrush would only expose them greatly to attack, before or after they plunged disastrously into one of the many ponds, streams and bogs dotting the waterlogged region.