Rick Cook - The Wizardry Quested

"I will see what I can do," he told Charlie.

Dragon Leader ignored the constant boom of the sea as it crashed on the nearly vertical rock. He was not much given to conversation and there was no need as long as he kept an eye on his wingman. His wingman had climbed to the top of the pinnacle to watch for intruders. Dragon Leader surveyed the jagged fissures, overhangs and holes in the rock.

Their dragons were resting in the great crack that nearly cleaved the place in two. They were invisible, save from the proper angle at close range. They had not sought a confrontation with the Enemy’s dragons this time. Instead they had sneaked south by a roundabout route to this place and several others similarly situated.

The Executioner was as bleak and unattractive as its name. A snag of red-black volcanic rock thrusting above the restless gray sea like a monstrous fang. All around it lay Murder Shoals, the names a tribute to the terror these places inspired in those who sailed the Freshened Sea.

Even here, as far "inland" as it was possible to get on this place, spray stung his eyes. The chill, wet air sucked the heat from his body. It was not a comfortable place, but he had known that before he came. Comfort was not one of the parameters he was interested in.

Dragon Leader nodded to himself. The place would do.

Mick was having a drink in the pilot’s bar. It was the one place in the Wizards’ Keep where he felt really comfortable-as long as Karin and the members of her squadron weren’t around.

Drinking by myself again, he thought. I gotta cut this out. It wasn’t as bad as Vegas. He wasn’t drinking as much and it was brown ale rather than whiskey-which apparently didn’t exist here-but he’d still rather be doing other things. Part of it was that he felt like a rat and he didn’t know how to apologize, or even if the apology would be accepted if he could find a way to make it. He’d have to get Karin alone and try sometime soon, but she was avoiding him and staying down in the pilots’ quarters.

He took another swig of ale as someone came over to join him. Looking up he saw it was one of the squadron leaders from the air wing.

"Join you?"

Gilligan waved him to a seat.

"The wing was out practicing today," said the man, whose name, Gilligan remembered, was Martinus or something like that.

Gilligan nodded "I was watching from the war room."

"What did you think?"

"Still needs a little work."

They say you’ve done operations like this before," Martinus said.

"Something like."

This complicated?"

"Pretty much."

"How do you keep it straight?"

Gilligan considered. Although the dragon riders were skilled fliers and sometimes fought in wing or multi-wing strength they apparently seldom coordinated more than a squadron attack at once. More, the idea of closely coordinating forces which were out of sight of each other was completely alien to them.

"Practice is part of it, of course," Gilligan said, "but scheduling is more of it. One of the things we’ve found is that scheduling is a force multiplier. It lets us put maximum effort on the target at the right times."

The other looked interested and said nothing.

"So the first thing we do is draft an ATO, that’s an air tasking order, that coordinates the entire operation. That comes down from the very top with basic assignments, timetable and such. Then each lower echelon fleshes it out so it all works together."

"Could you draft this-ATO-for this operation?" Martinus asked.

Traditional role for grounded pilots, he thought to himself, pushing paper.

"Sure, but it’d take time. Normally we’ve got software to help us." Off in the corner a tall blond woman in a wizard’s robe was listening intently. Mick vaguely recognized her as someone he’d seen hanging around with Bal-Simba.

"Basically it’s a matter of deciding what you want to do when and working backwards."

"It sounds complicated."

"Used to take a whole room full of staff officers to do it. Now we have specialized software, but before that we used to do it on spreadsheets." The other nodded. "It would take something the size of a sheet to write all of this down."

"No, it’s a piece of software, a program. But you don’t have those here do you?" He thought for a minute. "You know, I’ll bet Jerry and his friends could turn one out in no time."

"The Mighty are all busy at their own tasks," the other grunted.

"Forgive me, My Lords." Mick turned and saw the blond woman had joined them. "I could not help overhearing and I think perhaps we can convince the wizards to give you what you want." She turned toward Mick. "You are the Great Gilligan, are you not?"

It took Mick a second to recognize how his rank had transmuted. "That’s major. Actually I’m retired. Call me Mick."

The woman waved it off as if it were of no moment. "Very well, Mick I am Arianne, Bal-Simba’s assistant. I wonder if perhaps you could help me."

Arianne growled in frustration and tossed her pen aside.

Trouble?" Bal-Simba asked mildly, looking up from his own work.

This plan of Gilligan’s makes my head hurt."

"And mine as well," the big wizard agreed. "

"Tis said that simple plans work best. But here we must have complexity if we are to attain our goal." He gestured at the glowing letters. "So:"

This is far more complex than anything we have ever attempted and it must all work perfectly."

Bal-Simba nodded. "Complex indeed. But then we face a situation of unprecedented complexity. Indeed, I cannot see how matters could become more complicated." He was about to go on, but Brian came dashing into the room. Then he remembered his lessons, pulled himself up short, squared his shoulders and pulled his tunic straight.

"Excuse me, My Lord, but the seneschal says there are a hundred dwarves here to see you."

Arianne cocked an eyebrow at the big wizard, who shook his head and rose from his seat. "Foretelling the future was never my strong point," he said, and sighed.

Either Brian had understated the case or Wulfram miscounted. There were actually 128 dwarves waiting in the great hall of the Wizards’ Keep. All adult males, since women and children never left the dwarven holds. All of them armored in knee-length bymies of chain or heavy leather, all of them wearing steel caps and all of them with their traditional dwarfish battle axes strapped to their backs. Since their round shields of iron-rimmed oak were slung over the axes and since the axes were tied fast to their baldrics by peace bonds, it was obvious this was not a war party. Just what it was, Bal-Simba and the other wizards weren’t sure. Dwarves seldom left their delvings and never in human memory had so many been seen at the Wizards’ Keep.

As Bal-Simba entered the hall behind Wulfram the dwarves arrayed themselves in parallel lines with an older dwarf at their head. From his position and stance, Bal-Simba took him to be their leader, a notion confirmed by the circlet of red gold fitted around his steel cap.

"I am Tosig Longbeard, King of the dwarves," the head dwarf proclaimed as soon as the wizard gestured for him to speak "Here to reclaim my rightful property." Bal-Simba looked blank. "Property, Your Majesty?"

"The sword Blind Fury, the greatest treasure of my tribe."

"Ah," the giant wizard said softly. This was beginning to make sense.