The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  —and received instead a soft but weighty blow on the chest. She gasped, opened her eyes, and saw the beast was lying full length atop her. It was moving but feebly. She felt its last hot breath against his face.

  Several pairs of legs came swishing through the grass. Strong with terror, Mathi heaved the body off. When she sat up, she saw three long arrows lodged in its ribs.

  Balif, Lofotan, and Artyrith were walking up slowly. Treskan held their horses’ reins some yards away. The three elves approached in a wide arc with bows drawn. Dazed, Mathi didn’t even remember seeing bows among the baggage.

  “Are you hurt, girl?” asked Lofotan. Mathi managed to shake her head no. She felt a burning sensation on her right cheek. Absently wiping the spot, she noticed blood on her fingers. She didn’t know if it was hers or the creature’s.

  Artyrith reached the body first. Bow drawn, he nudged it hard with his toe. It didn’t move, but he planted another arrow in its neck, muttering an obscenity under his breath.

  Balif arrived. He put his nocked arrow back in his quiver and lowered the bow. He knelt on one knee beside the corpse. “Roll it over,” he told Artyrith.

  The cook levered the body over with his bow stave. When he beheld its face, the worldly Silvanesti backpedalled. Mathi’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped.

  “What is it?” said Artyrith.

  “One of Vedvedsica’s children,” said Balif. Hearing the mage’s name brought everyone’s eyes to the general. He looked down at what had so startled Artyrith.

  It was like no creature he had ever seen. The beast-elf who broke into Balif’s villa his first night there had been elflike but covered in brutish hair. The creature before them was different. In general form it resembled a tawny panther, though leaner and with considerably longer limbs. Covered in light brown fur, it was tailless. It was also clearly female. White fangs protruded from its bifurcated upper lip. Strange as it was, it could have passed for an unhealthy breed of plains cat except for its face. It had a woman elf’s face, lightly furred, with ears on the sides of its head, a small nose, and elflike eyes. Open and staring, they were round like any elf’s, with brown irises.

  Balif drew his sword and used it to lift the dead creature’s paws. It had fingers, five per limb, tipped with hard, yellow claws.

  “What is it?” Treskan said, echoing Artyrith. His curiosity had overcome his fear, and he had crept forward to see what had been slain.

  “An animal, magically altered to resemble an elf,” Balif said. He rose, still gazing at the creature. “One of Vedvedsica’s less successful efforts, I would say.”

  That was the mage’s crime—whispered about, here and there, and scrupulously suppressed by every Silvanesti official and sage since. Vedvedsica had used his considerable magical skills trying to create elves out of common animals. But why create such abominations?

  “Do you know this one?” Lofotan asked solemnly.

  “She was called Urnya. She was a highland lynx at birth.”

  Tears streamed down Mathi’s face, though not for the reason the elves understood.

  “Why was it stalking us?” asked Treskan, agog.

  “Not us … me.” Balif closed the staring eyes. “Some of Vedvedsica’s creations escaped the Speaker’s net. They have all the cunning of their motherkind, after all, and each has vowed vengeance on me.”

  “Why you, sir? Why not a curse upon the Speaker, who ordered their destruction?”

  “Great Silvanos dwells within a fortress, guarded night and day. I have only my wits and a few good comrades with me, and I did turn Vedvedsica over to the Speaker’s justice.”

  The truth dawned on Treskan. That’s why Balif lived in such isolation. He had dispensed with servants and isolated himself from his kin to spare their becoming targets of the vengeful beast-folk.

  “They hunted me in Silvanost,” Balif went on. “I thought we could outdistance them and reach Free Winds first.” He sheathed his sword. “Urnya always was fleet.”

  Balif offered Mathi a hand. Shaking, the girl took it.

  “Are you all right?” he asked gently. “Did the beast hurt you?”

  She shrugged off his hand. “It’s nothing.”

  He went to the packhorses, still tied together and trembling even though the threat was dead. They shivered and flecks of foam covered them as though they’d run ten miles. Balif hunted around and returned with two short-handled spades.

  “Time to bury her,” he said. “Poor, unnatural thing, she at least deserves not to feed the crows.”

  Lofotan took one spade. Mathi stepped forward and tried to take Balif’s tool. It wasn’t right that a great lord should bend his back digging a grave, she said.

  Balif would not relinquish the spade. “I’ve buried many a comrade,” he said. “No one is too good to render this service to the dead.”

  Artyrith, Treskan, and Mathi stood back as the two warriors dug a short, deep hole. They put the creature in and replaced the dirt and sod so carefully that it was very hard to tell where the grave was. Treskan remarked that no one would ever find the body.

  “Oh, they already know she’s dead.” Balif’s handsome visage was streaked with sweat and grime. Artyrith offered him his flask of nectar. The cook wondered how anyone could know Urnya had been killed.

  “They are beasts inside, even when they resembled us on the outside,” Balif said after downing a long swallow of nectar. “They can smell her blood on the wind. Ours too. When she doesn’t return with my blood on her claws, they will know why.”

  Since leaving the woodland, Balif had known they were being followed. He purposely had rode far ahead to lure any pursuer into attacking the straggling pack animals. Circling back with Lofotan and Artyrith, they arrived in time to stop Urnya’s attack.

  Sunset was fast at hand. “Come,” said Balif. “We’ll stay together this time. Treskan, you lead the way.”

  Bows still strung, the three Silvanesti rode in a line abreast behind the pack train. Treskan preceded them on foot for a mile or two until they spied Mathi’s wayward pony grazing at the base of a hill. Remounted, they were able to set a better pace.

  Dusk was unusually quiet. Crickets and peepers were still, and the whippoorwill did not sing its melancholy song. It was nerves of course, but Mathi felt a hundred eyes upon her as she guided her pony across a shallow stream. Running water would obscure their scent from the sharpest nose.

  She heard a sharp call from behind. Twisting around, she saw Artyrith sit up high in the saddle, take aim, and loose an arrow into the gathering darkness. Balif asked what he saw.

  “A pair of eyes, watching up from that thicket!”

  A stand of high grass filled the base of a substantial hill north of them. Mathi looked but saw only lengthening shadows.

  “Never mind,” Balif ordered. “Keep going. Free Winds isn’t far.”

  “But what about the eyes?” demanded the cook.

  Lofotan said, “You put an arrow between them, didn’t you?” Unwilling to deny his accuracy, Artyrith said he did. “Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

  When the hills flattened out, they found themselves on a plain, higher and drier than the grasslands they’d crossed. Half an hour’s ride more, and they beheld a lone, steep-sided hill, rising up from the flat terrain. Twenty or so feet high, it was the only promontory around. Centered atop the hill was a curved stone wall, the outer defenses of Free Winds.

  Artyrith gave a cheer. Balif rebuked him in a mild but definite way. The party rode faster. It was truly night. Every chirp, every chuckle by a night-dwelling animal made them flinch. None of them had any desire to meet another one of Vedvedsica’s children that night … or ever. The sooner they were safe behind stone walls, the better.

  There was a wide, well-used track up the hillside. Mathi had to lean far forward to keep her seat as they climbed. The packhorses stumbled but kept going. At the top of the hill there was a narrow strip of level ground six feet wide, before the wall. To
Mathi’s surprise, the trail ended against a blind expanse of stone.

  Balif and the others arrived. Their horses were panting with fatigue. Finding the girl motionless before a solid wall, Balif asked what she was waiting for.

  “There’s no gate!” she said, perplexed.

  Artyrith said, “I shall ride around.”

  Picking his way carefully in the dark, the cook disappeared off to the right. After a time, he reappeared on the waiting party’s left. It was his turn to look puzzled. “There isn’t a gate,” he declared.

  Balif was amused. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called out in a clear, strong voice, “Hello! Soldiers of the garrison, hello!”

  A torch poked up, held by an unseen hand. “Who goes there?”

  “A surveying party out of Silvanost! We need shelter for the night!”

  More torches joined the first. “How many in your party?”

  “Five, with ten horses!”

  “Stand fast,” called down the voice. “We’ll lower the crane!”

  Squeaking and creaking, a contraption of wood and rope rose above the battlement. As they watched, it swung out over the wall. It looked like a platform of planks with a waist-high railing. It was lowered by a single stout rope from a derrick leaning over the wall.

  The platform landed with a thump. All four stepped up, colliding at the single entry through the rail.

  “You go,” Lofotan said, deferring to Balif. The general got on. Artyrith and Lofotan collided, trying to enter next.

  “We’d better not go together,” Balif said to his old comrade. “Lest we are both lost at the same time.”

  “How could you get lost?” wondered Artyrith. Lofotan dryly observed that the rope could break halfway up the wall.

  The cook got on, and their respective horses were led on next. When Balif shouted they were ready, the platform jerked skyward. It swung back. Balif and Artyrith vanished behind the wall.

  Standing in the dark with Lofotan and the scribe, Mathi had a distinct sense of foreboding. She mentioned her unease. Lofotan affected calm.

  “Trust the general. He’s no fool. I’ve never known him to unwittingly thrust his head into danger.”

  Even so, the crane did not return for a long time. Weary, Mathi knelt in the dust. The horses snorted and nudged her, impatient for water and rest. Then without warning, the platform swung noisily over the battlement and descended for them.

  Lofotan put Mathi and the packhorses on. Groaning and creaking, the apparatus hoisted them aloft. She gripped the rail tightly. Fortunately it was dark, and she couldn’t see the ground reeling beneath her. The horses huddled together as quiet as could be. When the platform reached its zenith, the boom pivoted, swinging the scribe and horses in a breathtaking arc. Below, torches burned, lighting a courtyard inside the fortress. Down came the platform. As she neared the ground, Mathi saw that the platform was operated by a gang of human prisoners in tattered rags and dirty breechcloths. They were chained by ankle and wrist with heavy, bronze fetters. Five elves armed with spears stood by them, while an elf in artisan’s robes gave orders to operate the machine. But where were Balif and Artyrith?

  A well-dressed elf standing between two warriors greeted Mathi. “I am Dolanath Arkesian, governor of Free Winds.” Mathi gave her name and described herself as the daughter of the surveyor Camaxilas.

  “Your father is within, enjoying our hospitality,” Dolanath said smoothly. He indicated an open, lit doorway in the central keep. “Go and refresh yourself.”

  Warily Mathi complied. She glanced back and saw their packhorses being led off to a stable built against the outside wall. The crane squeaked into life a third time to fetch Lofotan, Treskan, and the last of the horses.

  Unescorted, Mathi wandered inside. It was pleasantly cool inside the thick, stone walls. She smelled something savory and, going straight down the hall, came upon a dining room with a set table. Several chairs were askew, but the plates had been cleared away. There was no sign of Balif or the lordly cook.

  She picked up a plate. It was made of that parchment-thin stuff the city elves called “porcelain,” shiny as glass and hard as metal. No one made porcelain like the Silvanesti. Silver urns simmered on a sideboard with fat candles beneath them. Mathi lifted the lids one by one. Fine fare: airy dumplings, clear soup, edible leaves flash-fried so quickly they didn’t lose any color but were as light and crisp as the finest wafers. Crystal ewers of nectar and fruit essence stood on a separate table, chilled in wet basalt buckets. All very hospitable, but something was not right by a mile. Balif would not absent himself before all in his party were inside.

  Carrying a plate and a fine silver goblet, Mathi drifted to the table and sat down. No sooner had she done so than two elves appeared on either side. A wooden rod was jammed between her teeth. It tingled strangely and Mathi found that she couldn’t spit it out. Nor could she lift her arms from the chair or stand up. She was pinned down by some unseen force.

  The elves picked her up, chair and all, and hustled her through a curtained opening. In moments she was dumped rather roughly in a small, plain room. The elves went out. The ominous sound of a bolt being thrown made it chillingly clear Mathi was a prisoner.

  CHAPTER 7

  Images

  The tingling sensation in Mathi’s gag slowly dissipated. When the tingling vanished, she spit out the rod and leaped to her feet. Trying the door proved futile. She was solidly bolted in. But why? No one in Free Winds even knew who they were—or did they? Was it some plot of the Speaker’s to get rid of Balif? Or was the abduction aimed solely at her? That, she decided, could not be. She was unknown to everyone—not above suspicion but well below it.

  Unused to politics or court intrigue, she tried to untangle the situation. Silvanos was jealous of Balif, going back to the fact that Balif was once favored by many elves to be Speaker. Balif was Amaranthe’s lover, which would infuriate the highly moralistic Silvanos if he knew. Then there was the Vedvedsica affair. Though Balif had cooperated with the prosecution of his former counselor, Speaker Silvanos might want to hush up the blasphemous doings of the rogue magician by silencing all those who knew him, Balif included. Balanced against all those negatives was Balif’s undeniable service to the crown, defeating the Speaker’s foreign enemies. So which weighed more in Silvanos’s estimation? Mathi could not decide.

  Hours passed. Whenever Mathi detected footsteps in the corridor, she pressed an ear to the door and listened. She heard nothing but strangers passing in silence. As it grew late, her weariness from their long ride began to tell. There was no bed in the room—in the cell—so Mathi found a spot opposite the door, lay down, and with some effort, dropped off to sleep. A luminar embedded in the high ceiling dimmed and went out.

  It was black as pitch when Mathi heard a noise. It sounded like the scrape of wood on stone. Her eyes slowly opened, but there was nothing to see except darkness. Straining, she heard very faint movement within the room.

  Fearing assassins, Mathi sat up and called out, “Who is it? Who goes there?” No one replied, so she repeated the demand more forcefully.

  “Be quiet,” said a small voice. “You’ll wake the whole castle.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Just a visitor passing through. What did they lock you up for?”

  “I’ve done nothing,” Mathi said urgently. “I only arrived this evening. My reception was cordial at first, but then they threw me in this dungeon!”

  “Not very friendly of them.”

  The voice sounded like a child’s, but the choice of words and the irony of the tone suggested an older person.

  Feeling less threatened, Mathi sat up and said, “Do you have a light?”

  “There’s one of those elf shards up here. How do they work?”

  Mathi explained you had to know the proper word to excite them.

  Her unseen visitor chortled merrily. “Excite, huh? What if I tickle it? Will it work then?”

  Mathi spoke the word she knew t
o activate luminars. Some owners had secret words to start their lights, but when she spoke the common word, the foot-long crystal began to glow, dark red at first. As it grew stronger, the color became pinkish.

  The girl looked around for her unseen companion. She saw no one. The cell door was still shut and locked. Who had she been talking to?

  “Up here.”

  She looked up, spotting her visitor at once. Clinging to the wood-beamed ceiling was a small person about two-thirds Mathi’s height. He was dressed in dark blue woolens and had long, auburn hair tied back in a single thick hank. The little fellow’s feet were bare.

  “You’re the least nervous elf I ever met,” he declared.

  “I should have looked up first,” Mathi said.

  “Why?”

  “I know that trick,” she said, remembering her escape from Balif. “Few people look skyward when there’s trouble.” “I’m not trouble. I’m Rufe.”

  She looked puzzled. He let go with his feet and swung down. Letting go with his hands, he alighted easily right in front of the young elf woman.

  “Name’s Rufe. You can call me Rufe.”

  Face-to-face, Mathi tried to place her odd visitor. He was apparently male with a beaky nose; large, pointed ears; and very big eyes. He was definitely the oddest specimen of elf she had ever seen.

  “My name is Mathani,” she said. “How did you get in here?”

  “I squeezed under the door.”

  The massive door was so close to the floor that it scraped when it opened. Nothing as big as Rufe could possibly pass underneath.

  Rufe looked around. “Pretty plain. The others have nicer rooms.”

  “What others?” Mathi said, seizing on his clue.

  “Some folks down the hall. Locked up they are. I suppose they must like it.” Apparently having satisfied his curiosity, Rufe gave a little wave and said, “Bye! I’m off.”

  “Wait!” Mathi grabbed him by the sleeve. Rufe looked at her hand, shrugged, and twisted out of Mathi’s grip so effortlessly that she ended up clutching her own arm instead. Treading lightly, the little fellow was at the door before Mathi could say or do anything about it.