The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  Hastily Treskan dismounted, tied the pack animals to a tree, and got back on his pony. Thumping his heels, he steered his horse after Balif’s fleeing mount. The general’s horse was almost out of sight. Mathi tried to get her blinkered pony to gallop, but the wise beast declined, shuffling off at an indifferent trot.

  The wind picked up, driving in the storm from the north. The crimson sunset disappeared under a veil of clouds. The wind blowing down their backs was hot. Silent flashes of lightning threw the ground ahead into bright relief for an instant; then everything faded into the stormy dusk.

  She rode a mile or more, blundering along the sandy bottom of the draw. Saplings and tree branches tore at her. Mathi had to throw an arm over her face to protect her eyes. Lightning flared again, followed by a growing hammer of thunder. By the flash she saw Treskan had caught Balif’s big horse up ahead. Mathi urged her mount on.

  Her pony stumbled in a drift of sand, falling nose first. No equestrian, she was hurled headlong over the animal’s head and hit the ground. Something snapped loudly. Rolling head over heels down a short, steep bank, Mathi came to rest flat on her back. Her pony walked past, nickering loudly. It sounded as though the beast were laughing at her.

  A dark figure on horseback loomed over her. “Are you all right?”

  “I think my back’s broken,” Mathi answered. “I heard it snap.”

  “Blink your eyes.”

  Lightning snapped overhead. Mathi saw her interrogator was Lofotan. She bolted to her feet, exclaiming in surprise.

  “No one with a broken back leaps around like that,” the old soldier said.

  “The general’s horse! Did you see it?” asked Mathi.

  Lofotan pointed. Off to his right, Treskan sat on his pony, holding the reins of Balif’s mount. It was shivering and foam flecked.

  “Let’s find yours,” Lofotan said.

  Together with Treskan they went up the draw and found Mathi’s pony cropping fronds. Returning to where the pony tripped, they spotted a fallen pine branch.

  “There’s your back,” said Lofotan. Mathi had heard the limb snap and thought it was her back.

  Mathi reclaimed her reluctant ride. It circled away from her, rearing more than a pony its size ever did.

  “What’s the matter with the nag?” Artyrith shouted, coming over on foot. He seized the pony’s halter and held on. Eventually the disturbed creature calmed enough for Mathi to mount.

  “Where’s General Balif?” she said.

  Lofotan didn’t know. He was coming up the south bank of the Thon-Tanjan, looking for his comrades, when Artyrith appeared, riding like a madman after the general’s horse. Between the two of them, they cornered the terrified runaway, but still there was no sign of Balif.

  They backtracked to the pack train. Everything was present except their leader. By the intermittent glare of lightning, they examined Balif’s horse.

  The smooth leather saddle was scratched in long, parallel lines on either side of the seat. There were smears of blood on the saddle and on the horse. The quivering creature had a bad wound on the right side of its neck, four deep gashes side by side. It didn’t take eagle eyes to see they matched the scratches in the saddle.

  “A predator must have attacked our lord, knocking him off his seat. It then mauled the horse before the horse got rid of it,” Lofotan said. “We’ll have to trace the trail back and find our lord.”

  Artyrith strung his bow and hooked a full quiver on his belt. Lofotan armed himself with a spear of unusual style. It was shorter than a standard horse spear, with a thick shaft and a bronze crossbar set back about a hand’s span from the keen bronze head. When Mathi asked, Lofotan said it was a bear spear.

  “Are there bears in this country?” Artyrith asked, but Lofotan let the cook’s question go unanswered.

  Mathi remembered the phantom she had seen at Free Winds. The creature Lofotan expected to find was no bear. Another one of Vedvedsica’s children had trailed them from the outpost and struck when Balif was alone and vulnerable. Inwardly she shook with anger. Or was it relief? If the traitor Balif was dead, her task was finished, even if it did mean her effort had come to naught.

  Rain began to fall in big drops. Lofotan ordered them all to stay behind with the baggage. Treskan and Artyrith erected the tent and picketed the pack team to some surrounding trees. Artyrith laid a fire in the entrance of the tent, angling the canvas flaps to protect the flames from rain and wind.

  “Keep it burning and stay awake,” Lofotan warned. “Whatever attacked our lord may still be out there. Do you have a weapon?” Mathi and the scribe had their swords; that was all. “You’d be mauled to pieces by the time you got a chance to stick it with that.” He gave the scribe a standard spear.

  “That will keep the beast a little further away,” he said.

  The old warrior and the cook rode off just as the rain started lashing down in earnest. Mathi and Treskan huddled by the fire, the spear laid across his knees. The scribe got out his writing board and recorded the day’s events.

  Mathi asked him what he wrote. He read his last lines aloud:

  We have arrived at the Thon-Tanjan at last, but our leader is missing. From the evidence, it appears one of the beast-creatures has attacked Camaxilas, either killing him or carrying him off. It hardly seems possible, slain by an animal transformed to resemble an elf. It does not seem just that he should pass out of Silvanesti, only to perish in the wilderness like this …

  Mathi looked up. Rain was coming down in torrents. The horses huddled together, starting noisily when lightning flashed or thunder boomed.

  Still, Treskan read, if Camaxilas has survived the attack, where is he?

  A fat drop of water landed squarely in the center of Treskan’s words. The ink ran, ruining the empty space below the scribe’s previous lines. He tried to blot it dry, putting his spear aside to better reach the page. At that exact moment, the creature that had stalked them all the way from Free Winds landed on all fours between them.

  Treskan was speechless with terror. The sodden creature was a mass of matted, dripping fur. By firelight Mathi could see its dark eyes veined with red and a hint of fang protruding from its black lips. It squatted on its haunches, leaning forward on its front claws. Breath steamed from its pug nose.

  Treskan’s hands closed around the spear shaft. His movement was too obvious. The creature bared a black lip, snarling.

  “Don’t,” whispered Mathi. Another breath in the wrong direction, and the thing would tear the scribe to bits.

  “What can we do?” said Treskan in the faintest voice.

  “Listen to me,” she said to the monstrous visitor. “Begone now. Run away before the elves return and slay you. You have no reason to be here. What you want, who you want, is well watched.”

  Treskan stared.

  Mathi ignored him and went on. “He’s not an elf anyway.” To the scribe she said, “Hold out your hand.”

  “What?”

  “Hold out your hand to him. Let him smell you!”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Do it or die!”

  Trembling, Treskan put out his left hand. He never got it closer than half an arm’s length, but the black nostrils flexed deeply. Slowly the creature uncoiled itself, withdrawing from Treskan’s imminent death.

  “Go now. Seek out the others. They will tell you what is happening. Do you understand? Your being here violates our covenant with the Creator. Go!”

  An arrow whizzed out of the darkness and struck the ground, quivering, by Mathi’s right knee. The creature sprang away, snarling. Mathi snapped to one side, and Treskan rolled the other way. She saw the creature running away into the stormy night. A spear flew in a heavy arc and hit the ground behind the fleeing beast, not even tangling its feet. In a moment it was gone, though a silent blink of lightning highlighted it as it loped off into the storm.

  Artyrith and Lofotan appeared.

  “Which way did it go?” shouted the cook.

&
nbsp; Shaken, Mathi pointed in the true direction. “There! Next time don’t miss, my lord!”

  “I didn’t miss. I was only trying to drive him off. If I hit him, he might have torn you limb from limb.” Lofotan rode off after the creature.

  “Any sign of the general?” said Treskan.

  “None.” Artyrith was grim. He took a long swig of nectar. “We couldn’t find a trace! We did locate the spot the creature jumped on his horse, but there was no sign our lord fell off or was carried away!”

  Crash! Thunder put emphasis to the cook’s words.

  “What shall we do?”

  “It’s pointless to hunt in a storm,” Artyrith said. “We can’t see, and we can’t smell anything but rain!”

  “What’s Lofotan doing, then?”

  The cook was almost respectful. “He won’t give up. He’ll ride through the storm until he finds Balif or kills the beast—maybe both.” He sighed wearily. “I had better join him. He’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t!”

  Alone again, Mathi and Treskan sat together by the struggling fire. Much had been revealed between them in the brief, tense moments when they faced the beast.

  “You are not an elf,” he said after a long silence.

  “Neither are you. Why are you here?”

  “I cannot say. You must trust that my presence is totally benign. I mean no harm to you, the general, or anyone. I am a scholar on a mission of learning,” said Treskan. When Mathi did not reply in kind, he said, “And you? You are one of those beast creatures.” Still she said nothing. “More presentable, more civilized, I see, but still one of them.”

  “Civilized? Civilized?” She laughed bitterly. In her dark mirth, Mathi leaned forward quite far. The odd necklace Rufe had left on her swung free of her rain-soaked gown.

  “My talisman!”

  Treskan’s hand darted out to snatch the little artifact. Faster by far, Mathi caught his wrist first.

  “Yours? How do I know that?”

  “I brought it with me from my homeland. I must have it back!”

  Mathi closed her free hand around it. “The little man, Rufe, took it from you and gave it to me. I don’t know why.” She pulled the string over her head and gave the talisman to Treskan. He looked vastly relieved to have it back.

  “Is it magic?”

  “You could say that. It’s worth more than my life.”

  She caught his hand holding the talisman in both of hers. “Then swear to me on your precious artifact you will not reveal me to the others. I will swear the same for you.”

  Treskan hesitated only briefly. He clasped his free hand around hers.

  The storm blew itself out after midnight. Stars winked in one by one until their usual millions were displayed. The scribe and the orphan girl passed the night awake, saying little, wondering who would return to them—Lofotan, Artyrith, Balif, or the indestructible beast that was haunting their steps.

  CHAPTER 11

  Survivors

  The first ones to arrive at the soaked and misshapen tent were the kender. They came up from the ford in no certain order, no definite formation. There were more than two dozen of them, bare headed and empty-handed. Aside from the fact they were more than a hundred miles from any sizable town, the little people looked as if they were out for a morning stroll, not a strenuous migration.

  They found Treskan and Mathi huddled together by the smoldering remnants of their campfire. The first ones walked by, eyeing the pair curiously. Some waved a greeting and kept walking. Twenty passed before the first stopped to speak.

  “Lousy night, eh?” It was Rufe.

  Mathi blinked red-rimmed eyes at the apparition. “How can you be here?” she mumbled.

  “I go where my feet and my fate take me,” he replied cheerfully. Hunkering down in the muddy grass, he poked at the dead fire. “Truth is, the Longwalker asked me to look after you. He said you were in trouble.”

  Treskan stood up. From his waist down, he was soaked with mud and cold rain.

  “Filthy night,” he said sourly. “Unless you have a tub full of hot water in your vest, you aren’t going to help me much.”

  Rufe lifted each side of his vest in turn. No bathtubs in his pockets, his winking eyes seemed to say. “Where are the others? The mean one, the snobby one, and your boss?”

  Mathi had no idea. She described the night’s events, carefully omitting her newly forged pact with Treskan. Rufe listened, nodding his head from side to side every so often.

  When Mathi was done, he said, “Can I see the horse? The scratched one, I mean?”

  “Why not?” Treskan threw off his sodden cloak and outer robe. He stripped to his last garment, a short-sleeved tunic held on by a fabric sash tied around his middle. Mathi would have liked to have gotten rid of her wet clothes too, but modesty forbade. Squishing, she followed as Treskan led the kender to the picket line.

  Balif’s horse was there. Rain had washed the blood from its neck but the scratches were still evident, red and raw through the animal’s sleek coat. Rufe patted the horse on the ribs and walked under its neck, glancing sideways at the wound. He grabbed the saddle ring and hoisted himself up, picking at the torn leather with his free hand.

  “It’s scratched,” he said.

  “Amazing. How did you figure that out?” said Mathi crossly.

  “Scratched by nails.” Rufe dropped to the ground. He held up one hand, fingers curled. “Like this, only bigger.”

  Mathi got a glimmer of what the kender was getting at. She went to the horse. It shied from her until Rufe calmed it with soothing words. Making her hand a claw like Rufe’s, Mathi held it over the parallel tears: four lines, four fingers. The scratches on the left side of the saddle matched the spread of Mathi’s left hand. That meant—

  She asked Treskan to climb into the saddle. The horse stirred under the scribe, not liking his weight and carriage. Mathi told him to lean forward. When he complied, his left hand lay over the scratches on that side; his right hand lined up on the other side too. The tears were made by someone sitting atop the horse. Leaning farther forward, the wounds on the animal’s neck aligned perfectly with Treskan’s hands again.

  “Gods’ preserve us,” he muttered. He knew who the beast was that Mathi saw in Free Winds. The same creature had visited them during the night. A lot of little pieces of a very large puzzle suddenly took on form and shape. Suddenly Treskan feared for Lofotan and said so. If he met the beast, he might not be prepared for what he found.

  Bored, Rufe went down to the river. He plunged in, swimming vigorously against the swift current. The Thon-Tanjan was shallow and rocky above Savage Ford, deeper and slower below. He ignored Mathi’s calls and swam farther out, rolling onto his back and turning his face to the warm morning sun.

  Mathi ran to the riverbank. Treskan dismounted and followed with labored tread, lost in thought. He almost walked into the water, he was so distracted. Fortunately he bumped into a kender by the river’s edge and stopped.

  There were little folk everywhere. Mathi wound her way through them to the stony beach, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called urgently to one bathing kender in particular. At length Rufe returned, wringing the water from his breeches.

  “What is it, pointy-ears? You want a turn in the river? You’re pretty dirty—”

  “Quiet, you fool! I’ve had a revelation!”

  Rufe shrugged off the girl’s insult as excitement. Mathi got his attention when she told him who had attacked them. The bedraggled kender whistled in disbelief. He denied it. The open air had affected Mathi’s mind. The sooner she was back in a nice, comfortable house, the sooner her head would clear.

  Mathi cursed his stupidity. “You showed me the answer! Balif’s saddle was clawed like this!” She bent her fingers, raking an imaginary saddle. “The horse was hurt like this!” She extended her hands and made violent clawing motions. “Don’t you see? The creature was on the horse’s back. The only one who could have injured the horse was Bal
if!”

  Treskan had arrived at the same conclusion. Joining Rufe and the girl, he said, “We must find the general.”

  It didn’t take long. As Mathi and Treskan stood by the line of tethered horses, a pair of riders came over the rise, standing out bright and clean against the new day’s sky. It was Lofotan and Artyrith. Something white and lifeless lolled against Lofotan’s back. He had found his commander.

  They ran splashing through the mud, meeting Lofotan halfway up the hill from the copse of alders where the pack-horses were tied.

  Naked, Balif was slumped against Lofotan’s back, held in place by a broad leather belt passed under his arms.

  “The general—does he live?”

  “He lives.” Lofotan was hollow eyed. “Whatever else can be said, he breathes yet.”

  He unbuckled the strap. Treskan and Mathi caught Balif and lowered him to the ground. Rufe ambled up, cheerfully munching an apple, oblivious to the others’ glaring looks.

  They examined Balif. He was naked and covered with cuts and scratches, though none serious. His worst injury was a large bruise on the left side of his jaw. Mathi noticed the mark.

  “You struck him?”

  “It was necessary.”

  Artyrith swung a leg over the pommel of his saddle and dropped lightly to the ground. Kneeling, he grasped Balif by the shoulder and turned him half over. Down the center of Balif’s back was a distinct stripe of coarse, brown fur. What made it doubly shocking was its totally alien nature. No elf had fur down his back, and worse, the color was totally unlike Balif’s own fine, blond hair.

  “What does this mean?” Treskan said, recoiling.

  “The beast that’s been following us from Free Winds is no halfling monster of Vedvedsica’s,” Lofotan said. “It is our lord.”

  Artyrith stood up and stepped back from the unconscious Balif. He rubbed his hands together, never taking his eyes off the fur stripe.

  “How can this be? The greatest warrior of the age, a halfling beast?”

  Lofotan snapped, “No finer stock of our blood ever lived than Balif, son of Arnasmir! If he is different now, it is because he is accursed!”