The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  Artyrith had a riposte on his lips. One look at Lofotan, and he kept it there. He stared at Balif’s back. “Accursed? By the mage?” He reached for an obscenity from his extensive repertoire and found none. “How long will it be before we are all accursed?”

  “Since when is evil magic contagious?” Mathi said.

  “If Vedvedsica wanted us hairy, we would be by now,” Lofotan said dryly.

  Artyrith protested. The magician was in custody. He couldn’t cast spells or compound curses while in the Speaker’s hands—could he?

  “This has been coming on a long time,” Mathi said. Lofotan demanded to know how she knew that. Mathi had to frame a reply that protected Rufe, her hired spy.

  “The general complained of being unwell at Free Winds. I understand he consulted with healers there,” was all she would say.

  Lofotan got down. “We must find a cleric, who can lift the curse from our lord.”

  “No one can lift a dead magician’s spell!” Artyrith declared. He had gone quite pale. Like Lofotan, he assumed Vedvedsica had been executed for his crimes. Only Mathi knew the true fate of the mage. Her distant brethren were in secret contact with their creator. Vedvedsica lived, though he was confined in a walled keep on a tiny island south of Silvanesti.

  “How do you know it can’t be done? Are you a priest?” Lofotan said.

  “Everyone knows a dead man’s magic is unbreakable!”

  Lofotan said, “I will not bow to superstition.” To the scribe, he added, “Fetch clean water and some clothes.” Treskan hurried to comply, but Rufe turned up with the items first. Lofotan set to work washing the mud from his master’s face.

  Squatting in the grass, Rufe examined Balif’s hand, as Lofotan eyed him warily. The kender turned it back and forth, scratched his nails with his own small ones, and sniffed his palms.

  He was still at it when Balif said, “Everything in place, my friend?”

  Anyone else would have leaped a yard at being address so suddenly. Rufe chuckled. “What happened to your claws?”

  “Mind your tongue!” Lofotan barked.

  “Peace, Captain,” said Balif. His voice was hoarse and strained. “My claws, friend wanderer, did not survive the night, I am happy to say.”

  “You mean you were more of a beast last night than you are now?” Again Lofotan warned the kender about his manners.

  Balif frowned. “The question is not without merit,” he said mildly. “While the storm was building, I was seized by a terrible urge to escape, to hide from every beam of light. I rode ahead, all the while transforming into the creature you saw. The poor horse went mad at having such a beast on his back. He tried to buck me off. I did all I could to stay on, but I lost by grip. The rest of the night I spent dodging my majordomo and my cook, both of whom were intent on killing me.”

  Without turning his head to see, Balif raised his voice and added, “I saw you, Mathi, seated by the fire. I tried to tell you who I was, but I could not speak.”

  “I did not know you, my lord, but I could tell you were no ordinary animal.”

  He sat up, unconscious of his exposed state. “You spoke to me. I remember that you did but not what you said. I wanted to … harm you, but something in your words dissuaded me.”

  Balif said he had eventually lost all power of coherent thought, lapsing completely into animal mode. When he awoke, the sun was shining overhead and Lofotan was carrying him to a waiting horse. He was naked, and his body ached as if he’d been beaten with rods.

  “I found you sprawled in the grass, passed out,” Lofotan said. “Nothing would rouse you.”

  He helped Balif stand. Mathi and Treskan held up the sleeves of a clean robe. Balif struggled to raise his arms. While he did, Artyrith whirled up on horseback.

  “My lord!” he said, choked. “My lord, I am bound for Silvanost. I, therefore, bid you farewell!”

  “What?” Lofotan exploded.

  “I was hired to cook for one the most illustrious lords of Silvanost. When you took the Speaker’s command and set off on this journey, I went along, as befits a noble retainer. But now—” He reined his agitated mount in a circle. “Lord, if you are accursed, I cannot help you!”

  Lofotan spat, “Coward!”

  “If we were in Silvanost, I would challenge you for that insult!”

  Lofotan repeated it. “It is easy to be brave in the city. Show your mettle here, pot-tender! Draw your blade or stand by your lord!”

  Artyrith threw a riding glove in the grass at Lofotan’s feet. “Return that to me in Silvanost, and I will prove who is the coward!” With a final curt salute, he dug in his heels and rode swiftly away.

  Lofotan shouted after him until Balif quietly asked him to cease. Artyrith rode due west, finally vanishing over the horizon. There was a long silence as everyone digested his sudden, surprising abandonment.

  “He’ll never make it,” the old soldier swore finally. “Nomads will gut him like a trout!”

  “He may reach home,” Balif said, grunting as he tried to walk. “He is a resourceful fellow.”

  “Stiff-necked, overbred city fool,” Lofotan muttered.

  Apart from the fur on his back, Balif looked the same. Mathi clasped his arm to help him walk, carefully noting his nails were quite unclawlike, as Rufe had discovered.

  Shivering, he drew the robe close around his lean body. “So, my friends, we are down to three,” he said.

  “Four.”

  “You, little man? Since when do you belong to this company?”

  “Since she started paying me.” Mathi tried not to look guilty. She failed.

  They packed up their gear. Balif was too weak to help, so he sat in the grass and outlined his plans since his affliction had come to light. They would cross the Thon-Tanjan as planned and proceed with their mission.

  “But, my lord, what about your condition?” asked his loyal retainer.

  “At night you will bind me with chains a safe distance from the horses—and from you.”

  “That’s not what I meant, my lord. Shouldn’t we seek a priest or sage who can help you?”

  “Few are the practitioners who can reverse Vedvedsica’s spells,” Balif said calmly. “Gods willing, we will carry out the Speaker’s task and then find a cure for me … if one exists.”

  Privately Mathi was in turmoil. She had no idea the Creator had cast such a spell on Balif. His sense of justice was worthy of a poet—to slowly turn the great general into a beast for his betrayal of Vedvedsica’s beast-children; that was godlike thinking. It wasn’t just the transformation and the loss of mind and faculties that would haunt Balif; it was knowing the horror and ignominy Balif would face in Silvanost if he ever returned.

  But would he return ever? The last thing a proud, nobly born elf would want would be to display such an affliction to his peers. Artyrith’s revulsion was moderate compared to what Balif would encounter there. After all, Vedvedsica’s creatures, though innocent of their own origins, were rounded up, slain, or shipped off to eternal exile for simply existing. Balif was a victim, but under Silvanesti law, even the accursed were liable for exile or worse if their existence was deemed an affront to nature.

  She helped Lofotan boost Balif onto his horse. The abused animal accepted his rider without a qualm. Mathi decided the horse was more tolerant than Artyrith.

  They rode slowly down the sandy hill to the fast-flowing Tanjan. The ford was a series of pools and channels bounded by boulders that allowed travelers to pick their way across. Lofotan went first with the pack animals. Rufe the kender perched on the back of the last pack pony, looking back to the south bank where the other elves waited.

  “Strange little fellow,” Treskan remarked.

  “How do creatures like that get by in the world?” Mathi wondered.

  “Oh, we manage.”

  The scribe shouted with alarm. He and the others were surrounded by kender. They had arrived so quietly that neither he, Mathi, nor Balif had detected them. Among them was t
he Longwalker, a head taller than any other kender present.

  “Excellent, friend,” Balif said. “You have a great talent for astonishment. Is it magic that allows you to move with such stealth?”

  “Oh no,” the Longwalker said. “Most people just don’t pay good enough attention. That’s when we come and go.”

  “Are you crossing the river?”

  “I think so. The riders will soon be here, so we had better.”

  By “riders” he meant humans. Glancing around, Mathi saw that many of the kender had injuries: sword cuts on their heads and shoulders, bruises on their faces, and battered hands. It turned out that the nomad band the elves had encountered earlier had returned in force. They were sweeping the bend of the river for kender, centaurs, and anyone else not of their band. Greath and the Hok-nu were fighting back, but the kender, being kender, chose to move on.

  “How far behind are the humans?” asked Balif.

  The Longwalker polled his comrades. Kender had little use for measurements of time or space, so no one had an adequate answer. “Close” was the best they could agree on.

  Treskan took Balif’s reins. “Come, my lord.”

  Lofotan gained the north bank and led the stubborn pack team ashore. The water had been cold, so it was good to get out in the summer sun. He saw the others linger on the far shore a while, surrounded by a large group of kender. Then they entered the shallow ford. The kender followed, and Lofotan was able to get a clear view of their progress. Being short and lightweight, they might have had a hard time crossing, but kender ingenuity prevailed. They waded where they could, clasping their hands together atop their heads. When the water grew too swift or deep, they clung together in living chains. The kender on the far end of the chain detached themselves one by one, clinging to their comrades as they crossed the hazard. First over was last to arrive. With a minimum of fuss, no equipment, and with considerable speed, the little folk were across the river.

  Their escape was timely. Trios of riders appeared on the high ground overlooking the river. They had followed the clear tracks to the water’s edge, noting the last kender clambering out of the ford on the other side. Balif, Lofotan, Treskan, and Mathi sat on their horses in plain view too.

  Lofotan said, “My lord, we should withdraw.”

  “Not yet. Sometimes it is wise to let the enemy see your banners.”

  He was right. Knowing there were Silvanesti around instead of wandering bands of kender made the humans hesitate to pursue them. The deadly work Artyrith and Balif did at the grassland trail was bearing fruit.

  Leisurely, Balif turned his horse away and rode up the bank to the sandy flat above. At that point the Thon-Tanjan was a boundary between the fertile green plains south and arid land north. That was an expanse of desert that stretched from the Khalkist Mountains in the west to the eastern ocean. North of the desert was a land little known to the Silvanesti. East lay the disputed territory, bound on three sides by water and on the north by desert. It was good land, well watered by local streams and heavily forested along the watercourse. On official maps in the capital the elves called it “Silvanoth,” which literally rendered meant “Silvanos’s Holding,” implying it was the personal property of the Speaker of the Stars. No one living there called it that. The kender called it Treetops, in honor of the very tall trees growing there.

  With trembling hands, Balif sighted with his sunstone. Southeast was their course. Treskan and Lofotan rode on either side of him, keeping a close eye on their afflicted leader. Mathi followed behind, exulting in her creator’s scheme. She wished she had known what was going to happen. Still, it explained why she had been sent to attach herself to the general. Mathi thought Balif was going to be kidnapped, to face the judgment of those he had betrayed. However, it seemed her role was to observe and report the metamorphosis of the mighty Balif into a wild beast.

  So why did her joy prove so fleeting? With the sun hot on her face, Mathi soon lost her pride in her creator’s deed. Balif was a betrayer, responsible for many deaths and suffering among her brethren. But why could she not rejoice at his plight? Why did the sight of his frail figure, jouncing along on horseback, fill her with stirrings of pity?

  The kender band around them waxed and waned as they went. A few, including Rufe, hitched rides on the packhorses until Mathi caught them rummaging through the baggage for souvenirs. Then Lofotan ran them off.

  Balif grew stronger as the day went on. He ate and drank prodigiously, considering his usually abstemious habits. Nectar, water, dried meat, and pressed fruit went down with ravenous intensity. He ate like an elf long starved. No one questioned him on it, but Lofotan and the others took note.

  They made good time across open country on the east bank of the river. The ground was rising, growing hillier as they neared the forested region south of the ford. When approaching the line of trees, their kender escort all but disappeared. Even Rufe departed at some unseen moment, leaving the foursome to ride on alone.

  “Now that our small friends have gone, I have some things to tell you,” Balif said. Lofotan halted his horse to listen, but Balif bade him ride on.

  “If this transformation of mine grows worse—and I expect it shall—you must take steps to protect yourselves and our mission,” he said. “You must restrain me each night.”

  “But will you assume beast form every night?” asked Treskan.

  Balif didn’t know. The previous night might have been a harbinger of things to come, or it could have been triggered by some unknown factor. Perhaps the thunderstorm provoked his metamorphosis, or the positions of the moons in the sky. Who knew?

  “In any event, protect yourselves.”

  “I will bind you hand and foot each night,” Lofotan vowed.

  “Not enough.” Balif’s strength was enhanced when in beastly form. Rope would not hold him. Had they any chain?

  “I have a few lengths in the baggage,” said Lofotan. It was heavy logging chain, used to drag timber behind a sturdy horse.

  “Use it.”

  His old comrade objected. Binding with chain was undignified.

  “So is rending your friends to bits with claws and fangs.”

  Chain might injure the general’s wrists and ankles, Lofotan added.

  “Do it, nonetheless.”

  “We will do as you command, my lord,” Treskan said. Lofotan looked at the reins in his hand and said nothing.

  Before dark, they carefully chose to camp on a hilltop amid a thicket of overgrown myrtles. They were unloading the horses when Balif turned his head sharply and announced that he smelled smoke. So saying, he alerted the others, and they smelled it too, even Treskan with his less-than-keen nose. Lofotan climbed the tangled branches of the tallest myrtle and quickly spied the source of the smoke.

  “There’s a large column of smoke rising from the next ridge,” he called down. It was a single, thick spire, probably a large campfire. Wildfire smoke would rise from many smaller points.

  “Humans?” Mathi wondered aloud.

  At her elbow Rufe said, “Yes, a big camp of them.”

  She started at his sudden proximity. “Don’t do that!” she cried.

  “Do what?” asked Rufe.

  Balif laughed heartily. He hadn’t done so all day. “Have you scouted them already?” Balif said. Rufe admitted he had. He had “found” a few items too, things he hadn’t seen before.

  Balif held out his hand. Reluctantly the kender put his spoils on display. He had a stone knife made of obsidian. It was too finely made to be a nomad’s tool. The shell inlay on the handle make it look like a cleric’s blade. Rufe had an amber necklace, a beaded headband, and most remarkably, a full-length arrow that he pulled out through his collar. It was so long, it must have gone straight down to his foot, but no one noticed him limping before he pulled it out.

  “Let me see that.”

  Balif examined the arrow closely. The shaft was daubed white, had a bronze head, and used soft, gray-white feathers for fletching
. Balif paid special attention to the feathers.

  “Ghost owl feathers,” he said, frowning. The ghost owl was unknown in Silvanesti territory. Its range was in the Plains River Valley west of the Khalkist Mountains. The nomad band must have come from there.

  “Maybe they traded for arrows with bands further west?” Mathi asked. Balif said no. Among nomads, every archer made his own arrows, matched to his bow. Whoever made the arrow had access to ghost owl feathers. The invaders had come a long way.

  “Do we move on?” Lofotan asked. Rufe could not give them any guess as to the size of the nomad party, but there must have been many to merit such a large campfire.

  Balif said, “No. We stay here.” Night was close upon them. They were right under the nose of the humans, but if they kept quiet, they ought to be able to pass unnoticed.

  Everyone ended up looking at Rufe.

  “What?”

  “You know, my lord, it might be worthwhile to have a look at this human camp. Governor Dolanath and the Speaker will need an accurate count of the invaders,” Lofotan said.

  Balif was reluctant. He finally agreed to send Lofotan, Mathi, and Treskan to reconnoiter the nomads’ camp. Rufe would stay behind to guard their camp—and him.

  “I do not trust the little man, and what good is the girl if a fight comes?” Lofotan protested.

  “You insult our friend Rufe. He comes and goes but always comes again. Mathi is quieter than the scribe and has good eyes.”

  Mathi would have preferred to stay with Balif but no matter. A spy mission might give her a chance to leave a message for her friends, whom she knew must be shadowing their party.

  “Go right after dark,” Balif said. He had lived among and fought against humans a long time and knew their ways. “After sunset they will be eating, washing, or falling asleep.” Going later would only put them up against alert watchmen.

  They huddled among the myrtles, eating silently. Lofotan and Balif were in their element, Mathi observed. Hiding in the trees like thieves, eating cold rations, dueling with danger—that was their chosen life. Treskan obviously missed his bed and three squares a day. At least the nectar was good. Rufe managed to pass the time without chattering. When he was done eating, he put his head down on his knees and went to sleep.