The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  Listening to the kender’s lecture, Treskan asked, “Have you always been a thief?”

  “Thief?” Rufe stopped dead. “I beg your pardon! I’m no thief, no sir, not me!”

  “Shh, please! Lower your voice!”

  “I won’t be called a thief by anyone!” said Rufe shrilly.

  “All right! I apologize! Now lower your voice before the nomads hear us!”

  Rufe stamped his small foot. “Thieves take things for their own gain. They make their living stealing the property of others. I’ve never done that, no sir, not ever! Anyone who says I have done so had better be prepared to deal with Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap!”

  “You do know an awful lot about how to deceive gullible people,” Mathi said, trying to divert the little man’s ire.

  “That’s different,” he returned proudly. “A lone traveler like me wouldn’t last a week in the wide world unless I took advantage of the quirks of my fellow creatures.”

  They went on, Treskan chewing his lip, Mathi absorbing the expanded world around her, and Rufe fuming about the scribe’s infuriating slander. When they were close enough to make out individual tents in the nomad camp, they halted again. It was time to enact Rufe’s plan.

  Mathi and the scribe dragged the blankets off their ponies. He pulled two corners of his over his shoulders like an oversized cloak and tied the corners to his sash. Leaning forward, he braced his hands on his knees. Rufe explained where he intended to go. Mathi promised to cut his throat if he tried to do that to her. Shrugging, Rufe wormed his way under Treskan’s tunic instead. He braced his feet against the edges of the blanket and held his face averted so his nose didn’t protrude from the scribe’s clothing. With the laces of the scribe’s tunic drawn tight, only the top of the kender’s head showed. In poor light it could be taken for part of a fur vest, a garment much favored by the nomads.

  Treskan straightened up, but staggered under the kender’s weight. “This will never work,” he grunted.

  “It will if you make it work,” said the kender’s muffled voice.

  Mathi stuffed tufts of grass inside his clothing to round out his profile. With Rufe inside, he looked rotund indeed. He wrapped a scarf around his head to hide his elf ears. Mathi tied the horse blanket around her shoulders too, making a sort of turban to cover her fine hair and ears. At Rufe’s muffled urging, she used a charred stick salvaged from the campfire to blacken hers and Treskan’s faces. Nomad warriors were famously dirty, so there was no point trying to pose as them if their faces were too clean.

  Mathi tied the ponies to a stake thrust in the turf. Carrying the concealed kender, Treskan lumbered toward the camp. Mathi followed, breaking her step so as not to outpace the burdened scribe.

  The border of the camp was well marked by a hedge of sharp spears. Each nomad carried a bundle of them on his horse, and every night they were combined to form a defense for the camp. They were no deterrent to visitors on foot, and even with the kender, Treskan managed to slip between the sharp points. Behind the barrier the nomads had mown down the grass with scythes to provide both fodder for their horses and a clear lane to spot intruders. Mathi was surprised by the sophistication of their defenses. When she had been captured before in the hills, the nomads’ camp did not have so elaborate a system of protection.

  She passed stands of ready weapons—spears and poleaxes mostly—and came upon the outer line of tents. Treskan whispered to Rufe for directions. Peering out through the lacings of the scribe’s shirt, Rufe said, “Right.”

  They tramped along a darkened line of horsehair tents built in the round style of the northern plains. It was not very late, but many nomads were sleeping, as evidenced by the great amount of snoring they heard. Mathi was behind the scribe, guarding his back. Treskan was watching his feet closely as it was hard to see where they were falling with the bulk of a concealed kender in the way. Thus he did not see the large warrior standing with his back to him. Man and kender blundered right into the nomad.

  “Get off!” the man growled. He was watering the grass.

  To his horror Mathi and Treskan heard Rufe snap back, “Out of my way, oak tree.”

  The hulking figure turned slowly around. He was a head taller than Treskan, with a beard like a raging flame.

  “Men who speak to me like that don’t live long.”

  “Not if you breathe on ’em,” said Rufe.

  Treskan gasped and thumped the kender through his tunic. The warrior drew a short, wide sword and displayed it under the scribe’s nose.

  “Got a cough, have you? I’ve got the cure!”

  “Begging your pardon,” Treskan said between gasps. He shoved the heel of his hand into Rufe’s mouth to stifle him. The kender promptly bit him.

  Wincing, he sidled past the warrior’s butcher blade. “Too many strange victuals,” he muttered, keeping up his phony cough. Mathi kept her face averted and darted after him.

  Red Beard sheathed his sword. “The only strange one here is you, lard bucket.”

  Rufe struggled to deliver a stinging reply. Treskan clamped both hands over the hidden kender’s face and hurried on.

  “Are you trying to get us murdered?” he demanded.

  “Tuh! Big bullies haven’t the tongue for taunting,” Rufe said.

  “It’s not their tongues I fear. Now shut up, or you’ll be eating pancakes through a sliced gullet!”

  They circled halfway around the sizable camp until Rufe recognized a group of tents. He dug an elbow in Treskan’s ribs. They had arrived at their destination.

  At first Mathi imagined they would have to creep into some dark tent and make off with the talisman. That was not what Rufe had in mind. They got down on all fours and crawled through a closed hide flap. Beyond the leather door, a fat lamp burned, barely lighting the interior but also making it stifling hot. Five nomads, dressed in leather jerkins, sat in a circle around the lamp.

  Mathi’s heart sank. She gauged how likely it would be that they could back out without being challenged, but Rufe piped up in a deliberately gruff voice, “Is there a game goin’?”

  Mathi recognized the nomad named Vollman. “It is,” he grunted.

  From inside Treskan’s tunic the kender jangled a purse. “Room for another?”

  “Always room for losers,” said Vollman. The others grinned wolfishly, but none of them looked very close at the newcomers. Treskan and Mathi crawled into a spot between Vollman and a sandy-haired nomad. It was fiendishly hot in the tent. It also stank. The nomads had acquired many traits of civilization, but bathing wasn’t one of them. Mathi swallowed hard.

  “The wager is six,” said the black-headed warrior sitting across from Vollman. He shook a dry gourd and dumped the contents on the ground in front of his crossed legs. Five square tokens fell out. They were white, made of bone or stone, and one side of each was blackened with soot. The warrior’s cast showed four black faces and one white. Vollman cursed.

  Mathi didn’t know the game. They were gambling, but she hadn’t the faintest idea how to play. She kept her chin tucked in low so that no one would notice her slender, female features. Treskan, for better or worse, let Rufe do his talking. Fortunately, the light was so poor that no one noticed his strange shape. He could have been an ogre, and the men huddled around the sputtering lamp would not have recognized him.

  “I’ll take one.”

  “Hard odds. What do you wager?” said Vollman.

  Rufe slipped his hand into the top of Mathi’s sleeve and dropped something small and hard. It rolled out in the scribe’s palm: a nice bit of beryl, deep red and unpolished, a desirable stone.

  The other men eyed the wager appreciatively. They were betting metal mostly—bronze knives, earrings, copper bangles, all looted from unfortunate victims in the path of Bulnac’s raiders. One man took back his wager, a poorly made copper cloak frog. The rest left theirs where they lay.

  The black-haired warrior scooped up the tiles in the gourd and passed them to Treskan. “One, t
wo, three, dump, that’s how to do it,” Rufe said in a sing-song voice. He was telling his clueless partner how to proceed while trying to sound like he was reciting a gambler’s lucky chant.

  Treskan imitated what he saw. He rotated the gourd in a circle three times, then dumped it upside down in front of him. When he lifted the cup away, one black side and four white showed. Everyone grunted with surprise.

  “What do you know, a win first off,” Rufe said. Treskan raked in his winnings. He didn’t yet understand the game, but his little companion did.

  “Go again,” said the blond warrior beside him. Treskan gathered in the tiles. From under his chin Rufe growled, “Three.”

  “Easy bet. What do you hazard?”

  More stones trickled down the scribe’s sleeve. Rough emeralds! Treskan was as startled as everyone else when they rolled out in the dirt.

  Three men took their bets back. Only Vollman and a nomad with an empty eye socket remained in. One-Eye put down a nice dirk with an embossed silver handle. Vollman wagered four golden bangles.

  “Them real gold?” Rufe asked.

  “Yeah. Want to test them?” He held the bangles out for Treskan to try with his teeth. Since he didn’t know the hardness of gold from a chicken bone, he waved them off.

  “Point is five,” Rufe announced. The two betting nomads grinned. Mathi assumed that was a hard point to make. He shook the gourd three times then upturned it: all black.

  One-Eye cursed. Vollman stared hard at Treskan then at the tiles. He picked them up, rubbing each one between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What’s the matter? Got an itch?”

  Mathi didn’t dare punch the kender while sitting in front of so many witnesses, but she dearly wanted to.

  “New tiles,” said Vollman. A nomad with silver beads woven into his scalp lock tossed a small leather bag to his host. Vollman poured them out. There were five tiles, red on one side, white on the other. They were slightly bigger than the previous playing pieces.

  “Lemme see those in the light.” Treskan picked up one as Rufe indicated and held it up at arm’s length. To his amazement, Rufe snaked his little arm down Treskan’s sleeve and took the red and white tile. Close beside them, Mathi bit her lip to keep from gasping. Treskan kept his palm cupped so that no one could see what happened. He was sweating from the heat and from pure fear. If the nomads caught Rufe cheating, they would surely die for it.

  To his relief the kender returned the tile to his hand.

  “My toss still?” growled Rufe. Vollman nodded.

  A minor trove of gemstones cascaded down Treskan’s sleeve. Garnets, beryl stones, tourmalines, and a trio of big, uncut rubies littered the ground.

  “Too much?” Rufe taunted the gawking nomads.

  Vollman dug through the collar of his deerskin shirt and brought out a small leather bag. “This is all I got.” He poured out his poke. Amid the rings, bangles, and the odd gold tooth lay the desired talisman.

  “That’ll do. You toss,” Rufe said. Mathi passed the gourd and tiles to the nomad. That pleased him. After all, how could the fat stranger cheat if he was throwing the tiles himself?

  “Your call,” he reminded Treskan/Rufe.

  “One,” said the kender.

  No one said a word as Vollman shook and tossed the dried cup. With a flourish, the warrior upturned the gourd in the dirt. He held his hand there, not removing the cup.

  “Well, what are ya waiting for?” said Rufe.

  He snatched back the gourd. One. Rufe had gotten the talisman back and a lot more besides.

  Vollman drew a dagger from the small of his back. “No one makes four hits in a row—not unless they’re cheating!”

  Frightened, Treskan forgot to stop the kender’s mouth. Rufe replied, “I ain’t lucky and I ain’t a cheater. I am loved by fate; that’s all.”

  “Your fate, fat pig, is to die tonight!” The dagger came up under the scribe’s chin.

  Rufe squirmed under his shirt. Mathi thought he was coming out to run for it. The sensation of the little man scrambling against his ribs and stomach proved too much for Treskan. He laughed.

  “Funny, am I? Let’s see how much you laugh with a cut throat!”

  At that, Rufe pushed his head through Treskan’s lacings. His cheeks were bulging. The nomads seated across from them recoiled, unsure of what they were seeing. Before Vollman could strike, Rufe spewed a stream of liquid onto the lamp. It exploded.

  A ball of fire gushed upward. The flash dazzled everyone’s eyes, including Mathi’s. Rufe’s arm snaked out and grabbed Vollman’s booty. “Now go!” he cried, kicking backward into Treskan’s ribs.

  Mathi lashed out, upsetting the lamp. Burning oil splashed on men’s laps and in the dirt. The dry hide tent quickly caught fire. Players were bailing out as fast as they could in every direction, slapping out the flames licking their clothes. Vollman’s sleeves were on fire. Roaring, he rolled on the ground to put them out. In the chaos Treskan crawled away on all fours until Rufe wriggled free.

  The kender and Mathi hoisted the scribe to his feet. “Up now and run!”

  He did and the kender leaped on his back. The tent blazed and everyone fled. In the general uproar, no one paid any attention to them. Once away from the conflagration, Treskan and Mathi assumed a calmer manner and walked carefully to the fence of stakes. En route Treskan brushed by the red-bearded nomad he’d bumped into on the way in. Without Rufe under his shirt he no longer resembled an obese nomad.

  “What’s the row?” exclaimed Red Beard.

  “Fire,” Treskan said in his own voice. He made sure he faced the nomad, hiding the kender clinging to his back. “See?”

  The hulking warrior hurried to the blaze. Mathi and Treskan hurried too, in the opposite direction. They didn’t stop running until they reached their ponies still staked and undisturbed. Rufe let himself down from the scribe’s back.

  The glow of firelight for the camp was brighter than before. Mathi threw the blanket over the pony, wondering aloud if the whole camp would burn down.

  “Nah,” said Rufe. “Just six tents.”

  “How do you know it will be six?”

  “I know.” He tapped his high forehead with two fingers. “Want to bet how many?”

  Neither one of them was willing to take him up on it. They had seen enough of the kender’s prowess at gambling.

  “What was that you spit on the lamp?” Mathi asked, climbing onto her horse. She held out a hand to the kender.

  “Oil.” Rufe carried a small vial of oil on a loop of cord around his neck.

  “Why do you carry that?” Treskan asked.

  “Tastes good on greens,” he replied.

  They rode off quietly, keeping to low ground to avoid being seen by nomad sentries. Treskan clutched the returned talisman in his hand as if his life depended on having it.

  “All good, boss?”

  “Well done, friend Rufus.”

  “You are a dangerous fellow, do you know that?” said Mathi.

  “I’m just gettin’ by. So when do I get my pancakes?”

  Relieved like an unwound spring, Treskan nodded on his pony. The sturdy beast plodded ahead with a slack hand on the reins. Somewhere along the way, Rufe had left her, for when the moons rose early after midnight Mathi, discovered she and Treskan were alone. She had no idea when Rufe got off or where he went.

  She let Treskan’s mount draw ahead. When she was sure he was asleep, she took a wide roll of birch bark from inside her gown. By the moons’ light she scrawled in her childish hand the message she hoped her brethren would find. It read: sPEll ON BALLIF/ ChANgINg LIkE us / kEEP tO PlAN?

  Mathi rolled it up and tied it with a strip of rawhide that she had chewed until it was pliable. The crude scroll she tucked under her arm for a mile or so until her body warmed it. Then she dropped it in the waving grass. Her brethren searched by scent, and if they found her note, they would know it was from her by the smell. If they found it. If they were following her s
till.

  The forest edge was just a few yards ahead, looking like a black wall. Treskan’s pony had halted, head down, staring at the impenetrable gloom. Mathi’s did likewise.

  The scribe stirred at the sudden loss of motion. “Where are we?” he asked thickly. She didn’t answer, but he saw the trees and knew anyway.

  “’S all right,” he said, climbing off the pony and patting its shaggy neck. His pony would not proceed until Treskan led it by the reins.

  “Go on; there’s no reason to fear the dark,” Mathi told her mount. She said it, but the canny animal had other ideas. Only when Mathi got down and led the pony like Treskan did it stir from where it had stopped.

  The trees closed in overhead, a vault of green leaves turned to black stone by night. They cut off the constant wind of the plain, leaving the way between the trunks airless and still. Even so, Mathi and Treskan felt they had little to fear. They knew where the nomads were, the centaurs were kindly disposed toward Balif, and the kender were probably all asleep too.

  They followed the trail signs to the kender camp. By the time they reached the picket where Balif’s and Lofotan’s horses were tethered, they were both bone tired. There couldn’t be more than three or four hours of night left, not long to rest. They tied their ponies, pulled the blankets off and hung them over a tree limb, and set out for their bedrolls. Treskan still had his talisman clenched tightly in his fist. Mathi wondered if he would ever put it down again.

  She made for her sleeping spot but halted when she heard talking. They were low and calm, and there were two distinct voices. Balif and Lofotan? No, the outline of the slumbering majordomo was plainly visible under his blanket. Balif and who? Treskan was a few yards behind her, sleeping apart as usual.