The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  She saw that the general of the Speaker’s armies was chained again. There were no modest trees to bind him to, so the indefatigable Lofotan had dug a shallow hole and chained his lord to a root as thick as Mathi’s waist. Balif was sitting up, back as straight as a Silvanesti spire.

  “Who’s there?” rasped a guttural voice that Mathi didn’t recognize.

  Balif looked at her. His eyes glowed from within with a foreign, amber light. Tired as she was, Mathi rooted to the spot. The transformation had come over Balif again, more severely than before. Every inch of the elf’s exposed skin was covered with dense, brown fur. The skin on his nose and lips was black, like a dog’s, and hard claws studded the ends of his fingers.

  “The girl,” Balif said, drawing out the initial sound of the word.

  “My lord,” she said. “Who are you speaking to?”

  “An old friend of yours.”

  In one bound, a dark shape hurtled out of the shadows and landed in a crouch between Balif and Mathi. It was Taius, the former elf and present beast Mathi had met during her brief captivity in Bulnac’s camp.

  “She heard us. Let me kill her. I can do it quietly. No one will hear,” Taius vowed.

  Mathi tensed to fight or flee. She searched for a sign of understanding in Balif’s savage eyes. She saw none but the accursed general replied, “No. Harm her not. She will be my mouthpiece to the world.”

  “She is one of the brethren!” Taius had chosen sides, and he was not on Mathi’s.

  “Brethren? You mean half-breed. She is half-human.”

  Taius stood with his back bent, so his head was lower than Mathi’s. “Smell again, mighty one. Her skin smells of fur and night. She is a creature of the forest, like I was.”

  Again the relentless beast eyes of Balif raked over her. “Is this true?”

  She saw no reason to deny it any longer. “Yes, my lord. I am child of the Creator you betrayed.”

  “Betrayed?”

  Her heart was beating hard against her breastbone. “Yes, betrayed. You gave our maker over to the persecutors, those who slew and imprisoned us, his children!’

  “I obeyed the orders of my sovereign.”

  Mathi sneered, “That is the excuse of slave masters the world over.”

  His chains jangled ominously. Though she was glad her secret was out—relieving so much tension in her—she truly feared what might happen if an aroused Balif escaped his bonds.

  “The judgment of the Speaker was not just,” Balif said. “But I could not alter it.” His tone of voice had changed, softened. “I have known for a long time that you were not an elf. I thought you were one of those unhappy mixed breeds, like the scribe.” And yet, knowing Mathi was not who she claimed to be, Balif had chosen her to go on his mission. Why?

  The bewitched general smiled, showing long canines. “Spies and assassins are better defended against when they are in view,” he said as though he had read her mind.

  “A spy is a spy,” Taius snarled. “Let me kill her.” His voice had risen so high that Lofotan stirred on his pallet.

  Balif gave him a withering glance. The beast-elf subsided.

  “Where have you been?” asked Balif coolly. “You have been gone many hours.”

  Mathi related her adventure with Rufe and Treskan in the nomad camp. She omitted all reference to the talisman, explaining her trip as a reconnaissance of the enemy camp.

  “Reporting to your masters, more likely,” Taius said.

  “Go away,” Balif told him. “We are done.”

  Taius sprang away in one breathtaking bound. “Let me serve you,” he called back. “You were my commander. I am still your soldier.”

  “Go away. I am not lost to the world yet, and I cannot fulfill my duty with you by my side.”

  Rejected, Taius melted into the shadows. His voice drifted back.

  “I serve you, my lord, until I die. I shall keep the beasts of the brethren off your trail!”

  In a flicker of a moment, the half-beast was gone. A few moments later, Mathi heard a far-off snap of a tree branch high overhead, Taius’s gesture of farewell.

  Mathi sidled away toward her bed. As arrow-straight as ever, Balif watched her with unnatural intensity. Why did he say no to Taius?

  “Ask the question.”

  “My lord?”

  “Ask the question in your mind.”

  “What did Taius want of you?”

  Balif sank down on his side with a grace more feral than elflike. “He offered to free me from my fetters if I would allow him to serve me again.”

  Taius was being hunted by magicians and trackers from Silvanost, as were all the few creatures of his kind who had escaped arrest. Joining Balif was one way to escape them perhaps.

  “You let me stay and sent him packing?”

  “I am not a beast. Not yet.” He coughed a little, shuddering. “You may go or stay as you choose. You are free. Your ancestry does not change that. The coils of this curse are close around me, but I am not lost yet. I will carry out the mission the Speaker gave me, defend the wanderfolk, and then … there are a few throws I still have to make.”

  Mention of throws made Mathi think of Rufe and his skill at the nomad gambling game. Strange, but it seemed that Balif, the famed warrior of Silvanost, saw life in the same terms.

  CHAPTER 15

  Arms

  Mathi dreamed of galloping horses, shouting, and the clash of blades. She tried to banish these unhappy thoughts, but they kept intruding on her rest. Then she got a sharp blow in the ribs. Instinctively she rolled into a ball and growled about being disturbed.

  “Get up girl, or you’ll be sleeping forever!”

  Even half asleep she knew Lofotan’s battlefield voice. She sat up, bleary-eyed, and saw people and animals darting to and fro among the trees. Smoke hung in the air. The sounds of her dream had been real.

  Lofotan, sword in hand, was trying to seat a helmet on his head. He tossed a weapon—a spear—toward Mathi and shouted again for her to stand up or perish. Mathi wasn’t sure if he meant attackers would slay her, or Lofotan himself. Not desiring either, she scrambled to her feet.

  “Defend yourself!”

  Lofotan dashed away. Mathi shouted after him, “What’s going on?”

  “The humans found us. I must get to the general!”

  All around her the kender camp was disintegrating. Little people rushed in all directions, clutching blankets or other belongings. None seemed to have any weapons. Lofotan dodged between them, trying to reach Balif, who was still shackled to the tree root.

  A shrill cry rent the air. Mathi turned and saw a trio of riders slashing through the widely spaced trees. They speared any kender within reach, then tiring of their sport, contented themselves with shouting and cursing the wanderfolk as they scattered. One of the men spotted Mathi.

  “Ho!” he cried. “Here’s bigger game!”

  He spurred at her. His spear was not a true lance. It lacked a handguard, Mathi noted with strange detachment. If he hits me with it, he won’t keep his grip …

  Her detachment evaporated quickly. Lance or no, death was riding at her. She bolted, still clutching the spear Lofotan had tossed at her. Mathi knew she couldn’t outrun the nomad’s horse. Zigging and zagging, she ran around a stout tree and threw herself against the trunk. Laughing, her pursuer cantered past. Spying his prey behind him, the nomad wrenched his horse’s head around. At that moment a smooth round stone the size of a ripe plum hit the man on the cheek. It must have had considerable velocity, for the rider threw up his hands and fell sideways off his horse, landing heavily at Mathi’s feet.

  She gaped at the fallen man. Someone shouted, “Finish him off!”

  A kender twenty feet away held a stick and thong sling in his hand. A hoopak, she had heard them call it. He pointed at the fallen nomad.

  “Stick him! What’s wrong with you?”

  Mathi couldn’t do it, not standing over a helpless enemy like that. She kicked the man’s spear a
way and rolled him over. The sling ball had shattered his face. He was alive, but probably blinded by blood and bone fragments.

  Mathi backed away. More nomads circled through the trees, whooping and shouting. Some kender had taken to the trees and were pelting the riders with whatever they had—sticks, stones, found objects precious and paltry. Mathi heard the characteristic whistle of a hoopak winding up and a solid thwack as the projectile struck home. Another saddle emptied.

  Slowly, the tempo of the battle changed. The initial charge by the nomads had taken the kender by surprise. They scattered, and the humans chased them, killing many at first, then reverting to harrying the little people out of sheer contempt. Many kender fled, but others stood their ground. The appearance of the elves confused the humans further. Soon it was the nomads who were milling around, unsure what to do or where to go.

  A high-pitched shrieking, like a whistle being blown in a frenzy, echoed through the woods. More shrill whistles split the air, all around the raiders. They closed into a compact group. Many changed their spears for swords.

  Advancing at a walk through the trees came Balif and Lofotan on horseback, leading a large, ragged band of kender. The Longwalker was at their head, blowing a clay pipe. Unseen among the grand trunks more whistles answered. The enemy was surrounded.

  Seeing an enemy they knew—the elves on horseback—the raiders broke ranks and charged. From three sides they were scourged by hoopak stones, kender-sized arrows, and thrown missiles. Protected by thick furs and occasional bits of armor, the nomads tried to shrug off the bombardment, but their mounts were unwilling to face such torment. The charge lost momentum and played out ten yards from where Balif sat, hands folded on his saddle pommel.

  “Wanderfolk, now’s the time! Show them what you are made of!” he cried.

  Swarms of kender, rounded up by the advancing elves and their chief, filled the gaps between the trees. Brandishing sticks, tools, and even an occasional bladed weapon, they shouted defiance at their attackers. Backed against a tree, Mathi heard frightful taunts from the kender. Every branch of the nomads’ family tree was smeared as dirty lice; lying, cheating vermin; eaters of filth and cowards of the basest sort. Mathi had never heard such ferocious taunting, all shouted at top volume. A thousand furious wanderfolk shouting ingenious invective at the same time was a fearsome spectacle. Compared to the torrent of abuse they hurled, their hoopaks were toys.

  The nomad raiders, for their part, were white with outrage or red-faced with fury. Smacking their reluctant animals with the flats of their swords, they moved toward the kender—and the little people did not give way. For the first time since coming to the eastern land, kender stood up to their foes. In the center of the line Balif watched the humans calmly. When the gap shrank to six yards he drew his noble sword and raised it high in a warrior’s salute. Seeing this, Mathi had a sudden premonition.

  He means to die! she thought. He’s going to let the humans kill him to inspire the kender and escape his curse!

  Moved by feelings beyond her control, Mathi stepped away from the safety of the tree. She reversed her grip on her spear and started toward Balif, breaking into a run.

  She reached the rear of the mob of defiant kender and pushed her way through. It was not easy. The little people were excited. They pushed back.

  “General! My lord, wait!” she called desperately.

  At no more than a walking pace the two lines collided. The kender on foot gave way to the big horses bearing down on them—gave a little, then stopped. Like ants the kender swarmed over the nomads’ horses and climbed up the men’s legs, grabbing, hitting, sometimes biting.

  Balif and Lofotan fought with more decorum. They traded sword cuts with warriors in the front ranks. The press behind and on both sides kept the other humans from doubling on the elves. Down went Balif’s first foe, lost among the stamping hooves. Down went Lofotan’s, minus his sword arm.

  To the credit of their courage, Bulnac’s raiders held on despite the bizarre nature of the fight. Given an equal or greater number of humans or elves to combat, they would have fought on in their usual brutal way, but beset by kender they didn’t know what to do. The little folk weren’t supposed to fight back! Such a thing had never happened before. Now stalwart warriors were toppling from steeds thickly coated with yelling kender. This was not warrior’s work. At best they could break off the fight and ride away.

  By the time the sun’s rays were slanting through the few gaps in the canopy overhead, the battle was over. Mathi never got within ten feet of Balif. The general survived unscathed.

  She stopped dead, depleted and stunned. Why did she care what happened to the Betrayer anyway? She ought to want to shove Balif into the nomads’ fury, not rush headlong to his aid. Mathi realized then what had happened. She knew Balif. He was no longer the anonymous, high-born Silvanesti she was taught to hate. He was flesh and blood, heart and soul, and she admired him. She could not have been more appalled at her sudden new understanding.

  Many kender chased the nomads, hurling insults at them as long as they were in earshot. Stung by the taunts, a few peeled off to chastise their tiny tormentors. They killed many unwary kender, who had been carried away with the unexpected victory, but other riders were brought down by the enraged wanderfolk.

  Nomad war chiefs blew ram’s horns to recall their unruly warriors. The last mortified riders disappeared into the dust and drifting bands of smoke.

  The kender reacted oddly to their small victory. Mathi expected they might cheer, or else wilt with delayed terror, but they did neither. Mostly they vanished. A thousand kender scattered through the trees, abruptly making themselves scarce. All that remained behind were the dead and wounded—and the elves.

  Mathi hailed Balif. “My lord, we won!”

  “We survived, at any rate,” Lofotan said.

  “Survival, my dear captain, is the first prerequisite of victory.”

  Balif was amazingly at ease. The carnage and violence of the morning did not compare to the great battles he had led, but bloodshed is bloodshed, and Balif was unfazed by it all. Mathi trembled in every part of her body. Though the morning was mild, she was drenched in sweat. Only when the battle was over did she realize how terribly thirsty she was.

  Treskan appeared from the copse where they had been camped. He was battered and bloodied from a dozen small cuts on his face and hands. Mathi was sympathetic, but Lofotan maintained that the scribe had inflicted the wounds himself with his unskillful use of his sword. Nevertheless Mathi sat him down and began to dab his cuts with a rag wetted with cold spring water.

  “What happened?” she asked. “When did the nomads attack?”

  “Just after dawn. They rode in quietly, swords sheathed and got amongst the wanderfolk before raising a battle cry.” Balif accepted a clay cup from his loyal retainer. He took a spare sip. “They were not some random scouting party. They knew we were here.” Did he remember seeing Mathi return last night? If he did, he did not mention it.

  The lump in Mathi’s throat grew harder to swallow. It was easy to imagine the truth. Irate at losing his personal treasure, Vollman had tracked Mathi and Treskan. He probably brought some friends along to help waylay the portly gambler and his silent friend. They made no attempt to hide their tracks. The nomads must have been surprised when their quarry left camp. Anyone could have tracked them back to the kender’s camp.

  She found herself studying Balif. His features were subtly different from just a few days ago. His hair was darker, and there were shadows everywhere his clothing ended.

  “They will be back,” Balif said. “Sooner than later. A commander like this Bulnac won’t take being repulsed by wanderfolk very well.”

  “Do you know this Bulnac?”

  “Never put my eyes upon him.” Balif drained the cup. “But I know him. He leads by strength. He can’t accept even a single defeat, or his hold over his followers is broken. He will return, probably with his entire force.”

  “W
hat do we do?” asked Lofotan.

  “The woods are untenable. I had hoped they would provide some cover, but they are too open. We need a better defensive position.”

  They had brought from Silvanost a number of maps drawn by the best cartographers in Silvanos’s realm. They weren’t much help. The land east of the Tanjan river was poorly explored. Many gaps blotted the charts.

  “This river here; is it named?” Balif indicated the short watercourse east of the forest. Two branches of the river joined and flowed south into a small bay.

  “It is not,” Mathi said, scrutinizing the gazeteer on the back of the chart.

  “Call it the Wanderfolk River.” In Elvish it was Thon-Haddaras, ‘Wanderers’ River.’

  The triangle of land between the branches of the newly-named was shown to be wooded on the chart.

  “There is our refuge,” Balif said. “We shall make for it at once.”

  He turned his horse around. Lofotan, frowning, spoke up.

  “My lord, what about the wanderfolk? They seem to have abandoned us.”

  Balif had a brash, winning countenance when he smiled. “Rest assured that the Longwalker and his people will find their way there. Who knows? They may get there ahead of us.”

  As they spoke, small groups of kender came into view, carrying off the dead and tending the wounded. Strange how their actions never looked organized, yet they accomplished what they needed to do in short order.

  There were humans among the dead and wounded too. Balif rode up to one warrior beset on all sides by several kender. He had a black eye, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, covered in blood. His horse had thrown him, and the kender had him cornered.

  “Elder lord!” the man grunted, swinging his leather scabbard at a kender who was fondling his boots. “Pray give me quarter, noble sir! I am besieged.”

  Balif came closer, which made the kender fade into the trees. Gasping for breath, the wounded man propped his back against a tree and sighed.