The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  “I yield to you, elder lord,” the man said desperately. “Only save me from those little vultures!”

  “You were keen enough to hunt and harry them before,” Balif replied coldly.

  “Orders, lord. Our chief told us to drive the small ones from the land so that we could claim it as our own.”

  “Your chief is called Bulnac?”

  The wounded man blinked through the sweat and grime streaking his face. “You know our great chief?”

  “His name has reached my ears.”

  Balif ordered the nomad searched. If Lofotan found any elven artifacts on him, he would die on the spot. Bulnac’s raiders had an ugly reputation as plunderers.

  Lofotan groped through the man’s tunic and vest. He found little but a few trinkets of chain.

  “How is his wound?”

  Lofotan had seen many a sword cut in his day. He knew more about them than most healers. Probing the man’s arm he announced no main vessels were cut. The man might die of blood poisoning if not treated, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.

  To Treskan, Balif said, “Find a horse.”

  It took some doing, but he found a nomad horse walking aimlessly a hundred yards away. Catching the animal by its bridle, he led it back to the general.

  “On the horse,” Balif said. “Go to your chief and give him my words: he is to take his warband out of this province, back across to the west bank of the Thon-Tanjan. This land belongs to the Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye, and to his heirs. We will not tolerate his warband on our soil.”

  Suffering but defiant, the wounded warrior took the reins from Treskan.

  “Who are you that you order my chief around like a slave?”

  “I am Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker and general of all his host. I am the son of Arnas Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan. I am known as Balif, loyal servant of the Great Speaker of the Stars.”

  His was a name that was well known to the nomads. The wounded man stood by the horse Mathi had rounded up for him, awestruck.

  “You are the Balif?”

  “None other. Go, and bear my words to your chief.”

  Unaided, the warrior struggled onto his mount. “If I die, my children shall know I crossed swords with Balif, first among warriors! I thank you for my life, noble lord!”

  Weaving a bit, he rode away. Lofotan got back on his animal and said, “Was it wise to tell the humans who you are?”

  “What good is it having a reputation if you can’t use it to intimidate your enemies?” said Balif.

  “Suppose Bulnac isn’t intimidated? Suppose he comes roaring back here in full strength, just to say he defeated and slew the great Balif?” To this the general had no answer but a wry smile.

  Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan loaded the packhorses. By the time they were done the forest had been picked clean. The only traces of the morning’s furious fight were scarred patches on tree trunks, and a few spots of churned up earth. What became of the dead from both sides Mathi could not guess.

  Balif and his party rode off through the woods. Three times before noon they had to hide while nomad patrols galloped past. On the last occasion it looked as if they would be found. A party of nomads entered the forest and searched carefully, probing every gully and leaf pile with their spears. From the small spots and low angles they searched, it appeared that they were after kender rather than elves. Balif kept behind a screen of closely growing myrtles, sword in hand. Armed nomads rode within six yards but passed on, summoned by horn blasts further away.

  After that they witnessed an extraordinary scene. A party of forty or more kender chased five humans on horseback out of the woods. In addition to hoopaks the wanderfolk had an assortment of weapons gleaned from the morning’s battle. How they reached this spot ahead of the mounted elves was a mystery, but they screamed, whistled, shouted, and pelted the nomads out of the woods and onto the plain. Once on open ground the nomads tried to regroup and charge the little people, but their horses could not bear the barrage of stones and noise. Confused and no doubt embarrassed, the humans departed.

  Mathi felt no pity for the nomads. Their brutal treatment of the kender was deplorable, but now that the little folk were aroused—and had discovered they enjoyed tormenting their tormentors—the nomads were in for unimaginable frustration. The nomads deserved their comeuppance.

  At twilight they left the forest to cross open country to the newly named Thon-Haddaras. Their map was unclear of the exact distance to the river. Much of the survey had been done from the sky, by griffon riders, who were notoriously inaccurate at judging distances on the ground from a height. Balif was willing to travel all night if necessary to reach the Thon-Haddaras as soon as possible.

  “All night?” asked Lofotan. “Does my lord mean that?”

  Riding slowly through the high grass, Balif said, “It will not be a problem.”

  Lofotan pulled a coil of chain from his saddlebag. The clinking sound made Balif rein up. He turned his horse sharply right, blocking Lofotan’s path.

  “Do you doubt my word?” he said. Neither the captain, the girl, nor the scribe answered. Fists tight on his reins, the general snapped, “I will not be chained like a beast again! I am in control of myself. Is that clear?”

  Cold as ice, Lofotan replied, “Perfectly, my lord.”

  With a final glare Balif resumed riding. Lofotan held his place until his commander was half a hundred yards ahead. With a soft thump of his heels he started his mount forward. Mathi kept beside him with the pack train trailing behind.

  “We shall not sleep tonight,” the old warrior said quietly.

  “Do you think he will transform?”

  “He already has. The question is, how much?”

  Personally, Mathi thought it was perfectly reasonable of Balif to resent being shackled when the threat of nomad attack was so high.

  Night came on clear and bright with stars. The crescent red moon rose like a bloody smile in the sky, lighting the dry, waving grass with a strange pinkish light. They heard something they hadn’t heard on their travels so far: the howl of a wolf. Savannah wolves had long been driven out of Silvanesti proper. They were common in the mountains, but so far the elves had not encountered any on their journey. Crossing the plain they now heard half a dozen different calls, indication of a sizable pack.

  Lofotan braced his bow. Treskan and Mathi closed up with him, jerking the lines to hurry the packhorses along. At the tail of the group, they would be likely targets if the wolves attacked.

  Balif circled in and out, sometimes leading, sometimes trailing the others. Whenever he came close Mathi studied him for signs that the curse was asserting itself. The changes she’d noticed before were still there, but the full beast-face and features were not in evidence. Mathi did not understand the working of spells. She could not imagine why the Creator would inflict such an erratic spell. Perhaps it was weakening—or perhaps it was designed to torment the sufferer by seeming to fade, only to return more strongly than ever?

  “Wake up, you two.” Lofotan’s voice carried clearly in the warm, still air.

  Mathi sharpened to awareness. Treskan twisted around in the saddle, looking in all directions.

  “What is it?”

  “We’re not alone.” Lofotan had spotted three or four shapes darting through the grass off to their right, about thirty yards away.

  “Wolves?” said the scribe.

  Lofotan nocked an arrow in answer. “Watch behind and on your left,” he said calmly. “The wolf you see is often a feint for the real attack.”

  The horses were certainly aware of the danger. They closed in with each other, rolling their eyes and champing their bits. Mathi drew back and let the pack animals move ahead of her. Her pony, being blinkered, was less sensitive than the baggage animals. She knew he had the predators’ scent when he bobbed his head and snorted defiantly. Mathi tapped him with her heels to keep him moving. If he stopped, it
might occur to him to shed his rider, then make a break for it.

  Balif was out in front a dozen yards or so. His bow was unstrung. His sword rested in its scabbard. He had to know the pack was around them, but still he rode slowly ahead, weaving back and forth across their line of march. What was he doing?

  All at once Lofotan sat up as high as he could in his saddle, bent his bow, and loosed an arrow into the pale red shadows. He was rewarded with a yelp and a thrashing in the grass. Treskan started toward the spot. Lofotan ordered him to stop.

  “I’ll finish him off,” said the scribe, raising his spear.

  “It might be a ruse.” Wolves were known to do that, fake an injury or death, to draw an unwise hunter close.

  The thrashing in the grass stopped. Lofotan’s horse slowly came to a halt.

  “Where’s my lord?”

  Balif’s horse was coming back to them, reins trailing on the ground. There was no sign of the general, and no traces on his mount to suggest he had transformed into a beast and been thrown off as before.

  A howl erupted close by. Lofotan whirled, arrow drawn back to his ear. Something low and dark was rushing at them through the grass. Balif’s horse reared and neighed.

  “Don’t!” Mathi called. “It might be him!”

  Lofotan thought of that too. He held his draw magnificently, holding the eighty pound recurve bow as steady as stone. The creature charging Balif’s horse gathered its legs and leaped. With only a moment to choose, Lofotan loosed his arrow.

  It hit the hurtling beast dead in the ribs. Balif’s horse gave a start, jumping sideways as the lifeless body hurtled past it. At Lofotan’s direction Mathi went to look at it. It was a fine specimen of a male savannah wolf, brown all over, weighing maybe sixty pounds.

  “It’s a wolf!” she said, relieved. “Dead as a stone!”

  The words had hardly left her lips when a second beast exploded from the grass and knocked Lofotan from his saddle. Shouting, Mathi rushed to his rescue. The beast had clamped its powerful jaws on the elf’s right forearm, which fortunately was sheathed in bronze. They struggled, but Lofotan drew his dagger with his left hand and plunged it into his attacker’s ribs once, twice. He threw the heavy slack form off and got up in time to dodge Treskan’s well-meaning spear-thrust.

  The packhorses bucked and reared, tearing at the lines that bound them together. Two wolves had the lead pony by the throat. Lofotan had lost his bow in his fall. He snatched the spear from Treskan and raced to rescue the pony. The scribe was left with just his sword, which he barely knew how to use.

  A low, rolling growl behind Mathi froze her blood to ice. She turned slowly and saw a large black beast whose head and chest fur were shot through with gray advancing on him. Tugging at her sword, she backed away, swearing in Elvish.

  Black lips curled, the wolf displayed long, broken teeth. He was the elder chief of his pack, powerful, and with a gleam of cruel intelligence in his eyes. Words died in Mathi’s mouth. All her spit seemed to have suddenly dried up.

  Lofotan was battling two wolves at once. He speared one, pinning it to the turf, but the other leaped on his back. He went down. Treskan was swinging his sheathed sword like a club, trying to ward off a pale colored she-wolf.

  The old wolf was little more than three paces away. Mathi gripped the sword in both hands to steady it.

  She heard a shout. Slashing through the tall grass came Balif. He swung his sword wide, cutting a swath through the weeds. Seeing Mathi about to be attacked, he shouted again, whipping off his cloak and wrapping it around his unarmored left arm.

  The wolf recognized a more dangerous opponent had joined the fray and quickly forgot Mathi, turning to face Balif. The elf general didn’t wait for the beast to spring. He plunged in, sword high. The old wolf didn’t go for his open left arm, as Mathi thought he would. He jumped headlong at Balif’s chest.

  Not one warrior in a hundred would have stood their ground to receive the blow. Balif did. His sword was high, and he moved his free hand to join the other on the grip. He shouted—he bellowed—a challenge so loud and so unelflike Mathi believed for an instant that he had become a beast again. Down came the fine elf blade. Behind the general’s head Lunitari gleamed like red horns atop his head.

  There was a loud crack. Balif staggered backward, worked his blade free, and swung again. The old wolf dropped in a heap at his feet, his skull split in two.

  That was amazing enough. For Balif’s strength and reflexes to be so great as to cut the wolf down in mid-leap was astonishing. What happened next was terrifying.

  Not satisfied with his victory, Balif stood over the fallen creature and plunged his sword into it again and again. He kicked the carcass, shouting incoherently. Angered that the wolf did not rise up and fight more, he threw aside his sword and drew a knife. As Mathi watched in horror, he stabbed the dead wolf half a dozen times until blood covered his hands and spattered his handsome face.

  His rage satiated, Balif stood up. His eyes met Mathi’s.

  It was not the same elf she had met in Silvanost scant weeks ago. They stared at each other, eyes locked, until Lofotan’s calls for help broke the spell. With a flash of teeth Balif smiled and darted away, carrying only his knife.

  He drove off the wolf harrying his majordomo, who had cuts and bites on his hands. Lofotan thanked his lord until he saw his bloody hands and face. His thanks died in his throat.

  “More out there,” Balif said, his voice low and gruff. Wolves were howling in retreat. Knife in hand, Balif raced off into the grass. Mathi watched him go. It was plain the general meant to hunt down and kill every animal in the pack.

  CHAPTER 16

  Defenses

  Lofotan poured tepid water from his waterskin over his wounds. Some hours had passed since Balif had run off after the fleeing wolves.

  “If he isn’t back by dawn we’ll have to find him,” he said wearily.

  “What if he doesn’t want to be found?” Mathi said. The old warrior trickled more water on his cuts. “Worse, what if we find him and he won’t come with us?”

  “My lord will not roam the plain like a savage beast.”

  Mathi noted the strung bow, the quiver of arrows, and the ready spear. Lofotan’s meaning was clear.

  Later, when daylight was breaking, Lofotan shouldered his spear and set out to find his commander. Mathi and Treskan followed on foot, leading the horses. Lofotan tried to order them to stay behind, but they were in no mood to obey. There was safety in numbers, so the girl and scribe followed, and there was nothing short of violence Lofotan could do to stop them.

  It was a short hunt. Just as the first rays of the sun were piercing the sky Balif came into view on the northern horizon, loping along at a jaunty pace. His old comrade halted and waited. Balif arrived, dishevelled but beaming. Under one arm he carried a bundle of fur. Without being asked he whisked it open, revealing a fine wolf pelt, freshly skinned.

  “This was the best of them,” he said proudly. “What do you think?”

  “Did you kill them all?” asked Mathi.

  Again the sly smile. “Not all. Just the four largest males.” The rest of the pack had scattered to the winds to escape his remorseless pursuit.

  “This is not right, my lord.” Balif asked what he meant. “To exact such a punishment on wild animals is not just. Astarin teaches that all creatures have a right to life, according to their natures. Wolves hunt for food. You killed them for sport,” Lofotan said.

  Balif tensed, like a predator poised to pounce. “Sport? I killed them for a very good reason!” They waited for him to explain. “By scattering the pack and killing its leaders, I have shown them who rules this land now—” He visible relaxed and said simply, “Me.”

  Balif’s horse, having borne up under his earlier transformations and forgiven its rider, steadfastly refused to allow Balif on its back. The general grew angry as the animal danced away from him, rearing when Balif took hold of his bridle. Lofotan offered his mount, but his horse
wouldn’t allow Balif on his back either. Something very fundamental about the general had changed. His companions were beginning to recognize it. The horses already knew.

  Balif said, “Looks like I walk.”

  So he did, all morning at an amazing pace. The day waxed hot. Biting flies homed in on the horses but also feasted on targets of opportunity, like Mathi. A band of dark trees appeared on the eastern horizon, growing each hour until the view was filled from north to south. According to their griffon-made charts, the forest surrounded the confluence of the two streams that made up the Thon-Haddaras.

  The kender were already there.

  Wanderfolk in oversized helmets, sporting spears and too-long swords greeted them at the edge of the woods. Hot and thirsty, Balif brushed past them into the shade, where he sat down demanding a drink. Treskan tied the pack team and brought him a bottle of spring water.

  “Greetings, Illustrious General!” the kender said, crowding around.

  “Greetings to you. Is the Longwalker around?”

  “By the river, Glorious General.”

  How do they get around so quickly? Mathi wondered. By her reckoning, being on horses and pushing as they did, they ought to have been two or three days ahead of any kender crossing the plain on foot. But no …

  “Fetch him at once.”

  Kender were not usually good at taking orders, but three of them dashed away to carry out Balif’s request. Treskan and Mathi prepared a long-delayed meal, which Balif ate alone under a broad maple tree. His companions ate standing up by the horses, which they watered and fed next.

  Serius Bagfull, Longwalker of the wanderfolk, arrived after a kenderish interval. He wore a new hat woven of vines and leave plucked from the banks of the Wanderfolk River. The kender with him—they weren’t his retainers, just whatever curious little people who chose to tag along—were likewise decked out in fresh greenery.

  “Nice place, General!” he declared. Apparently the banks of the river abounded in fruit trees, and the water was well stocked with fish, freshwater mussels, and tiny lobsters the kender found good to eat.