The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Whose idea was it to make tunnels?” Mathi asked. “Rufus.”

  A hand plucked at Mathi’s sleeve. “How are you, boss?” Mathi’s knees failed her at that point. She sat down before she fell down.

  “Fantastic!” she said trembling. She gathered the astonished kender into her arms and embraced him like a brother.

  “Uh, boss? You’re crushing me.”

  Mathi thrust the little man out at arms’ length. “What do I owe you for my deliverance?” she said happily.

  “Nothing. This one was on me.”

  The short celebration was over when word came up the hill that strong parties of humans were in the woods, many on horseback. In short order the kender came piling back, popped back in their holes, and pulled their lids shut behind them. As miraculous as their sudden appearance had been, their disappearance was equally astonishing.

  The Longwalker remained above ground with a contingent of thirty-odd followers. They formed up in a bunch behind Lofotan and Mathi. The centaurs spread out in front, bows ready.

  A line of mounted men filtered slowly out of the trees. Sunlight sparkled on their upraised spear points.

  “Steady,” Lofotan said. “Remember, most warriors die while running away, not when they stand fast.”

  “Depends on how fast you can run,” replied the Longwalker.

  A small group detached from the line of horsemen and trotted up the hill. Mathi counted six riders. It looked like a parley, and he said as much to Lofotan.

  “Hold those arrows,” the elf told the centaurs.

  Drawing closer, Mathi recognized the massive nomad leader Bulnac. His horse was enormous too, with great shaggy hooves and a back as broad as a banquet table. Arrayed behind him were his lieutenants, decked out in typical savage finery with feathers, beads, shells, and the odd bit of metal here and there.

  Bulnac came straight at the center of the line of stakes, and stopped there, waiting.

  “I guess we’d best meet him,” Lofotan said.

  “Who goes with you?” Mathi asked.

  “All of you. This concerns everyone.”

  The motley knot of centaurs, kender, elf and disguised elves went to meet the nomad chief. Bulnac did not dismount when they approached. He sat high atop his monstrous horse, looking down his flat nose at the strange delegation facing him with a fence of sharpened stakes arrayed between him and then.

  “Who commands here?”

  “I do,” said Lofotan. “The Longwalker leads his own people, and Zakki is chief of our friends, the centaurs.”

  “Ah, I heard there were horse-men on this hilltop. Did you not learn your lesson before? This time there will be no survivors.”

  “You haven’t won yet,” Lofotan replied dryly. “What do want? Or did you come all this way to boast us to death?”

  The chief’s wide white smiled vanished. “You have too long been a thorn in my flesh, elder one. You and those cockroaches,” he sneered at the assembled kender. “I came to tell you not to expect any quarter if there is any further resistance to my taking over this land.” He looked past the defenders, noticing the commanding view from the bluff. “This will make a fine place to build my stronghold.” He smiled again very unpleasantly. “After you are gone.”

  “There’s an old saying among my people,” the Longwalker said. “‘Birds on the wing lay very few eggs.’”

  Bulnac curled a lip. “My steed shall tread on your faces,” he vowed, “unless you abandon the hill now. March away and I will not molest you. That is Bulnac’s mercy, and it is the most you can expect from me.”

  The centaurs’ bows creaked as they nervously tugged at them. Bulnac heard the sound and laughed. “You have your choice: sure slaughter at the hands of my warriors, or return to the land that bore you.”

  He reined around. His minions drew well back, making room for their large leader.

  “You have until the shadow changes right to left.” He pointed to the shadow lines cast by the stakes. From Bulnac’s perspective the morning sun cast their shadows to his right. By the time the sun passed overhead and started down in the west, the stakes’ shadows would switch to the other side. That would take about three to four hours.

  “Away!”

  Bulnac galloped down the hill with his men close behind. The defenders of Balif’s redoubt watched them go, each one pondering the choice they had to make.

  CHAPTER 18

  Exits

  Rufe led everyone to the opposite side of the hill, not far from the edge of the bluff overlooking the river. He went unerringly to a spot by a scraggly cedar tree, dug his fingers in the dirt, and opened a hidden trapdoor.

  Lofotan and Mathi squatted by the hole. It smelled damp.

  “This runs down to the river bank?” asked the elf.

  “Dug it myself,” Rufe vowed.

  “Can we fit in there?”

  Mathi squinted at the narrow hole. It looked possible, but it was not an experience she really desired.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Lofotan said, standing. “Zakki and his kind can’t possibly get through such a small tunnel. We can’t abandon them.”

  They had been discussing what to do about Bulnac’s ultimatum. The mass of nomad horsemen remained at the tree line, waiting for the order to attack. No one believed the ruthless chieftain would really allow them to go. They had caused him too much trouble and deeply injured his pride. No one doubted that once they were out of their defenses, Bulnac’s men would slaughter them.

  “We could jump,” Mathi mused, eyeing the river forty yards below. “If the water is deep enough—”

  “This much,” Rufe replied, holding a hand a few inches over his head. Not nearly enough to break a fall from so high a place as the cliff.

  “Then we shall die together, fighting as honorable warriors!” Zakki declared. Lofotan seemed resigned to just that fate. Treskan fondled his talisman and said little about fighting or fleeing.

  “Whatever happens, let your people disperse,” the elf told the Longwalker. “No sense getting them all killed. Live to fight another day, you understand?”

  “That is what we do, noble captain,” the kender said. He was remarkably calm about the danger hanging over them. It was probably because he had a foolproof exit already worked out, Mathi privately decided.

  They returned to the summit of the hill as the sun reached its zenith. Two hours remained. Mathi broke out the last of Artyrith’s nectar, giving each defender his own bottle. Lofotan questioned the wisdom of that, but the centaurs broke off the bottles’ necks and guzzled the amber nectar happily. Treskan drank more decorously, but he plainly didn’t care if the nomads found him drunk or sober. Still disliking drink, only Mathi abstained.

  The bottles were almost drained when there was a commotion down at the trees. Everyone went to the stakes and shaded their eyes to see what caused the disturbance. Four riders struggled out of the woods through the lines of horsemen already on watch. There was something on the ground between, something dark that rolled and lunged against the riders’ ropes. It didn’t take the defenders long to realize what it was.

  The nomads had captured Balif.

  They made their way up the hill, stopping frequently to maintain control of their furious captive. Ten yards from the stakes one of the nomads called out, “Elf! Elf, are you listening?”

  Lofotan leaned on a slanting stake. “What do you want?”

  “We got something of yours! This your beast?”

  “No.”

  The nomad was crestfallen. He had been looking forward to tormenting Lofotan with his captured property. Now that ugly pleasure had been denied him.

  “Well, I guess you won’t mind if we skin it. It’s got a nice pelt.”

  He drew a long knife. Mathi moved up behind Lofotan and put a hand to his shoulder. Still the old warrior said nothing.

  “Hold him.”

  The riders backed their horses, keeping their ropes taut. The knife wielder got down. Before he got within arm’
s reach Mathi shouted, “No, wait!”

  She spied Rufe out of the corner of his eye. She muttered, “Can your people in the tunnels get to him?” The kender held up his thumb.

  “That’s my beast,” Mathi called. “He’s worth a lot to me. Don’t hurt him.”

  The nomad laughed. “What’ll you give me to not cut him?”

  “What do you want?”

  He made a rude suggestion. Coloring, Mathi drew her sword, grip reversed, and threw it over the stakes. It was a good elf-forged blade, though plain in design.

  “How about its life for that sword? It’s solid bronze, made in Silvanost!”

  The nomad walked to where the blade lay, stuck point first in the soil. Just as he stretched out his hand to take it, four tunnels popped open around him and his comrades. In a flurry, the three riders were unhorsed. The captive beast tore off his bonds with his teeth. The nomad leader never reached the elf sword. Zakki put an arrow in his ribs. He folded like a Silvanesti chair, landing flat on his back. Faster than anyone could prevent it, the beast leaped on him and tore out his throat with his teeth.

  Shocked, the remaining three nomads made a dash for the trees. Their spooked horses beat them there. Blood streaming from his jaws, the beast stood with his fore-paws on the dead man’s chest and roared at his former tormentors.

  Lofotan gave Mathi a shove. “Go get him!”

  “Aren’t you going to help?”

  Face white, the elf snapped, “Get him before the savages come in force!”

  Mathi slipped between the stakes. Hearing her footsteps, the beast whirled, teeth bared. She turned to stone.

  “My lord,” she said evenly, “It is I, Mathi. Your sister.”

  The creature, looking like the misbegotten offspring of a bear and a panther, tilted its head to one side and snarled. Mathi spared a glance down the hill. The nomads were coming to avenge their comrades.

  “Sir,” she said, “come with me behind the stakes. The enemy is coming.” She wanted to say ‘you’ll be safe back there,’ but it was a lie she could not bring herself to speak.

  Mathi held out her hand. If the beast pounced, she wouldn’t be able to get away before it tore her apart.

  “Come, general. Be Balif just a little longer.”

  Mention of his name had an odd effect on the creature. It got off its victim and slunk away in a wide circle, skirting Mathi as widely as it could. It did go through the stakes, and with a single sidelong glance at the other defenders, made for the supply tent. Balif vanished inside.

  Lofotan shouted for Mathi to return. She picked up her sword and rejoined the little band of defenders.

  Riders came up the hill, though not in attack strength. Perhaps forty men rode in tight formation to where the nomad slain by the beast lay. The centaurs leveled their bows, but Lofotan stayed them. Staring and muttering oaths, the nomads recovered the body and departed.

  “What was that about?” Treskan wondered. Nomads were not usually so fastidious about their dead. The ones slain in the morning attack still lay on the hillside.

  “I would say the bully with the knife was someone important,” the Longwalker said.

  So he was. Less than an hour passed, and Chief Bulnac returned with his personal retainers. Mathi was amazed to see that the huge man had been weeping. He ordered his men to stay behind, and rode alone to the stake line. There he hurled a spear point first into the ground and cried, “I claim vengeance! Vengeance for the killer of my son!”

  The Longwalker and his cronies began backing away as quietly as possible. Zakki’s fellows pulled on their death flowers—a centaur custom that involved putting on some item colored red. It didn’t have to be a flower. Usually a red scarf or scrap of red cloth would do. It meant they expected to die.

  Lofotan took Mathi by the arm and whispered in his ear, “This is our chance!”

  Bulnac repeated his challenge, his voice hoarse with grief.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wants single combat with the killer of his son! I’ll fight him, and when I slay him, his followers may melt away in the greenwood!”

  Mathi shook her head. “They’ll play bowls with our heads! What makes you think you can beat that giant anyway?”

  “He’s only a human, and he’s blind with grief and anger.”

  Before Mathi could protest further Lofotan stepped forward and said, “Here I am, savage. I am Lofotan Brodelamath, of House Protector, former captain of the host of the Great Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye!”

  Bulnac pointed his sword at him. “You shall die soon enough, elf, but first I drink the blood of my son’s killer! Where is the monster?” The other nomads had reported truly and told the chief how his son died.

  Lofotan waved Bulnac’s threats aside and said, “You can’t take vengeance on an animal, fool. Fight me in single combat, if you dare.”

  “I’ll fight you elf, and when I do I’ll be wearing the pelt of the monster that slew my Varek! Send it out, or I’ll storm this hilltop with my entire band and torture everyone on it to death!”

  Mathi pulled free of Lofotan’s grip. She started for the supply tent, feeling Bulnac’s burning gaze on her every step of the way. Just outside the tent she said quietly, “My lord, it’s Mathi. I need to speak to you.” There was no answer, but she girded himself and ducked inside.

  The contents of the tent had been torn asunder. Blankets, baskets of provisions, jars of water and oil lay broken, torn, and scattered. Atop the mess lay the beast, hardly moving at all.

  “My lord, do you hear the nomad chief? Do you understand what’s happening? The man you killed was his son. He wants revenge. He demands to fight you in single combat.”

  Still the furry heap did not stir. Mathi drew a deep breath. “If you don’t come out, my lord, Bulnac will kill us all as slowly and painfully as he can imagine.” Which was probably very slowly and painfully indeed. “If you fight and win, my lord, there’s a chance the nomads will quit the siege and spare us. What say you, my lord?”

  Nothing. Trembling despite herself at the thought of Bulnac’s wrath, Mathi turned to go. In one smooth movement the beast was up and slid past her. He looked back at Mathi, and she saw glimmers of intelligence still flickering in the creature’s eyes. Balif understood.

  They walked together to the stakes opposite Bulnac. The centaurs stood in a line and bowed their heads in salute. Serius Bagfull and the kender were nowhere around. Lofotan, unable to bear the sight of his cursed commander, turned his back on the scene. Treskan wrote obsessively on a roll of birch bark.

  “What sort of unnatural creature is this?” Bulnac said.

  Mathi thought quickly. “It’s called a bearcat, the offspring of a bear and a panther.”

  Bulnac spat. “You’re a liar. Two unlike animals cannot breed, any more than birds can father chicks on dogs.”

  Mathi bowed humbly. “You asked, and I told you: a bearcat.”

  Bulnac shoved his sword back in its sheath. “Call it a mud-puppy, it matters not. Soon it will be dead, and all of you with it. Your carcasses will feed my Varek’s funeral pyre!”

  Without being asked he got down from his lofty horse. He tied his reins to a stake, slipped a small round buckler onto his left forearm, and drew his sword again.

  “Any time, monster.”

  The beast who had been Balif sat on his haunches. And sat. At length it yawned, its black tongue curling at the tip.

  Feeling mocked, Bulnac slapped his sword against the boss on his shield. Everyone but Lofotan flinched, but the creature eyed the big warrior with quiet intensity.

  “Enough stupidity!” Bulnac advanced with a roar. He swung his blade with enough force to chop down a sizable tree. Trouble was, the beast was not a tree. It sprang full length from its crouch and hit Bulnac dead center in the chest before he could complete his swing. He staggered back but did not go down. The beast’s front legs were around Bulnac’s neck. The cheek pieces on Bulnac’s helmet saved his face. He tried t
o bring his blade back against the creature, but it released its hold and dropped to the ground, sinking its fangs into Bulnac’s thigh. No armor there.

  Striking out in pain, he rapped the bronze hilt of his blade against the beast’s skull. Stunned, the bearcat fell away and circled, shaking off the blow. A dozen yards back Bulnac’s retinue shouted encouragement and praise at their leader. Blood ran down his face from some minor cuts, and dark blood welled from his thigh wound.

  If he pierced the artery, Mathi thought furiously. If … The smell of freshly spilled blood made her dizzy.

  Bulnac advanced, swinging his blade in wide arcs. The nomad chief did not appreciate that he was dealing with an animal with the strength and reflexes of a great predator but with the mind of a very intelligent elf. He was fighting Balif as if he were a mad dog or raging wolf.

  Watching the bright blade cut the air, the beast timed his lunge for when the sword just passed his nose. He leaped, clamping his powerful jaws on Bulnac’s wrist. Leather gauntlets blunted Balif’s fangs but his full weight dragged the nomad’s arm down. Bellowing defiance, Bulnac actually lifted the creature off the ground with his teeth still gripping his arm. He punched repeatedly with the hilt of his sword until the beast fell to the ground. Mathi reckoned every blow Bulnac landed broke a rib.

  He raised one great leg, meaning to drive his spiked spur into the creature. Blood loss or the pain of his leg wound slowed him enough for Balif to roll aside. He raked his claws across Bulnac’s back, shredding his leather jerkin and scoring the skin beneath.

  Uneasy, the Bulnac’s followers edged closer. A few pulled spears from sleeves hanging from their saddles. Seeing that, Lofotan loudly called for Zakki and his centaurs to raise their bows.

  “First man to throw a spear dies!”