The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

Bulnac lost his buckler when the beast tore it off his arm. Balif went for his throat. The chief got his sword up in time, and the creature was cut deeply across the chest.

  The beast leaped away, turned and gazed at his foe with his fiery eyes. Panting, Bulnac threw down his unwieldy sword and drew instead a heavy dagger with a blade just ten inches long.

  “Come, monster. Let us get closer.” His words were little more than a whisper.

  The sun was settling below the trees. Bulnac’s original ultimatum had expired. Large numbers of warriors filtered through the trees, ready to join the promised attack. When their comrades on the spot told them what was going on, they joined the silent throng at the forest edge, watching their chief do battle with the monster that killed his son.

  Then the beast astounded them all.

  It leaned back, raising its front legs off the ground. As everyone looked on, the bearcat straightened its back and staggered upright. When it stood erect, it bared its teeth and snarled.

  The hair on Mathi’s neck prickled. The snarl sounded just like Balif saying “Ha!”

  He lumbered forward, forelegs outstretched. Bulnac spat blood and waited, dagger drawn. Mathi expected the beast to go right at him and try to slash him with his claws. Balif closed to little more than arm’s length. He twisted, dropped to the ground, and picked up Bulnac’s discarded sword. He couldn’t grip it properly, but he held it tightly between his paws. The nomad chief drew back, startled. Rearing his arms up, Balif flung the sword. It whirled point over pommel at its owner. Bulnac tried to parry the flying blade with his dagger. It whirled past his outthrust arm. The point hit him below the breastbone and sank in.

  Color fled the nomad’s face. The dagger fell from his fingers. Bulnac gripped the sword with both hands and tried to pull it out. He never got the chance. The beast hurled himself at the pommel, driving the blade through the chief’s gut. Two feet of bloody bronze burst from Bulnac’s back. He toppled backward with the beast embracing him.

  For a moment silence reigned. Zakki raised his bow over his head and screeched in triumph. His comrades echoed his cry. Mathi was surprised to hear herself shouting too. The thrill of victory quickly paled when she wondered what the multitude of nomad warriors would do now that their leader was dead.

  Battered and bleeding, the beast stalked slowly back through the sharpened stakes. When he was well out of reach, Bulnac’s retainers rode silently forward. They surrounded their fallen chief and lifted his body onto the back of his enormous steed. Without a word or second glance, they went down the hill where they were swallowed by a throng of quiet warriors.

  The defenders braced for an attack. Night fell, and the nomads did not come. Through the darkness Mathi and the others watched the glow of a large bonfire, burning on a hilltop less than a mile away. It blazed most of the night, fading into the dark an hour or two before dawn.

  CHAPTER 19

  Brothers

  When the funeral pyre of their chief burned out, the nomads took up their arms and prepared to avenge his death by destroying the stubborn defenders of Balif’s bluff.

  Three times they came before sun-up. Their first thrust was mounted. The nomads formed at the foot of the hill and slowly ascended without battle cries. They came to grief when their horses stepped on the flimsy lids of the kender’s tunnels. Many riders were overthrown, and the rest stopped in confusion, certain the land was pocked with pits deliberately designed to trap their horses. The first attack was called off. Back down the hill went the nomads, to reform for another assault, this time on foot.

  Inside the tunnels, the kender took the sudden breakthrough of horse hooves as an indication they were the target of the attack. Faster than you could say ‘Rufus Wrinklecap,’ they abandoned their holes, pouring out on the dewy turf at the top of the hill. Lofotan hurriedly tried to work them into companies of a hundred each, but he could never get an accurate count. As soon as one company was mustered, the elf moved on to the next, only to find many of the same kender lining up. They denied it, of course, but Lofotan gave up. He told the Longwalker to keep his people behind the stakes and have at any humans who came their way.

  Mathi brought water and food—what little there was—to the supply tent after dark. Balif huddled inside, nursing his wounds. Any attempt by Mathi to enter the tent was met with snarls and swipes of his formidable claws. Thereafter she kept a vigil outside, ready to respond to any need the general might express. From time to time she was spelled by Treskan, who had acquired an ugly cut on his face and assorted bruises.

  He was joined outside the tent by Rufe, who appeared out of nowhere and sat cross-legged on the ground next to Treskan. He nodded to Rufe. Rufe nodded back. Neither spoke for a long time.

  “Looks like you won’t be getting the horse we owed you,” Treskan said.

  “Eh? Why not?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Always stout-hearted, aren’t you?”

  Morning peepers sang to them. Out of nowhere Rufe asked the scribe where he came from.

  “Woodbec,” he said

  “Is that on the south coast?” asked Rufe.

  “No, inland.”

  Rufe gave a him probing glance. “Will you be going back there?”

  “Yes, sooner than I thought.”

  “Tell them my name,” said Rufe. Treskan didn’t understand, so Rufe repeated, “Tell the people of your home my name. That way when I come to visit, they’ll know who I am.”

  Treskan smiled. “I shall do that.”

  The warning “Here they come!” went up from the wall. In the lull since Bulnac’s duel, the defenders had thrown up a flimsy barrier of tree limbs to bridge the unfinished line of stakes. Mathi ran up, carrying spare spears and a helmet for Treskan.

  Rufe got up, dusted the seat of his pants, and walked toward the makeshift barricade.

  “Where are you going?” Mathi said.

  “Where I am needed.”

  Mathi suddenly felt concern for the little man. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

  The nomads came tramping up the hill on foot, stopping frequently to inspect open kender holes. Some had the bright notion of turning the tunnels against their makers, but the shafts were too narrow to admit bulky humans.

  Lofotan flung arrows at them. He had only two sheafs of arrows left of the supply they had packed from Silvanost, a hundred arrows in all. The centaurs had even fewer. They held their missiles until the nomads were in range of their weaker bows. Lastly the Longwalker’s kender piled up projectiles for their hoopaks, slings, and what diminutive bows they possessed. Their range was short, but in the last critical moment of a charge, they could add a critical weight to the defenders’ barrage.

  The humans were hampered by having to shoot their arrows uphill, but enough fell behind the stakes to make the defenders anxious. Every time a kender was injured, two or three of his comrades immediately bore him off to the far side of the hill. The slow but steady loss weakened the line. Mathi stalked among them, trying to convince them to return, but the kender evaded her outstretched arms and ignored her pleas.

  “It’s our time!” the Longwalker shouted. A hail of strange missiles lashed the nomads. Mathi could swear she saw a bone white goat skull, complete with horns, hurtle at the enemy along with the stones and darts. The humans put their shields up. Flying junk rattled off them with considerable noise. Those with their chests exposed took a beating from Zakki’s centaurs. who shot them down easily.

  Still the throng of nomads surged forward, reaching the stakes. They began pushing and pulling at the obstacle, even climbing the slanting poles to pull them down. The defenders backed up a pace, then another, until Lofotan was standing alone in front of everyone. Zakki galloped to him and begged him to retire. The elf nodded curtly, slung his bow over his shoulder, and drew his sword.

  Treskan opened his collar and fished out his precious talisman. His mouth moved with unheard words—a prayer to his patron gods? Seeing about a thousand naked swords squeezing t
hrough the fence would make anyone pray. He closed his fingers tightly around the small golden trinket.

  A dozen or so nomads peeled off from the main band and head for the supply tent. She shouted a warning, but no one could hear a single cry amidst the cacophony of battle. Mathi bared her sword and sprinted for the tent. Treskan saw her alarm and broke away to follow her. Halfway there it sank in what he was doing.

  “I’m running toward twelve armed men carrying a sword! They’ll kill me—I’m not a warrior, I’m a historian!” he cried.

  “I’m not a warrior either, so run more and talk less!” Mathi retorted.

  The thought of Balif being overwhelmed by a mob of angry nomads put fire in her veins. Shouting and waving her blade, she tried to divert the men from the tent.

  Four faced off against them. The rest slashed down the ropes and trampled the tent. They thrust their sword into any likely heap under the canvas. Converging on the center, they stabbed again and again. Then the bulge in the center of the fallen tent ripped apart, revealing Balif.

  He had changed again. He had regained part of his elf nature. All along his beastliness had waxed or waned according to some arcane purpose known only to Vedvedsica. He had been fully beastlike for a while, but now Balif stood up like any elf or man. He was covered in fur still, but his frame was more normally configured. His sudden change in appearance startled the nomads, who hesitated. Seizing on their indecision, Balif grabbed a spear from the stock stored in the supply tent and impaled the closest warrior.

  The reverse of fortune made the men rushing Mathi and Treskan halt and turn back. Mathi cried, “General! General, behind you!” Balif whirled, using the spear shaft to drive back anyone trying to ambush him from behind. Mathi found herself trading sword cuts (of all things!) with a distracted nomad who was busy watching Balif slash his comrades to pieces. Treskan swung his weapon like a crowbar, connecting with a nomad’s bearded face and laying him flat.

  With four nomads dying in the dirt, the others gave up their attempt to slay Balif and fell back to rejoin the main attack. Mathi made her way to where Balif stood, shoulders hunched, staring at the retreating humans.

  “My lord, are you all right?”

  His head snapped around. A face that was definitely Balif’s glowered behind the fur.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “Yes, my lord.” Panting, Mathi added, “Shall we rejoin the battle?”

  He kicked through the tent wreckage and strode to where the nomad horde struggled to overcome the small band of defenders. The sight of the half-beast general, stalking to the forefront of the fight, distracted everyone. Actual fighting dwindled, then petered out. Both sides withdrew a few steps and gazed in wonder at the strange creature standing between them.

  “I am Balif!” he declared. His voice was rough and low, but distinct and recognizable. “I slew your chief and your chief’s son. By right of combat I am your chief now!”

  “Beast!” someone cried. “Monster!”

  “Yes, I am a beast. I am also master of this land!” He held out his spear point first and swept his arm in a wide circle. “All this I claim for myself and my people.”

  “What people, beast?”

  He gestured at the crowd of kender and centaurs behind him. The Longwalker proudly took his place at Balif’s side.

  “Here is the chief of my people. This land is theirs. Any who wishes to dispute this may challenge my right with his blood!”

  Mathi trembled. She never imagined the enemy of her kind could be so noble or so valiant. Oh, she had heard the tales of Balif’s wit and valor, but she had always been taught that Silvanesti were vain, spoiled creatures, cruel and cold. He was not the Balif she saw now. Wracked by an all-consuming curse, the general had rallied enough to stand and speak, and to challenge his enemies to face him singly. Brave warriors all, the nomads had seen how Balif had defeated Bulnac and Varek. They understood they were not dealing with a trained animal like their hunting dogs, but an accursed elf of power and intelligence. They kept their distance.

  “What are you?” a human voice demanded, albeit with respect

  Balif put his hand on the Longwalker’s shoulder to steady himself. His body had been shaped and re-shaped, and standing was not easy.

  “I am Balif, protector of the Wanderfolk.”

  “You killed our great chief!”

  “The fight was fair. Who says it was not?” No one replied.

  Sunlight brightened the scene. In all the furor no one had noticed the dawn approaching. Balif averted his face from the new day’s glare. It hurt his eyes.

  “Go and trouble this land no longer!” he said, wincing. “So long as Balif lives, this land shall belong to the Wanderfolk!”

  Many of the nomads, already disheartened by the death of Bulnac, lowered their arms and walked away. Firebrands among them tried to rouse their fighting spirit and rally the others, but the slow decay of their morale rapidly became a full-scale collapse. Too many of them had no reason left to fight. They were used to roaming a wide range, grazing their herd animals and raiding their settled neighbors. Following Bulnac, they expected rich plunder and easy adventure. What they had got was endless miles of plain and forest, feisty little people and warlike centaurs. Bulnac paid for his ambition with his life. His men, a great many of them at least, preferred not to do the same.

  In time even the stalwarts decided to withdraw. They backed away, glaring balefully at the weary defenders of Balif’s redoubt. No one bothered them so long as their direction was down the hill.

  Mathi came to Balif. “Rejoice, my lord!”

  Still in view of the humans, Balif stayed standing. He opened one eye against the sunlight to see her. Mathi was startled to see that his eye was yellow-green, with a vertical slit pupil like a cat’s.

  “Why should I rejoice?” he rasped.

  “You have just founded a new nation.”

  “No.” He shuddered. “I shed blood. This one will found a nation.”

  So saying, he let go of the Longwalker’s shoulder and collapsed. Treskan rushed over. Balif lay on his side, twitching uncontrollably. The centaurs and most of the kender were coming.

  Mathi grasped the Longwalker by his vest. “Keep them away,” she whispered. “Don’t let them see him like this!”

  Serius Bagfull nodded and went to intercept the jubilant defenders. He spread his arms wide and declaimed about the new day, how it was the dawn of a new nation for their people. Listening with half an ear, Treskan pronounced the Longwalker a true politician. The kender leader knew what to say and when to say it.

  Mathi spread a cloak over Balif. The general was trembling as though with fever; the corners of his eyes and his lips were stained with a strange black liquid. She feared for Balif’s life. Was he dying? If so, there was nothing Mathi could do about it.

  Horns blared in the woods far down the slope. Fearing a return of the nomads, the kender panicked and fled to far end of the bluff. Zakki and his comrades, reduced to just five, fought to escape the flood of little people bearing them away from the line of stakes.

  Mathi rose, looking for Lofotan. The valiant old warrior had made himself scarce when Balif appeared. Alerted by the horns, he had joined the centaurs with bow in hand. His last sheaf of arrows lay at his feet.

  The clash of arms reached up from the trees. No one understood. Were the nomads fighting each other? It was possible. Humans were by nature very fractious, and nomads in particular were always ready to fight each other if no other enemy was available.

  The horns sounded again, louder and closer. Lofotan stiffened. He lowered his bow.

  “Those are brass horns,” he said, puzzled. Nomads used rams’ horns

  The truth dawned. Treskan spoke for all when he cried, “Silvanesti!”

  They could make out nothing from the hilltop. A great thrashing and crashing filled the woods, punctuated by shouts and the clang of metal. Zakki wanted to run down the hill and see what was going on, but Lofotan restraine
d him. If there were elves below, they might not know that the centaurs were allies.

  Mathi had no such worries. She vaulted through the line of stakes and sprinted down the bloody hill. Lofotan called to her, but she waved the elf’s words away and kept going. The hillside was a maelstrom of kender pits, slain horses and men, lost arms and spent arrows. Near the bottom, by the spot where they had cut so many saplings, she paused.

  Riders in bright bronze armor rode through the trees trading blows with nomad warriors. There were a lot of them, at least as many as the humans, and they steadily drove Bulnac’s men back. Mathi heard a peculiar roar overhead. A shadow passed over her. She looked up and saw griffons in the sky, wheeling and diving. There was no doubt who the newcomers were. Only Silvanesti rode griffons.

  The thick green woods screened the nomads from aerial assault, but the sight and smell of griffons terrified their horses. They pitched their riders and bolted, half-mad to escape their ancestral enemies. With that, the third and last battle of the day was over.

  The horse-riding elves pursued the fleeing foe, but the griffon riders circled back to the summit and landed. Mathi mopped sweat from her face and went up the hill to meet them.

  They were splendid figures, the griffon riders. Chosen for their dexterity, grace, and slimness, they were the most elegant warriors Mathi had ever seen. Unlike cavalry or foot soldiers, they wore armor only on their lower limbs, a helmet, and close-fitting cream-colored silk garments with gold or scarlet sashes. Their weapons were very long, slender lances made of some translucent material—glass, or rock crystal elongated by some secret technique of the elves.

  The griffon riders remained mounted. As Mathi approached, the fierce creatures spread their wings and clawed the ground with their taloned forefeet. They knew instinctively that she was not what she appeared to be. Mathi halted well out of reach of the keen, cold-eyed griffons.

  “Greetings!” she said. “Your arrival is most timely!”

  The griffon riders did not answer. Their mounts screeched and bobbed their heads in a very distracted manner. The nearest rider, who had the tallest crest on his helmet, addressed Mathi. His voice was muffled by the nasal bar and wide cheek pieces of his headgear.