The Forest King aot-4

by Paul B. Thompson

  Two strong hands seized the front of her gown. She was dragged forcefully forward, losing the light rod in the process. Whirled aroundand thrown down, Mathi found a foot planted on her throat before she even had time to protest.

  A face bent low over. “It is the girl. Let her up.”

  Artyrith stood back. Treskan helped Mathi stand.

  Lofotan said, “My apologies for the rough welcome. Since we were forced in here, we haven’t found out who has confined us or why.”

  Mathi compared her experiences with the others’. Lofotan and Treskan had been taken exactly as she was, at the dining table. The strange gag paralyzed them. The old warrior and the awkward scribe were stripped of weapons and carried to that room (larger than Mathi’s cell), where they found Artyrith already a prisoner.

  “Where’s our lord?” she asked.

  Artyrith said they were separated when they were dragged out of the dining hall.

  “Of more immediate interest is how did you escape?” said the cook.

  Mathi described Rufe in some detail as she had never encountered such a being before.

  “Sounds like the race said to be invading the eastern province,” Lofotan remarked. He picked up the dropped luminar, ruby red and failing. “It’s cracked.” He hefted it like a club. “We must find our lord at once. He may be in worse danger than the rest of us.”

  They pulled apart the chairs and divided the sturdy wooden legs among themselves. Hardly fine weapons but under the circumstances they would have to do.

  Lofotan led the way, club in one hand and the dying luminar in the other. The passage outside ran straight another twenty yards then ended on a sharp left turn. They tried all the doors along the way but found no one.

  “This will take all night!” Artyrith fumed. He slipped ahead of the cautious soldier and boldly grasped the latch of the next door. He flung it open, calling out, “My lord, are you here?”

  Balif wasn’t in the room. But eight elf warriors were. They had stumbled into a guard room.

  “Oh, E’li!” gasped Lofotan.

  Artyrith uttered a wild yell and launched himself at the nearest soldiers. They scrambled to their feet, groping for arms they weren’t carrying. All their swords and pole arms were neatly racked on the back wall. Lofotan propelled Treskan forward to join the fray, while Mathi hung back.

  Swinging his club, Artyrith connected twice in two sweeps. Down went an opponent with each blow. Lofotan kicked over a stray chair and threw the dark luminar at his closest foes. Treskan flailed around a bit, beating the air but not hitting any opponents.

  By then the whole room was engulfed in a wild melee. Artyrith proved to be a remarkably adroit fighter. He dueled with his length of wood as if it were a sword, besting one warrior after another. Lofotan was as formidable as his age and experience could make him. He wasn’t as stylish as the cook, but he made no mistakes. Inept as he was, even Treskan held his own in the chaos, keeping warriors busy until his more martial comrades could deal with them.

  Impressed by her companions’ skill, Mathi stayed by the door. She was no warrior, and she was certainly not fit to battle eight Silvanesti hand to hand. Lingering in the open door with a chair leg held tight against her chest, she flexed her fingers, nervous but unwilling to join the fray. She did shout warnings when Artyrith or Lofotan were in danger of being outflanked. The Silvanesti soldiers fought bravely, but they seemed reluctant to do the kind of damage Artyrith and Lofotan were willing to inflict. Sensing defeat, one of the warriors decided to get help.

  Seeing him sprint for the door, Lofotan barked, “Stop him, girl!”

  Not knowing what else to do, Mathi stuck her stave out at knee height. The rushing elf tripped on it and crashed headfirst into the stone wall outside.

  When the rest were subdued, Artyrith came to see if the fleeing elf was taken care of. He picked up Mathi’s stick-she had dropped it during the collision-and handed it back to her.

  “Well done.”

  Lofotan helped himself to a sword from the wall rack. He tossed one underhand to the cook, who caught it neatly in midair. Treskan’s he pressed into the scribe’s hand.

  “One for you, Mathi,” he said next. She shook her head.

  “Take one anyway. If either of us loses ours, yours can be our spare.”

  After inspecting the corridor, Lofotan slipped out. Artyrith followed with a swagger, and Treskan went behind him, nursing a bruised hand. Looking over the devastated room and its prostrate residents, Mathi turned and went through the door after her comrades.

  Sword in hand, Lofotan strode the corridor with new authority. He flung open doors defiantly, loudly calling for Balif by his forest name, Camaxilas. He found no one but some startled civilians doing an inventory in a nearly empty storeroom. No one tried to impede them.

  The passage ended at some double doors. Lofotan indicated to Treskan, Artyrith, and Mathi that they were to stand on either side of the doors and at his signal, open them simultaneously. When they were in place, Lofotan composed himself, resting his sword against his shoulder.

  “Now!”

  The doors flew inward with a bang. In they rushed, Lofotan leading with sword leveled.

  The room beyond was a large one with a vaulted ceiling. A forest of candelabra brightly burned. Dominating the room was a large ivorywood table. It was set for dinner, but only two were seated: a noble-looking Silvanesti-Dolanath Arkesian, the governor, Mathi recalled-and their missing leader, Balif.

  It took all of Lofotan’s control not to exclaim, “My lord!” when he saw the general. Artyrith was not so contained. He muttered one of his famous obscenities. Treskan merely gaped.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Dolanath said.

  “My journey companions,” Balif said, rising from his chair. “Come in, please.”

  “What’s the meaning of overcoming us with magic and throwing us in cells?” Artyrith snapped at the governor. “Most inhospitable, I say!”

  Dolanath looked to Balif. “Very unfortunate, I agree,” said the general. “I was on the point of winning your freedom when you burst in.” He could not help but smile. “Seems my companions could not be held, my lord governor.”

  A rush of footfalls in the corridor announced the belated arrival of the governor’s guard. They surrounded Balif’s comrades, but Lofotan’s scowl and Artyrith’s expert sweeps of his blade kept them at a respectful distance.

  “Peace, everyone,” Balif said. “Weapons are not needed.”

  Reluctantly they allowed their swords to be taken away, except for Mathi, who gladly pressed hers on the closest soldier. The guards withdrew, closing the doors behind themselves. Dolanath offered the elves places at his table. Warily, Lofotan complied. Treskan went straight to the nectar urn. Artyrith circled the table, sniffing and tasting the proffered fare. He made faces or nodded, depending on what he thought of the dishes. Mostly he grimaced. Mathi sat at the far end of the table, as far from Dolanath as she could be.

  “I beg your forgiveness, gentle elves,” said the governor, not sounding contrite in the slightest. “But the timing of your visit was unfortunate. We had no advance word of your coming, and you arrived in the midst of a siege.”

  “Siege?” said Lofotan. “We’re not at war. I saw no army outside.”

  “Nevertheless.” Dolanath sat down. “We are besieged and for some weeks now.”

  The enemy was not an army or a mob of uncouth human savages. They were a seldom-seen horde of diminutive people, who had the uncanny ability to pass in and out of the fortress at will. Mathi’s ears pricked up: Who else could the governor be talking about but Rufe? Rufe and numerous friends, it seemed.

  Vital stores had been looted, civilian traders picked clean, and nothing the governor tried to protect royal property made any difference, the governor explained. Desperate, Dolanath had taken the extraordinary step of detaining every visitor on the weak premise they might be allies of the mysterious invaders. Hence the unexpected seizure of Balif and hi
s party.

  Dolanath was an easterner, a minor member of the Hestanthalas clan. While he undoubtedly did know the name of Balif, he had not recognized the general. The governor simply revived Balif first, on the natural premise that he was the leader of his group. After some dinner and conversation masquerading as interrogation, Dolanath became convinced that Balif and his company were indeed on a mission to survey land for future settlement.

  “You won’t have an easy time,” he warned. “Beyond the Thon-Tanjan, the land is infested with every sort of barbarian-humans of every size and color, centaurs, and those monstrous little thieves. Our outposts are few. There is no possibility I can protect you out there.”

  “I thank you for your concern, my lord. No doubt you have noticed my friends and I can take care of ourselves.”

  Artyrith laughed but the governor was not amused.

  “Your companions are formidable, Camaxilas, but how will you fare against a thousand nomad cutthroats?”

  Balif had fought armies of ten thousand human tribesmen and once even served under the barbarian chief Karada against a notorious band of human marauders. Mounted nomad raiders were not to be trifled with, but the general knew them and understood their ways. As for centaurs, they were mercurial creatures, violent one moment and weepingly sentimental the next. Balif could deal with them too if he must. Avoiding the issue of his experience with the elves’ enemies, Balif asked about the new invaders, the “little thieves” who had Dolanath so frustrated.

  “They are the spawn of Hiddukel!” he declared. “They come near and seem innocent of evil purpose. Before you know it, your purse is gone, your food purloined, and your wits confounded. They must use wicked magic to cloud minds and steal with impunity!”

  Before the siege began, Dolanath explained, there had been a wooden ramp that allowed travelers to enter and leave Free Winds. Guards posted at the foot of the ramp inspected everyone coming and going to make sure duties were paid and contraband not taken from Free Winds.

  “Contraband?” asked Artyrith.

  “By decree of the Speaker, it is forbidden to trade metals or weapons to humans,” Balif said. “Go on, governor.”

  One of the little persons got into the fortress. He was seen but before anyone could stop him, he was inside. Since then chaos had reigned in Free Winds. No door remained locked. Treasuries were emptied or, more strangely, found intact but moved around. One humble dealer in herbs and roots found his coin box stuffed with gold, while a rich jewel trader had his entire stock vanish in a single night. The gate of the governor’s keep-supposedly the most secure place in Free Winds-was mysteriously opened; then just as unexpectedly, it was shut and locked. The keep was penetrated again then closed again despite a standing watch. Dolanath ordered it barricaded shut in case a storming party tried to enter in the confusion, and by dawn the gate was standing wide open once more with a bulwark of timbers fruitlessly intact behind it.

  Mathi almost laughed. Rufe had already proven, to her, his uncanny talent for coming and going as he pleased; that, coupled with a penchant for pilfering, had reduced the governor of Free Winds to impotence. Her odd savior was obviously having a grand time at Dolanath’s expense.

  Mathi’s amusement must have shown. Dolanath looked down his nose at the girl and said, “Do you find crime a jest, child?”

  She sobered. “No, my lord. It all sounds more like mischief than crime, I would say.”

  “You have not endured it. For me, a loyal servant of the Great Speaker, these torments have been like an endless battle. I have no visible opponent, no chance to employ tactics or counterattack. I can only endure losses.”

  It was clear that whatever they might find farther east, there were already members of the new race in Free Winds. As long as Rufe and his kind found entertainment around the dreary, elven outpost, they would continue to make the governor’s life unbearable.

  Balif pushed back his chair and stood. Thanking Dolanath for his belated hospitality, he excused himself for bed. Lofotan loyally got up, as did Treskan and Mathi. Artyrith lingered over his plate, trying to season the provincial meal with careful dollops of herbs, oil, and vinegar. Lofotan cleared his throat loudly. Artyrith got the message and rose to his feet.

  “Ah, where do we retire to?” Treskan asked.

  Balif said, “The rooms we were brought to will do.”

  “Our cells? I trust the doors won’t be bolted on us again!”

  Dolanath colored at the suggestion. It was bad enough that he had locked up civilized travelers from Silvanost. Being reminded of it hardly soothed his conscience.

  The male elves returned to the larger room where Artyrith, Treskan, and Lofotan had been held. Mathi went alone to her smaller one. The governor’s servants brought in comfortable beds, an oil lamp to replace the broken luminar, a pitcher of water, and a chamber pot. Worn out from the long day, Mathi crawled into bed. Instead of immediate slumber, she found herself gazing at the ceiling, wondering how far Balif’s expedition would get with every hand in the country seemingly against him …

  Something in the shadowed ceiling corner moved. Mathi’s first thought was that a monstrous spider clung to the ceiling there, but the something was far too big. It crept into the wider circle of light from the oil lamp, and she saw that it was Rufe, her liberator.

  “Can’t you use the door?” Mathi hissed. “Great E’li, you get around like a cockroach!”

  The little man dropped lightly onto the footboard of the bed. “Cockroaches don’t get around that easily if you ask me. Back in jail, are ya?”

  “No,” she answered. “Go away.” She was so tired, eyes burning and limbs trembling with fatigue, and even though she was very curious about the little man, Mathi really didn’t want to bandy words with him just then.

  Rufe hopped down and ambled to the door. Curiosity got the better of Mathi. She called out, “Wait!”

  The little man froze in mid step. “Eh?”

  “Are you the only one here? The only one of your kind, I mean?”

  “Yep. Don’t tell the pointy-ears that, will you?”

  “Why not?”

  “It would spoil my fun. Besides, I might have to tell them about you.”

  Mathi slowly sat up. With deadly coldness she said, “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not one of them, are you? Not really, I mean.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He inhaled deeply through his prominent nose. “You don’t smell like them. You see different from them too. Better somehow. I don’t know what you are exactly, but you’re not just a pointy-ear girl.”

  She weighed her chances of catching and silencing him before he got out the door. Given Rufe’s agility, her chance of success was poor. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

  Rufe made an odd gesture with his left hand: he held it up, fingers wiggling, and said, “Finger break and I stay at home if I tell,” he said. He made it sound like a serious oath.

  He went out quite casually, pushing the door open with the heel of one hand. Only after Mathi extinguished the lamp and tried to find sleep in the darkness did she realize Rufe had pushed open a door that only swung into the room. How was that possible? It bothered Mathi so much, she had to get up and inspect the door to be sure. She was right. The door opened only into the room. No amount of her pushing would make the door move the other way.

  Puzzling over the little man’s baffling tricks, it took a long time for Mathi to fall asleep.

  Spawn of Hiddukel indeed!

  CHAPTER 8

  Players

  In the morning Balif set Treskan to work writing the phony survey of the country between Silvanost and Free Winds. Treskan worked with a will. He had much catching up to do, and writing was a welcome relief from brawling and riding a bony-backed pony for endless miles. He compiled a very detailed description of the terrain, flora, and fauna of the land between Silvanost and Free Winds. Balif looked over his shoulder now and then and complimented him on his t
horoughness.

  “Your hand is unusual. Is it the style of your school?” he asked.

  Treskan rubbed his writing hand self-consciously. “Yes, this is a type of record-hand taught by my school.”

  “What school was it?”

  Treskan plainly struggled for a moment then said, “Eyes of Matheri, in Woodbec.”

  Balif assumed an opaque expression. “I do not know that one.”

  In spite of their unfriendly reception at Free Winds, Balif was in good spirits. All morning he bought maps from local traders and quizzed them about likely locations to build new settlements. To an elf the traders thought Balif was mad. One memorably claimed that building towns or starting farms in the area was like trying to plow the sea. The land was too wild to settle. In another hundred years, perhaps, the blades of the Speaker’s warriors would tame the land. But not in the foreseeable future.

  By midday Balif was done pretending to be a surveyor. He dismissed the traders, giving them liberal amounts of gold for their trouble, and dispatched Lofotan and the cook on special missions of their own. Lofotan was to talk to any soldiers he could find off duty and get a military view of the local situation. Artyrith was to restock their provisions for the next leg of their journey.

  “What will you do, my lord?” Lofotan asked. They were alone in their room in the fortress, so the honorific was safe to say.

  “I have tasks of my own.” Mathi was surprised Lofotan did not press him on the matter. When the general didn’t want to be questioned, no one questioned him.

  Mathi was to stay behind and clean the party’s kit. Basically that meant laundering clothes and mending whatever tears and splits they had acquired since leaving Silvanost. She did not object to the menial work. It was part of her role as the surveyor’s daughter. As for Treskan, Balif instructed him to find the fortress’s archives and compare what was written there to what Dolanath told them about the invasion of the little folk.