The Forest King aot-4

by Paul B. Thompson

  Leaping back, she ran to the side chest and found the sword Lofotan gave her. Gripping it with both hands, Mathi squared off, facing the door. She hated fighting a brother, but when her brethren got to that state, such reversion to primal form, they were beyond reason. If he came through the door for her, she would fight.

  The handle swung down to the end of its arc and stopped. All that was needed was the slightest pressure to push the door open. It didn’t happen. With equal slowness, the latch returned to its closed position.

  Six feet away Mathi could not hear if the creature had gone. She waited as long as she dared then rushed the door and peeked out. The gloomy passage was empty. She ran pell-mell to the room occupied by Balif and the elves. Mathi pounded on the door. Lofotan admitted her, sword in hand.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Balif was lying on his bed, a linen blanket up to his neck. He pushed up on one elbow but did not stand. Treskan held a lamp and Artyrith a sword just a few steps behind the majordomo.

  “One of those creatures was at my door!” Mathi gasped. In a trice Lofotan and Artyrith were in the hall, checking both directions. Balif rose and donned a light robe. He was unarmed.

  “Where did it go?” said the cook.

  “I don’t know.” Mathi described her strange encounter. Artyrith relaxed his ready stance.

  “You woke us because you had a nightmare? The one we slew in the grassland is still in your mind.”

  “No, it was real. I was awake, writing, and I heard something in the corridor-”

  Lofotan went down to Mathi’s room. The door was standing open. There was no sign of any intruder.

  “If there was anyone, they’re gone now,” he said.

  “How could a beast like that get into Free Winds?” added Artyrith.

  “It’s most unlikely,” Balif agreed. “I think my daughter has been awake too long. Sleep, Mathi. We leave early on the morrow.”

  Mathi watched her companions return to their room. Only when they were gone did she reenter her room. She was just closing the door when she saw the scratches. Deep, parallel lines scored the dark wood just above the floor. There were four distinct lines, as far apart as fingers.

  CHAPTER 9

  Foes

  The next day dawned gray and windy. Wrapped in cloaks, Balif’s party led their horses off the crane platform. Artyrith and Treskan held the reins while Balif and Lofotan removed the last of their baggage from the crane and restored it to the packhorses.

  Governor Dolanath sent his best wishes but did not turn up to see his visitors off. Fresh outrages had occurred during the night. Several healers in Free Winds complained that their shops were broken into, all from skylights or roof vents. Valuable drugs and healing instruments were scattered around, but little or nothing was taken. Even stranger were the reports of a large, wild animal loose in the streets adjoining the citadel. Guards on duty and late-night revelers had all seen a sizable beast prowling the darkest alleys. It fled on approach despite its size, but no one was able to corner it. Like the healers’ break-ins, the incidents caused no harm but sent waves of unrest through the provincial town. It was as if the walls of the fortress were a sieve through which danger passed at will. Balif and his companions heard the tales as they prepared to go. Mathi said nothing about the beast reports, but descriptions of the creature sounded exactly like what she saw in the passage outside her room.

  “Don’t mention it to Dolanath,” Balif had told her. “He isn’t long for his seat anyway, and a report like yours will hasten his departure.” A governor who couldn’t keep the Speaker’s peace and enforce the Speaker’s laws could not expect to retain his post.

  Mathi gladly stayed mum. She was sure the disturbance of the healers was Rufe’s doing. As for the creature inside the fort, she decided it was a rogue member of her unhappy clan. They were all set upon Balif’s trail. Urnya had lost her ability to think when she reverted to her animal form. She attacked the first elves she came across, not knowing Mathi was a sister under the skin. The male creature, whom Mathi did not recognize, had entered Free Winds. He had enough mind left to hear Mathi and obey, but for how long?

  The ground where the crane landed was worn down to dirt. Mathi shielded her eyes as the wind stirred up the soil. Balif mounted his horse.

  “Say farewell to Free Winds,” he said. “We shan’t see civilization again for some time.”

  Artyrith laughed shortly. “Civilization? This rock pile?”

  As they rode down the hill, Mathi wondered about her little hireling. She had seen no sign of Rufe all morning. The little man had agreed to work for her, but Mathi couldn’t see how Rufe could do any work if he wasn’t with them. She had figured out a complete explanation for if Balif found the little man. But it appeared Rufe had reneged on their deal.

  On level ground the wind scoured them, bowing the knee-high grass until the gray underside of each leaf showed. The effect was eerie. A vast plain of grass, normally green and alluring, had become a gray, wind-tossed sea. The horses kept their heads down. So did the riders.

  Consulting his sunstone, Balif set out northeast. The great bend of the Thon-Tanjan lay in that direction, but there was nothing in the way of settlements. Other elven strongholds, such as Tanjanost or Greenfield, lay farther south. Having encountered a small sample of what contact with the little folk could do to a stable garrison, the general decided to forgo visits to the other outposts and seek the invaders as directly as possible. Balif’s stated intent was to cross the Tanjan at Savage Ford, just below the fork in the river where the Plains River joined the Tanjan. Fords were few on the fast-flowing river. Once across the river, they would bear south into the largely unmapped forest surrounding the Tanjan river delta. After quartering the countryside there, the elves would make their way back to Silvanost along the coast.

  They rode in and out of noisy squalls. Warm rain, almost oily in its feeling, quickly soaked their cloaks and seeped through to their robes underneath. The unhappy sequence went on most of the day. By midafternoon, the rain was gone but the wind remained.

  Lofotan, riding point while Balif dictated some observations about the land to Treskan, found it first. The endless grass ceased. Cutting across their line of march was a path so wide and so thoroughly trampled that the tough turf was worn down to bare soil.

  “Here! To me!” Lofotan called. The others cantered to his side.

  Balif twisted in the saddle, taking in the road. It ran northwest to southeast, disappearing in one direction under a hill and curving out of sight in the other. He rode across it slowly. His horse took twelve steps to cover the path from side to side.

  “What does it mean?” Artyrith asked.

  “A lot of feet have passed this way,” Lofotan answered grimly. “Feet, hooves, and more.”

  “Human feet?”

  The old soldier didn’t reply. Balif came slowly back. Wind whirled eddies of dust around his horse.

  “The Speaker is only partly informed,” he said. “There is a migration under way, but it isn’t new. This path took months to make.”

  Far to the northwest lay more plains, then the Khalkist Mountains. Beyond them was the great savannah, home to thousands of rapacious human nomads. Evidently large numbers of nomads had been coming that way undetected for some time. It was astonishing, finding a trail so large only a hundred and fifty miles from Silvanost. The Speaker had to know, as soon as possible.

  Sighting down the center of the road with his stone, Balif concluded it ran more or less directly to Horseriders’ Ford, an easier crossing than Savage Ford, but farther away. That made sense. By sticking to a single path on the open plain, the invaders had avoided detection-until Balif’s party came along.

  “Lofotan, I want you to return to Free Winds,” Balif said. News of the interlopers’ trail had to reach Governor Dolanath right away. He lacked the troops to close the road, but he could carry word to Silvanost. It would take an army to stop the flow of humans int
o the elves’ eastern lands.

  Using Mathi as a shield against the wind, Balif composed a terse message to the governor. Lofotan slipped it inside his cloak and saluted his commander.

  “Don’t wait for a reply,” Balif told him. “Put the note in the governor’s hands, and return at once. We will rendezvous at Savage Ford in ten days.”

  “I can make it in six,” Lofotan declared.

  “So you could, with clear days and an open path, but there is more afoot out here than just a well-worn road. Ten days, Captain. If by the eleventh day you have not seen us, go back to Silvanost. Lay what we have found before the Speaker of the Stars.”

  Mathi felt oddly sad watching the dour Lofotan ride away. He was not a noble sort, as was Balif, or amusing, as was Artyrith, or useful, as was Treskan. But Mathi did respect him, even though his absence would make her ultimate goal easier. She would leave word along the trail for her brethren that one of the warrior elves had left the party. That being the case, the chance to complete Mathi’s mission-the abduction of General Balif-might come sooner than later.

  They waited until Lofotan was out of sight. The general turned his horse around and said, “Now onward.” Hardly was it said when Artyrith pulled up short, staring hard down the western end of the dusty track.

  “Trouble,” he said.

  “Move,” said Balif. “Now.”

  They got off the road. Artyrith found a small hollow concealed by tall grass. He and Balif dismounted and began tugging their mounts’ halters, forcing the horses down on their bellies in the grass. Mathi started on the pack animals once her horse was down. Soon only Treskan and his pony remained.

  “Get out of sight, scribbler!” the cook exclaimed. “Can’t you hear them coming?”

  Not having the senses of an elf, Treskan couldn’t. He swung down and stood back as Artyrith got his pony to kneel in the hollow. Balif was watching the horizon. Mathi could see and hear nothing but the wind.

  “How many, do you reckon?” asked the cook.

  “More than forty but less than a hundred.”

  Artyrith cursed a bit and crouched in the grass between his pony and Mathi’s. He drew his sword and laid it pommel first between his feet. From his pony’s saddle, he yanked out his bow stave, which he proceeded to brace while sitting, a feat Mathi would have said was impossible. Only Balif remained standing. The wind tugged at his yellow hair and whipped his cloak behind him like a flag.

  When Mathi finally heard hoofbeats, Balif dropped silently into the weeds. They huddled there, still as could be. Even the horses sensed danger and stayed quiet.

  The riders came into view. Mathi didn’t count them, but there probably were about fifty of them, humans clad in uncouth furs and leather despite the summer heat. Their hair was worn long, in every color known in the human race. The only way to tell the males from the females was by the heavy beards the men wore. Most of them carried long spears and an assortment of armament strapped to their bodies or their horses. Too numerous to be scouts, they had to be a raiding party, detached from a much larger band a day or so behind them.

  They were noisy. Mathi was chagrined that she hadn’t heard them sooner. They talked loudly as they waved their weapons around, and their horses jingled and pranced. It was soon clear the humans weren’t just being clumsy or foolish. They were escorting an unruly band of prisoners.

  Near the rear of the party, a cloud of dust obscured a few of the figures on foot and lying in the dirt. The riders shouted abuse at them and prodded them with their spears, but the procession had come to halt and would not get going again. A useful gust wiped the dust away, and the hidden elves saw whom the nomads had captured.

  They were little men like Rufe. The three of them had dark hair pulled back in ponytails; prominent noses; and tattered, dusty clothes. They looked enough like Rufe to be his siblings.

  “On your feet. Up! Up!” a black-bearded man was shouting. He waved his spear sideways, indicating the east. “Get up and move, or we’ll slaughter you where you lie!”

  The little man said something Mathi couldn’t hear. Whatever it was it made Black Beard furious. He lowered his spear and jabbed it into the nearest one. The little man flung gouts of dust from his hands, rolled over, and lay still. Mathi heard chains clatter. She looked to Balif. The elf was watching intently, as silent and unmoving as stone.

  “One dead! Do the rest of you want this too?” The man shook the bloody spear point under their noses.

  One of the little people stood up. He or she-it was impossible to tell at that distance-bowed mockingly, uttered an unheard retort, and hit Black Beard in the face with a stone he had concealed in his small hand. With a roar of fury, the man spurred his horse and impaled the little man, lifting him clear off his feet. The victim clung to the spear shaft, and the raging nomad had to drop his weapon. Amazingly, the spitted little man stood up, thumbed his nose at his murderer, then toppled lifeless into the grass beside the road.

  Mathi was horrified. She knew the nomads were savage, but she’d never witnessed such barbarity. Outnumbered by forty armed humans, nevertheless she looked to Balif for an answer. The elf’s face was white and set like marble.

  There was a yell behind Mathi. Alarmed, she spun around and saw the wrapped bundle tied to one of the packhorses burst open. Out burst Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap, evidently stowed away ever since leaving Free Winds. He had long knives in either hand. Waving them and shouting incoherently, he charged the human host.

  Mathi heard Artyrith utter a single pithy expletive. The cook straightened his back, drew his nocked arrow, and let fly. Black Beard got the shaft through his neck and toppled lifeless from his horse.

  The nomads milled around for an instant, confused by the sudden turn of events. Wildly screeching, Rufe ran at the last captive little man, not the humans. Some of them spotted Artyrith in the grass and pointed at him with swords and spears. The cook coolly placed a second arrow in the chest of a burly warrior on the opposite side of the group. Nearer nomads didn’t notice and thumped spurless heels against their horses’ flanks to get them going. Half a dozen rode at Artyrith. When they were broadside to Balif, the general popped up out of the grass and shot the last human in the charging pack. Artyrith got the second rearmost, and Balif the next until a single nomad armed with an inadequate sword was charging Artyrith alone. The cook got on his horse and snatched at the reins to make it stand. He dodged the man’s clumsy thrust-the human’s straight blade was not designed for mounted fighting-and put an oak shaft in his ribs so deep that the fletching was buried by the nomad’s fur vest.

  Balif stayed on his feet, picking off the thoroughly confused nomads. Ten of them were down, and the humans had no idea how many more deadly archers there might be in the grass. They broke. Wheeling their horses around, they rode hard back the way they came, leaving their dead and wounded behind.

  Mathi got up, shaking. Artyrith stood guard from the edge of the road while Balif and the scribe went to Rufe. He was standing over the last captive, knives outthrust in both hands. His eyes were shut tight.

  The shackled little man tugged Rufe’s jerkin. Dolanath’s bane cracked on eye.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello,” said Balif calmly. To Mathi he said, “Do you know this person?”

  Mathi admitted they had met before. “I didn’t know he was with us,” she said lamely.

  Artyrith came trotting up. “You could have gotten us all killed!”

  “Coulda but didn’t. Why cry for bread you didn’t bake?” said Rufe. He tucked away his wicked-looking knives and picked up one of the prisoner’s manacles.

  “Riveted,” he said. “Can’t pick a lock where there ain’t one.”

  “Never you mind.”

  The captive grasped his own hand over the knuckles and bore down, grunting. Mathi watched him squeeze his bound hand until it was small enough to slip through the bronze ring. So that’s how little men were able to escape bonds so easily! She wondered if she was th
e first outsider to see it done.

  “Thanks, brother,” said the little man. He stood up. Slightly taller than his savior, his hair was lighter too, more golden, though caked with dirt. His nose, though prominent, was less of a weather vane than Rufe’s. By little-man standards, he must have been considered rather handsome.

  “What goes on here?” asked Balif.

  “I’m the Longwalker,” said the little man. He held out his hand in human fashion. Balif knew the custom and shook the little man’s grubby hand.

  “What’s a Longwalker?” asked Treskan.

  “He’s a high and mighty fellow,” said Rufe. “The leader of his people.”

  “You mean a chief?” Balif said.

  Rufe nodded then shook his head. “Yes. No. The Longwalker leads the way for his people on the march. He makes the trail the others can follow. But he’s not a king.”

  Balif and Artyrith cocked their heads in unison. “More horsemen coming this way. We’d better be gone.” Balif agreed. He offered his hand to the Longwalker, who grabbed hold and climbed on in front of the elf. Mathi did the same for Rufe, and together they faded into the grass. Artyrith and the scribe went ahead while Balif brought up the rear. As his horse walked single-file behind the pack ponies, Balif faced backward and leaned down over his horse’s rump. He brushed up the stalks of grass behind them, sometimes weaving the tips together with deft fingers. The effect was to erase all but the tiniest traces of their passage through the grass.

  Announced by a whirlwind of dust, the nomad avengers halted at the scene of the earlier fracas. The dead were examined and the wounded treated. Listening in total silence, Mathi concluded that their presence was compromised. When the humans recovered elf arrows from their comrades’ bodies, they would know a party of armed Silvanesti were around.

  As if reading her mind, Artyrith smugly whispered, “We weren’t here.” He and Balif had supplied themselves with centaur arrows at Free Winds, he explained. In the bloody confusion, the nomads might convince themselves they were attacked by a war party of centaurs instead of two elves and a crazy little man.