The Puppet King

by Doug Niles

  And now the wyrms were sweeping into an aggressive dive, swirling around to encircle the upper slopes. The tactic startled the prince, who thought the dragons would have merely swept forward in level flight. They banked along the face of the bluff, apparently ignoring the terrified elves who huddled so miserably on the crest.

  Even more surprising was the target of the dragons’ attack as they dived down to sweep the slopes of the bluff with blasts of frost and gaseous breath. Icy gusts of cold roared across the rocks, leaving the granite ice-limned and slippery, sweeping away the shadows in the fury of chilly death. Clouds of green gas billowed across the mountainside, permeating through the shadows, sending the horrid darkness recoiling rapidly downward.

  “They’re here to help us!” Alhana cried in delight, the first elf to vocalize the stunning truth.

  And then all the elves were cheering as the chromatic dragons, clans that had been regarded as evil throughout all the ages of elven history, relentlessly attacked the lethal shades. Porthios killed a few of the shadows that moved up to escape the dragons, but most of the dark forms abandoned the attack to slip hastily, soundlessly down the mountain. Some of the shadows withered under the brutal onslaught of dragon breath, while most retreated, slipping and sliding down the slope to finally gather in the shelter of the forests clustering close around the mountain’s base.

  Finally the dragons rose to circle overhead while one, a massive green, came to rest on the summit of Splintered Rock. Porthios was struck by a sense of familiarity, especially when the wyrm opened its mouth and spoke in smooth, cultured tones.

  “Porthios of the elves, I am pleased that at last we meet.”

  The prince tried to calm the quaking of his knees as the dragonawe swept over him. “I … we are all grateful for your assistance,” he said. “And I am surprised that you know me.”

  “I came from Silvanesti. There I tried to kill you,” the dragon said, without any tone of apology or regret. “I must say, it seems a good thing that I failed.”

  “I, for one, am glad,” said Alhana smoothly, stepping forward to take Porthios by the arm. “And what is the name of this dragon who has rendered us such crucial aid?”

  “I am called Aerensianic, lady elf.”

  Another green dragon, slightly smaller and more graceful than this huge serpent, came to rest beside the first. “And this is Toxyria.”

  “We are grateful for your timely assistance. As you saw, we were on the brink of complete disaster,” Porthios said, bowing formally to the female dragon.

  “These attackers are strange,” said the second serpent, nodding her head politely. “We breathe on them and they retreat, but they do not die.”

  Indeed, the shadows still seemed thick at the base of the mountain, though at least they made no pretense of attacking. They lurked among the trees, occasionally creeping onto the jumbled rocks at the foot of the mountain, but then falling back as soon as one of the dragons soared near.

  But the shadows did not vanish entirely. Instead, they skulked through the forests, still completely encircling the mountain. Their presence would block any attempt by the elves to climb down, to make an escape on foot.

  For several hours, the elves and their ancient enemies rested together on the mountaintop, exchanging tales of the chaos storm, warily watching the shadows that lurked below. Porthios learned that Aerensianic was in fact the dragon he had battled in Silvanesti. He wanted to ask the serpent more about that campaign and about his reasons for coming to the western realm of the elves, but his thoughts were interrupted by a cry from across the mountaintop.

  “Look, it must be Samar!” shouted a sentry, pointing into the distant sky.

  The elves rushed to see what at first looked like a massive flock of geese, hundreds of dark specks in the sky winging closer to Splintered Rock. But as the forms got bigger and bigger, the feline legs trailing to the rear became visible, and finally it was clear that one of the griffons—a silver feathered male in the lead—was bearing a rider who carried a long, slender lance.

  And then the skies were full of griffons, led by Stallyar and Samar. They were startled and cautious when they spotted the dragons and circled warily until the shouts and cheers of the elves coaxed them down. Finally they came to rest among the others on the mountaintop. Many griffons settled among the rocks on the high slopes, while others remained circling overhead, cawing and screeching.

  “The griffons knew about the Chaos storms,” Samar explained. “They were willing to come, especially when I explained that it was you who called for help.”

  Porthios was touched. “I thank you,” he said to Stallyar. The proud eagle’s head dipped in a polite response.

  “Now we can get away from here,” said the prince, gesturing to the thousand or more griffons around them.

  “But it is not enough to flee,” said Toxyria as Aeren nodded his head sagely in agreement.

  “No,” Alhana chimed in. “We know that the whole world is imperiled. We have to do what we can to save it.”

  “Lord Salladac is coming. He attacks across the east bridge, bringing a company toward the center of the city.”

  The report came from an exhausted sentry, who had obviously run all the way to the Speaker’s house. Alerted by the elf’s shouts, Gilthas met him in the front garden.

  “When will he get here?” The Speaker felt a momentary flash of hope, until the sentry continued.

  “He can’t come any closer. His company was surrounded as soon as he got into the streets. There are more of those daemon warriors, and now the fire dragons are moving in that direction.”

  Gilthas shook his head, wanting to deny the report, to curse the messenger. All around him, the city was dying, fires and destruction spreading as far as he could see. A few minutes earlier he’d heard reports of a new threat, vile shadows that slipped silently through the streets and sucked the life from anyone they touched. More daemon warriors, too, had emerged from the forests to smash and destroy. Knowing that one of the monsters had been enough to rout his entire legion, he couldn’t face the thought of fighting a multitude of the beings.

  “By the gods, we’re doomed,” he whispered, his voice a groan that barely reached his own ears.

  “Be strong, my son.”

  He heard Laurana speaking behind him, and somehow her voice gave him strength. He straightened and raised his voice to address the elves, several hundred in number by now, who had gathered before his house. Many of these were warriors who had been training in the legion, while others included nobles and slaves, merchants and laborers. All were armed in some fashion or another, and all looked to him for guidance, for leadership.

  “We have to take the city back,” Gilthas declared, hoping that he looked stronger and more confidant than he felt. “First we’ll need to arm as many of us as possible with weapons that will do some good against these forces of Chaos.”

  “I have three swords here, ancient relics of Kith-Kanan that have been held in my family for generations,” declared one elf, a male the Speaker recognized as the young senator Quaralan. He had been exiled from the city upon the Dark Knights’ arrival, but now he had obviously returned to fight for his homeland.

  “I’m grateful to see you here,” Gilthas said. “Use one blade yourself, and give the others to warriors who know how to use them.”

  Queralan quickly found a pair of willing volunteers, while Gilthas led many of the warriors into the house. There he proceeded to hand out the hallowed artifacts that decorated the wall of the formal gathering room. Some of the fine blades he gave to veteran elves, while the larger weapons, such as the axes and halberds, he bestowed upon the brawniest of his warriors. There were two dragonlances as well, and these he gave to a pair of warriors who had served under Laurana during the War of the Lance.

  “You cannot do this—you have no right!” Rashas insisted, whispering to him from the shadows near the fireplace. “These are sacred relics of our people.”

  “And I will g
ive them to the fighters who have the greatest chance of returning our city to elven control,” Gilthas snapped. He wanted to say more, but Rashas bit his tongue and backed away, so the Speaker contented himself with this minor victory.

  At the same time, he resolved that he would have more to say to the elder senator—much, much more. He was through answering to the commands of this craven elf, a creature whom he realized was as much a servant of the Dark Queen as any red dragon or any Knight of Takhisis. But the time for that accounting would come later.

  Finally he led the force of elves out of the house, moving them along the street at a trot. Laurana had been remarkably aided by Kerian’s potions, and she came along at his side, bearing a slender blade of shimmering steel. The wild elf maid, similarly armed, advanced at his other side.

  “We’ll go down the main avenue,” Gilthas decided, “and try to fight our way to Lord Salladac.” He thought for a moment about the irony—now the elves were advancing to the rescue of their conquerors—but then his mind quickly focused on more practical concerns.

  In line they advanced, those bearing the enchanted weapons in the front rank. They jogged past smoking buildings, stepping over rubble and even bodies that were scattered through the street. Almost immediately they encountered a swath of the seething shadows, and the defenders of Qualinost charged into the battle. Gilthas led the way, chopping to his right and left, exulting at the feel of his sword cutting through the dark harbingers of Chaos. With each slashing cut, one of the shadows disappeared, dissolving in a gurgle of surreal agony.

  Laurana and Kerian used their weapons with unfailing courage to strike at the supernatural shadows that now began to melt away before the advancing elves and humans. Everywhere the chaos creatures swept backward, recoiling from the startling assault until finally they retreated to either side. The road once again lay unobstructed before Gilthas and his elves.

  Soon the bold company was moving on, charging toward a block of burning buildings. Cheers and battle cries rose from all the ranks as the hope of victory sank in. These elves were ready to fight, and believed that they could win. Once Gilthas noticed that Rashas, apparently frightened of being left behind, was accompanying them, though he stayed in the middle of the group, well back from any actual fighting. Quaralan, in contrast, led a band of young swordsmen who alertly guarded the rear of the formation.

  Finally they saw the knights, the pennant of the Dark Queen rising above a small knot of men embattled in the center of a wide intersection. The elves advanced with more cries, but then shadows came forward from the buildings on both sides. Looming daemon warriors led them, and dragons of fire howled in exultant fury as they swarmed toward the elven company. The attackers came from before and behind and closed in quickly from both sides.

  It was then that Gilthas realized that he had led his elves, including his mother and his lover, into a deadly trap.

  “It was a simple matter to mount all the elves on the griffons,” Samar said, while Aeren nodded at the memory. “You were carried by your mother, and Porthios, on Stallyar, took the lead.”

  “And we flew to the place where the battle raged,” the dragon added. “I remember Toxyria in the lead, proud and beautiful and brave.”

  “To the city, then? To Qualinost?” asked the young elf.

  “It was where the matter would be decided,” agreed Samar.

  King of the Elves

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Stand fast, there!” Gilthas shouted as the elves on the left flank of his impromptu line started to back away in the face of the charging fire dragons. “Quaralan, look to the left!” he called, drawing the attention of the young senator.

  Immediately Quaralan led his swordsmen to stabilize that part of the line, drawing the two elves bearing dragonlances with him. The first fire dragon roared forward in a blaze of flame and sparks, but the lancers stood with admirable courage, planting the butts of their weapons on the road and allowing the monster to impale itself on the silvery heads. With an unworldly howl, the serpent disintegrated into a cloud of smoldering ash.

  Coughing and choking, slashing at the fires that scorched their faces and arms, the elves fell back, but the following fire dragons veered up and away, apparently daunted by the fate met by their comrade.

  Gilthas looked to the front, where the street was black with the deadly shadow wights, the creatures milling and surging in the gap between the elf company and the Dark Knights. The monsters slithered closer, and though several were slashed and destroyed by the magic weapons of the elven company, others reached forward with their lethal tendrils, sucking vitality, even flesh itself, from any victim in reach. The line was quickly fragmented, and Gilthas was horrified at the prospect of the shadows slipping into the mass of elves, striking and killing in every direction.

  He wanted to shout a warning, but his tongue, even his mind, seemed frozen by indecision. What could he say that wouldn’t add even more to the confusion?

  It was his mother who came to the rescue.

  “There!” Laurana called, tugging at his arm, pointing to a walled courtyard at the side of the road. “We should take cover there—bring the dragonlances around to cover against attack from the skies.”

  “Yes—go!” shouted Gilthas, immediately seizing on the plan. He raised his voice to a shout that penetrated above the din of battle. “Fall back to the right, behind the wall. Quickly!”

  Instinct compelling the move toward safety, the elves instantly obeyed. Gilthas felt a flush of pride as he saw that even under this horrifying scourge they did not yield to panic. Many of them poured through the gates, while others scrambled over the shoulder-high wall.

  Gilthas, Kerian, Quaralan, and the two lancers were the last to fall back, and they stood at the open gates for several moments, slashing at a couple of shadows that came close, stabbing the lances to drive back a fire dragon that padded across the street. Only after the dragon once again took to the air did the Speaker and his companions enter the courtyard, allowing the gates to be slammed behind them.

  Gilthas quickly saw that they had found a fairly effective defensive position. The courtyard was attached to several other gardens and yards, and the elves had rapidly spread out to garrison all these interconnected areas. He wasted no time in scrambling up to a small tower that overlooked the street. Many shadows, eerie and silent, swirled about at the base of the wall. Apparently immune to the effects of gravity, some of the swaths of darkness slipped up the wall and reared over the top. Elven blades slashed, and most of these fell back or gurgled into dissolution.

  The Speaker of the Sun looked across the avenue of chaos and saw that the company of Dark Knights had formed into a hollow square for defense, but that formation was sorely besieged. Shadows sucked at the fringes of the unit, draining away man after man in lethal attacks. Apparently a few of the knights were armed with weapons that were effective against the chaos creatures, but many of the others seemed utterly vulnerable. Gilthas saw Lord Salladac wielding a massive two-handed sword, standing at one corner of the square and chopping a huge daemon warrior in two with a single slash of the weapon.

  “Salladac—over here!” cried the elven leader, his voice once again booming over the ground. He saw the human meet his gaze. With a gesture to the nearby gate, Gilthas urged the lord to bring his company into the makeshift fortress.

  With a grim nod, Salladac shouted at his standard-bearer, raised his sword, and led his men into the mass of shadows. The banner of the Dark Queen surged forward, and the knights came after, a hoarse cry bellowing over the field.

  Gilthas jumped down from the tower and raced to the gates. “Open them!” he shouted. “Elves of Qualinost, charge with me!”

  “No!” cried Rashas, who had been cowering behind the wall nearby. “You’re mad! You’ll let those shadows in here—they’ll kill us all!”

  “Get out of the way,” growled the Speaker. “We’ve got to get the knights in here. Together, we have a chance!”


  “Don’t listen to him!” cried Rashas, throwing himself against the elves who were beginning to unbar the gate.

  Gilthas roughly pushed the senator out of the way, and the gates swung open. A surge of willing elves charged with the Speaker into the street, and the wailing Rashas was borne along in the front of the rank.

  “Stop!” he screamed. “Let me go!” Desperately Rashas squirmed to the side, finally tumbling free from the press of attacking elves. Almost immediately a shadow loomed right behind him, dark tendrils extended.

  “Look out!” cried Gilthas, horrified at the soulless, fleshless apparition that seemed to rise higher than the gibbering senator’s head.

  Rashas stared at the horrifying image but seemed unable to move his feet. Gilthas reached out and grabbed the senator by the shoulder, pulling him away from the shadow. Another elf, one of those armed with a dragonlance, stabbed with his weapon, and the black shape dissolved into tattered remnants of darkness.

  Stumbling away from the rank of attacking elves, Rashas looked at Gilthas with wide, staring eyes. Abruptly he turned and raced away, running along the wall of the courtyard—outside the barrier that was protecting the rest of the elves.

  The fire dragon had been circling overhead, and this lone elf created a tempting target. With a shriek of triumph, the creature tucked its wings and dived, leaving a cloud of sparks trailing through the air.

  Rashas heard the serpent’s bellow and looked up, his mouth jabbering soundlessly. The senator fell to the ground and tried to claw his way through the quartz paving stones along the road. The flaming dragon fell on him, crouching firmly on the writhing elf, and Rashas’s screams rose to a fevered pitch before abruptly ceasing.

  “Kill that dragon!” shouted Gilthas, perversely enraged by the sight of the serpent’s triumphant bellow. With the lancer beside him, he rushed forward, and the twin weapons slashed into the blazing flesh. With a writhing lash of its fiery tail, the wyrm toppled over and thrashed its last.