The Forest King

CHAPTER 15

Mathi dreamed of galloping horses, shouting, and the clash of blades. She tried to banish these unhappy thoughts, but they kept intruding on her rest. Then she got a sharp blow in the ribs. Instinctively she rolled into a ball and growled about being disturbed.

“Get up girl, or you’ll be sleeping forever!”

Even half asleep she knew Lofotan’s battlefield voice. She sat up, bleary-eyed, and saw people and animals darting to and fro among the trees. Smoke hung in the air. The sounds of her dream had been real.

Lofotan, sword in hand, was trying to seat a helmet on his head. He tossed a weapon-a spear-toward Mathi and shouted again for her to stand up or perish. Mathi wasn’t sure if he meant attackers would slay her, or Lofotan himself. Not desiring either, she scrambled to her feet.

“Defend yourself!”

Lofotan dashed away. Mathi shouted after him, “What’s going on?”

“The humans found us. I must get to the general!”

All around her the kender camp was disintegrating. Little people rushed in all directions, clutching blankets or other belongings. None seemed to have any weapons. Lofotan dodged between them, trying to reach Balif, who was still shackled to the tree root.

A shrill cry rent the air. Mathi turned and saw a trio of riders slashing through the widely spaced trees. They speared any kender within reach, then tiring of their sport, contented themselves with shouting and cursing the wanderfolk as they scattered. One of the men spotted Mathi.

“Ho!” he cried. “Here’s bigger game!”

He spurred at her. His spear was not a true lance. It lacked a handguard, Mathi noted with strange detachment. If he hits me with it, he won’t keep his grip …

Her detachment evaporated quickly. Lance or no, death was riding at her. She bolted, still clutching the spear Lofotan had tossed at her. Mathi knew she couldn’t outrun the nomad’s horse. Zigging and zagging, she ran around a stout tree and threw herself against the trunk. Laughing, her pursuer cantered past. Spying his prey behind him, the nomad wrenched his horse’s head around. At that moment a smooth round stone the size of a ripe plum hit the man on the cheek. It must have had considerable velocity, for the rider threw up his hands and fell sideways off his horse, landing heavily at Mathi’s feet.

She gaped at the fallen man. Someone shouted, “Finish him off!”

A kender twenty feet away held a stick and thong sling in his hand. A hoopak, she had heard them call it. He pointed at the fallen nomad.

“Stick him! What’s wrong with you?”

Mathi couldn’t do it, not standing over a helpless enemy like that. She kicked the man’s spear away and rolled him over. The sling ball had shattered his face. He was alive, but probably blinded by blood and bone fragments.

Mathi backed away. More nomads circled through the trees, whooping and shouting. Some kender had taken to the trees and were pelting the riders with whatever they had-sticks, stones, found objects precious and paltry. Mathi heard the characteristic whistle of a hoopak winding up and a solid thwack as the projectile struck home. Another saddle emptied.

Slowly, the tempo of the battle changed. The initial charge by the nomads had taken the kender by surprise. They scattered, and the humans chased them, killing many at first, then reverting to harrying the little people out of sheer contempt. Many kender fled, but others stood their ground. The appearance of the elves confused the humans further. Soon it was the nomads who were milling around, unsure what to do or where to go.

A high-pitched shrieking, like a whistle being blown in a frenzy, echoed through the woods. More shrill whistles split the air, all around the raiders. They closed into a compact group. Many changed their spears for swords.

Advancing at a walk through the trees came Balif and Lofotan on horseback, leading a large, ragged band of kender. The Longwalker was at their head, blowing a clay pipe. Unseen among the grand trunks more whistles answered. The enemy was surrounded.

Seeing an enemy they knew-the elves on horseback-the raiders broke ranks and charged. From three sides they were scourged by hoopak stones, kender-sized arrows, and thrown missiles. Protected by thick furs and occasional bits of armor, the nomads tried to shrug off the bombardment, but their mounts were unwilling to face such torment. The charge lost momentum and played out ten yards from where Balif sat, hands folded on his saddle pommel.

“Wanderfolk, now’s the time! Show them what you are made of!” he cried.

Swarms of kender, rounded up by the advancing elves and their chief, filled the gaps between the trees. Brandishing sticks, tools, and even an occasional bladed weapon, they shouted defiance at their attackers. Backed against a tree, Mathi heard frightful taunts from the kender. Every branch of the nomads’ family tree was smeared as dirty lice; lying, cheating vermin; eaters of filth and cowards of the basest sort. Mathi had never heard such ferocious taunting, all shouted at top volume. A thousand furious wanderfolk shouting ingenious invective at the same time was a fearsome spectacle. Compared to the torrent of abuse they hurled, their hoopaks were toys.

The nomad raiders, for their part, were white with outrage or red-faced with fury. Smacking their reluctant animals with the flats of their swords, they moved toward the kender-and the little people did not give way. For the first time since coming to the eastern land, kender stood up to their foes. In the center of the line Balif watched the humans calmly. When the gap shrank to six yards he drew his noble sword and raised it high in a warrior’s salute. Seeing this, Mathi had a sudden premonition.

He means to die! she thought. He’s going to let the humans kill him to inspire the kender and escape his curse!

Moved by feelings beyond her control, Mathi stepped away from the safety of the tree. She reversed her grip on her spear and started toward Balif, breaking into a run.

She reached the rear of the mob of defiant kender and pushed her way through. It was not easy. The little people were excited. They pushed back.

“General! My lord, wait!” she called desperately.

At no more than a walking pace the two lines collided. The kender on foot gave way to the big horses bearing down on them-gave a little, then stopped. Like ants the kender swarmed over the nomads’ horses and climbed up the men’s legs, grabbing, hitting, sometimes biting.

Balif and Lofotan fought with more decorum. They traded sword cuts with warriors in the front ranks. The press behind and on both sides kept the other humans from doubling on the elves. Down went Balif’s first foe, lost among the stamping hooves. Down went Lofotan’s, minus his sword arm.

To the credit of their courage, Bulnac’s raiders held on despite the bizarre nature of the fight. Given an equal or greater number of humans or elves to combat, they would have fought on in their usual brutal way, but beset by kender they didn’t know what to do. The little folk weren’t supposed to fight back! Such a thing had never happened before. Now stalwart warriors were toppling from steeds thickly coated with yelling kender. This was not warrior’s work. At best they could break off the fight and ride away.

By the time the sun’s rays were slanting through the few gaps in the canopy overhead, the battle was over. Mathi never got within ten feet of Balif. The general survived unscathed.

She stopped dead, depleted and stunned. Why did she care what happened to the Betrayer anyway? She ought to want to shove Balif into the nomads’ fury, not rush headlong to his aid. Mathi realized then what had happened. She knew Balif. He was no longer the anonymous, high-born Silvanesti she was taught to hate. He was flesh and blood, heart and soul, and she admired him. She could not have been more appalled at her sudden new understanding.

Many kender chased the nomads, hurling insults at them as long as they were in earshot. Stung by the taunts, a few peeled off to chastise their tiny tormentors. They killed many unwary kender, who had been carried away with the unexpected victory, but other riders were brought down by the enraged wanderfolk.

Nomad war chiefs blew ram’s horns to recall their unruly warriors. The last mortified riders disappeared into the dust and drifting bands of smoke.

The kender reacted oddly to their small victory. Mathi expected they might cheer, or else wilt with delayed terror, but they did neither. Mostly they vanished. A thousand kender scattered through the trees, abruptly making themselves scarce. All that remained behind were the dead and wounded-and the elves.

Mathi hailed Balif. “My lord, we won!”

“We survived, at any rate,” Lofotan said.

“Survival, my dear captain, is the first prerequisite of victory.”

Balif was amazingly at ease. The carnage and violence of the morning did not compare to the great battles he had led, but bloodshed is bloodshed, and Balif was unfazed by it all. Mathi trembled in every part of her body. Though the morning was mild, she was drenched in sweat. Only when the battle was over did she realize how terribly thirsty she was.

Treskan appeared from the copse where they had been camped. He was battered and bloodied from a dozen small cuts on his face and hands. Mathi was sympathetic, but Lofotan maintained that the scribe had inflicted the wounds himself with his unskillful use of his sword. Nevertheless Mathi sat him down and began to dab his cuts with a rag wetted with cold spring water.

“What happened?” she asked. “When did the nomads attack?”

“Just after dawn. They rode in quietly, swords sheathed and got amongst the wanderfolk before raising a battle cry.” Balif accepted a clay cup from his loyal retainer. He took a spare sip. “They were not some random scouting party. They knew we were here.” Did he remember seeing Mathi return last night? If he did, he did not mention it.

The lump in Mathi’s throat grew harder to swallow. It was easy to imagine the truth. Irate at losing his personal treasure, Vollman had tracked Mathi and Treskan. He probably brought some friends along to help waylay the portly gambler and his silent friend. They made no attempt to hide their tracks. The nomads must have been surprised when their quarry left camp. Anyone could have tracked them back to the kender’s camp.

She found herself studying Balif. His features were subtly different from just a few days ago. His hair was darker, and there were shadows everywhere his clothing ended.

“They will be back,” Balif said. “Sooner than later. A commander like this Bulnac won’t take being repulsed by wanderfolk very well.”

“Do you know this Bulnac?”

“Never put my eyes upon him.” Balif drained the cup. “But I know him. He leads by strength. He can’t accept even a single defeat, or his hold over his followers is broken. He will return, probably with his entire force.”

“What do we do?” asked Lofotan.

“The woods are untenable. I had hoped they would provide some cover, but they are too open. We need a better defensive position.”

They had brought from Silvanost a number of maps drawn by the best cartographers in Silvanos’s realm. They weren’t much help. The land east of the Tanjan river was poorly explored. Many gaps blotted the charts.

“This river here; is it named?” Balif indicated the short watercourse east of the forest. Two branches of the river joined and flowed south into a small bay.

“It is not,” Mathi said, scrutinizing the gazeteer on the back of the chart.

“Call it the Wanderfolk River.” In Elvish it was Thon-Haddaras, ‘Wanderers’ River.’

The triangle of land between the branches of the newly-named was shown to be wooded on the chart.

“There is our refuge,” Balif said. “We shall make for it at once.”

He turned his horse around. Lofotan, frowning, spoke up.

“My lord, what about the wanderfolk? They seem to have abandoned us.”

Balif had a brash, winning countenance when he smiled. “Rest assured that the Longwalker and his people will find their way there. Who knows? They may get there ahead of us.”

As they spoke, small groups of kender came into view, carrying off the dead and tending the wounded. Strange how their actions never looked organized, yet they accomplished what they needed to do in short order.

There were humans among the dead and wounded too. Balif rode up to one warrior beset on all sides by several kender. He had a black eye, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, covered in blood. His horse had thrown him, and the kender had him cornered.

“Elder lord!” the man grunted, swinging his leather scabbard at a kender who was fondling his boots. “Pray give me quarter, noble sir! I am besieged.”

Balif came closer, which made the kender fade into the trees. Gasping for breath, the wounded man propped his back against a tree and sighed.

“I yield to you, elder lord,” the man said desperately. “Only save me from those little vultures!”

“You were keen enough to hunt and harry them before,” Balif replied coldly.

“Orders, lord. Our chief told us to drive the small ones from the land so that we could claim it as our own.”

“Your chief is called Bulnac?”

The wounded man blinked through the sweat and grime streaking his face. “You know our great chief?”

“His name has reached my ears.”

Balif ordered the nomad searched. If Lofotan found any elven artifacts on him, he would die on the spot. Bulnac’s raiders had an ugly reputation as plunderers.

Lofotan groped through the man’s tunic and vest. He found little but a few trinkets of chain.

“How is his wound?”

Lofotan had seen many a sword cut in his day. He knew more about them than most healers. Probing the man’s arm he announced no main vessels were cut. The man might die of blood poisoning if not treated, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.

To Treskan, Balif said, “Find a horse.”

It took some doing, but he found a nomad horse walking aimlessly a hundred yards away. Catching the animal by its bridle, he led it back to the general.

“On the horse,” Balif said. “Go to your chief and give him my words: he is to take his warband out of this province, back across to the west bank of the Thon-Tanjan. This land belongs to the Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye, and to his heirs. We will not tolerate his warband on our soil.”

Suffering but defiant, the wounded warrior took the reins from Treskan.

“Who are you that you order my chief around like a slave?”

“I am Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker and general of all his host. I am the son of Arnas Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan. I am known as Balif, loyal servant of the Great Speaker of the Stars.”

His was a name that was well known to the nomads. The wounded man stood by the horse Mathi had rounded up for him, awestruck.

“You are the Balif?”

“None other. Go, and bear my words to your chief.”

Unaided, the warrior struggled onto his mount. “If I die, my children shall know I crossed swords with Balif, first among warriors! I thank you for my life, noble lord!”

Weaving a bit, he rode away. Lofotan got back on his animal and said, “Was it wise to tell the humans who you are?”

“What good is it having a reputation if you can’t use it to intimidate your enemies?” said Balif.

“Suppose Bulnac isn’t intimidated? Suppose he comes roaring back here in full strength, just to say he defeated and slew the great Balif?” To this the general had no answer but a wry smile.

Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan loaded the packhorses. By the time they were done the forest had been picked clean. The only traces of the morning’s furious fight were scarred patches on tree trunks, and a few spots of churned up earth. What became of the dead from both sides Mathi could not guess.

Balif and his party rode off through the woods. Three times before noon they had to hide while nomad patrols galloped past. On the last occasion it looked as if they would be found. A party of nomads entered the forest and searched carefully, probing every gully and leaf pile with their spears. From the small spots and low angles they searched, it appeared that they were after kender rather than elves. Balif kept behind a screen of closely growing myrtles, sword in hand. Armed nomads rode within six yards but passed on, summoned by horn blasts further away.

After that they witnessed an extraordinary scene. A party of forty or more kender chased five humans on horseback out of the woods. In addition to hoopaks the wanderfolk had an assortment of weapons gleaned from the morning’s battle. How they reached this spot ahead of the mounted elves was a mystery, but they screamed, whistled, shouted, and pelted the nomads out of the woods and onto the plain. Once on open ground the nomads tried to regroup and charge the little people, but their horses could not bear the barrage of stones and noise. Confused and no doubt embarrassed, the humans departed.

Mathi felt no pity for the nomads. Their brutal treatment of the kender was deplorable, but now that the little folk were aroused-and had discovered they enjoyed tormenting their tormentors-the nomads were in for unimaginable frustration. The nomads deserved their comeuppance.

At twilight they left the forest to cross open country to the newly named Thon-Haddaras. Their map was unclear of the exact distance to the river. Much of the survey had been done from the sky, by griffon riders, who were notoriously inaccurate at judging distances on the ground from a height. Balif was willing to travel all night if necessary to reach the Thon-Haddaras as soon as possible.

“All night?” asked Lofotan. “Does my lord mean that?”

Riding slowly through the high grass, Balif said, “It will not be a problem.”

Lofotan pulled a coil of chain from his saddlebag. The clinking sound made Balif rein up. He turned his horse sharply right, blocking Lofotan’s path.

“Do you doubt my word?” he said. Neither the captain, the girl, nor the scribe answered. Fists tight on his reins, the general snapped, “I will not be chained like a beast again! I am in control of myself. Is that clear?”

Cold as ice, Lofotan replied, “Perfectly, my lord.”

With a final glare Balif resumed riding. Lofotan held his place until his commander was half a hundred yards ahead. With a soft thump of his heels he started his mount forward. Mathi kept beside him with the pack train trailing behind.

“We shall not sleep tonight,” the old warrior said quietly.

“Do you think he will transform?”

“He already has. The question is, how much?”

Personally, Mathi thought it was perfectly reasonable of Balif to resent being shackled when the threat of nomad attack was so high.

Night came on clear and bright with stars. The crescent red moon rose like a bloody smile in the sky, lighting the dry, waving grass with a strange pinkish light. They heard something they hadn’t heard on their travels so far: the howl of a wolf. Savannah wolves had long been driven out of Silvanesti proper. They were common in the mountains, but so far the elves had not encountered any on their journey. Crossing the plain they now heard half a dozen different calls, indication of a sizable pack.

Lofotan braced his bow. Treskan and Mathi closed up with him, jerking the lines to hurry the packhorses along. At the tail of the group, they would be likely targets if the wolves attacked.

Balif circled in and out, sometimes leading, sometimes trailing the others. Whenever he came close Mathi studied him for signs that the curse was asserting itself. The changes she’d noticed before were still there, but the full beast-face and features were not in evidence. Mathi did not understand the working of spells. She could not imagine why the Creator would inflict such an erratic spell. Perhaps it was weakening-or perhaps it was designed to torment the sufferer by seeming to fade, only to return more strongly than ever?

“Wake up, you two.” Lofotan’s voice carried clearly in the warm, still air.

Mathi sharpened to awareness. Treskan twisted around in the saddle, looking in all directions.

“What is it?”

“We’re not alone.” Lofotan had spotted three or four shapes darting through the grass off to their right, about thirty yards away.

“Wolves?” said the scribe.

Lofotan nocked an arrow in answer. “Watch behind and on your left,” he said calmly. “The wolf you see is often a feint for the real attack.”

The horses were certainly aware of the danger. They closed in with each other, rolling their eyes and champing their bits. Mathi drew back and let the pack animals move ahead of her. Her pony, being blinkered, was less sensitive than the baggage animals. She knew he had the predators’ scent when he bobbed his head and snorted defiantly. Mathi tapped him with her heels to keep him moving. If he stopped, it might occur to him to shed his rider, then make a break for it.

Balif was out in front a dozen yards or so. His bow was unstrung. His sword rested in its scabbard. He had to know the pack was around them, but still he rode slowly ahead, weaving back and forth across their line of march. What was he doing?

All at once Lofotan sat up as high as he could in his saddle, bent his bow, and loosed an arrow into the pale red shadows. He was rewarded with a yelp and a thrashing in the grass. Treskan started toward the spot. Lofotan ordered him to stop.

“I’ll finish him off,” said the scribe, raising his spear.

“It might be a ruse.” Wolves were known to do that, fake an injury or death, to draw an unwise hunter close.

The thrashing in the grass stopped. Lofotan’s horse slowly came to a halt.

“Where’s my lord?”

Balif’s horse was coming back to them, reins trailing on the ground. There was no sign of the general, and no traces on his mount to suggest he had transformed into a beast and been thrown off as before.

A howl erupted close by. Lofotan whirled, arrow drawn back to his ear. Something low and dark was rushing at them through the grass. Balif’s horse reared and neighed.

“Don’t!” Mathi called. “It might be him!”

Lofotan thought of that too. He held his draw magnificently, holding the eighty pound recurve bow as steady as stone. The creature charging Balif’s horse gathered its legs and leaped. With only a moment to choose, Lofotan loosed his arrow.

It hit the hurtling beast dead in the ribs. Balif’s horse gave a start, jumping sideways as the lifeless body hurtled past it. At Lofotan’s direction Mathi went to look at it. It was a fine specimen of a male savannah wolf, brown all over, weighing maybe sixty pounds.

“It’s a wolf!” she said, relieved. “Dead as a stone!”

The words had hardly left her lips when a second beast exploded from the grass and knocked Lofotan from his saddle. Shouting, Mathi rushed to his rescue. The beast had clamped its powerful jaws on the elf’s right forearm, which fortunately was sheathed in bronze. They struggled, but Lofotan drew his dagger with his left hand and plunged it into his attacker’s ribs once, twice. He threw the heavy slack form off and got up in time to dodge Treskan’s well-meaning spear-thrust.

The packhorses bucked and reared, tearing at the lines that bound them together. Two wolves had the lead pony by the throat. Lofotan had lost his bow in his fall. He snatched the spear from Treskan and raced to rescue the pony. The scribe was left with just his sword, which he barely knew how to use.

A low, rolling growl behind Mathi froze her blood to ice. She turned slowly and saw a large black beast whose head and chest fur were shot through with gray advancing on him. Tugging at her sword, she backed away, swearing in Elvish.

Black lips curled, the wolf displayed long, broken teeth. He was the elder chief of his pack, powerful, and with a gleam of cruel intelligence in his eyes. Words died in Mathi’s mouth. All her spit seemed to have suddenly dried up.

Lofotan was battling two wolves at once. He speared one, pinning it to the turf, but the other leaped on his back. He went down. Treskan was swinging his sheathed sword like a club, trying to ward off a pale colored she-wolf.

The old wolf was little more than three paces away. Mathi gripped the sword in both hands to steady it.

She heard a shout. Slashing through the tall grass came Balif. He swung his sword wide, cutting a swath through the weeds. Seeing Mathi about to be attacked, he shouted again, whipping off his cloak and wrapping it around his unarmored left arm.

The wolf recognized a more dangerous opponent had joined the fray and quickly forgot Mathi, turning to face Balif. The elf general didn’t wait for the beast to spring. He plunged in, sword high. The old wolf didn’t go for his open left arm, as Mathi thought he would. He jumped headlong at Balif’s chest.

Not one warrior in a hundred would have stood their ground to receive the blow. Balif did. His sword was high, and he moved his free hand to join the other on the grip. He shouted-he bellowed-a challenge so loud and so unelflike Mathi believed for an instant that he had become a beast again. Down came the fine elf blade. Behind the general’s head Lunitari gleamed like red horns atop his head.

There was a loud crack. Balif staggered backward, worked his blade free, and swung again. The old wolf dropped in a heap at his feet, his skull split in two.

That was amazing enough. For Balif’s strength and reflexes to be so great as to cut the wolf down in mid-leap was astonishing. What happened next was terrifying.

Not satisfied with his victory, Balif stood over the fallen creature and plunged his sword into it again and again. He kicked the carcass, shouting incoherently. Angered that the wolf did not rise up and fight more, he threw aside his sword and drew a knife. As Mathi watched in horror, he stabbed the dead wolf half a dozen times until blood covered his hands and spattered his handsome face.

His rage satiated, Balif stood up. His eyes met Mathi’s.

It was not the same elf she had met in Silvanost scant weeks ago. They stared at each other, eyes locked, until Lofotan’s calls for help broke the spell. With a flash of teeth Balif smiled and darted away, carrying only his knife.

He drove off the wolf harrying his majordomo, who had cuts and bites on his hands. Lofotan thanked his lord until he saw his bloody hands and face. His thanks died in his throat.

“More out there,” Balif said, his voice low and gruff. Wolves were howling in retreat. Knife in hand, Balif raced off into the grass. Mathi watched him go. It was plain the general meant to hunt down and kill every animal in the pack.