The Forest King

CHAPTER 6

Once he set foot on the eastern shore, Balif was a different elf. All his melancholy contemplation vanished. He supervised the offloading of their horses and gear with crisp efficiency, tipped the ferry crew with gold for their labors, and bade them farewell. When the barge was out of earshot, Balif addressed his companions.

“From this point on, we are not the Speaker’s eyes and ears, seeking foreign invaders in our land. Do you understand? We are travelers, nothing more. Our outward goal is to find sites for new villages for settlers from the west. Silvanost and the heartland of the realm are overcrowded. Our people need space and land. Is that clear?” Everyone agreed it was.

“I am the party’s surveyor. I am not a general. Anyone who addresses me as such will know my displeasure.”

All eyes went to Artyrith. “What?” he demanded. “Am I so loose-lipped?”

Balif cleared his throat and went on. “Lofotan is our engineer. You’re chiefly interested in water sources, quarry sites, and places that need bridging. Artyrith will be what he is, our cook. Treskan is my secretary. As we travel, he will create a record of our exploration that will pass the closest inspection-a very long, very dull catalog of watersheds, fields, and forests. I want anyone who reads it to fall asleep after half a page, utterly convinced by your record’s tiresome authenticity.” Treskan assured him that he could compile a log guaranteed to numb an ogre.

“In this masquerade, what role do I play?” asked Mathi.

Balif gave her a strange, probing look. “You could be my wife,” he said. At the girl’s consternation, he smiled and added, “But it would be more believable if you were my daughter.”

“How shall we call you, if not ‘my lord Balif’?” Lofotan asked.

“I shall go by the name the foresters gave me, Camaxilas.”

Mathi thought it all made sense, though it seemed a little elaborate, considering that they were still deep within the Speaker’s realm. Farther east, in the uncharted forests and meadows beyond the Thon-Tanjan, Balif’s precautions would be wise, but why enact them so early?

Artyrith thought the same way and had the impertinence to ask why.

“I want our pose ingrained in all of us by the time we reach the Tanjan,” Balif said. “Treskan’s catalog must already be detailed when we get there. Also”-he gestured over his shoulder with a sweep of one hand-”do not be fooled by where we are or what we are close to. This land is not the Speaker’s palace garden. There are many who do not relish his rule and do not love the Silvanesti in any case.”

That being so, why pretend to be the advance guard of a wave of settlement? Surely that would cause much resentment where they were going, Artyrith objected.

Lofotan said, “Sometimes a wise commander gives his enemy what he expects, just so he is free to do what he truly wants-the unexpected.” Mathi understood. If they tried to appear totally harmless, that would incite more suspicion than if they were merely mercenary intruders.

Everyone mounted. Treskan took the reins of the pack-horses to relieve Mathi for a while. Balif took out a small, leather-covered case. He snapped open the lid and held it skyward, turning in his saddle to catch the sun.

“What’s that?” asked the city-bred Artyrith.

“A sunstone,” Lofotan answered. A naturally occurring jewel, sunstone was used to show direction. By aiming the largest flat facet at the sun, light was scattered through the prismatic interior of the stone. A bright blue line at right angles to the sunlight indicated north.

Balif pointed to his right. “That’s our line of march, north by east.” He tucked the sunstone away and spurred his mount. The others hastened to keep up with him.

Through the next day, they worked hard to overcome lifelong etiquette and not constantly refer to their leader as “my lord.” Lofotan had the hardest time. He’d been with Balif for a century of campaigns. Calling Balif “my lord” was as natural to the old soldier as breathing. Artyrith had a much easier time. Breezy manners came easily to him, as he regarded Balif more as an equal anyway. Treskan simplified his problems by saying as little as possible. Mathi practiced calling Balif “Father.” The title took hold in a curiously natural way.

The eastern shore of the Thalas was lightly forested. For centuries the local elves had cultivated hardwoods and nut-bearing trees. Since the end of the savannah campaign against the human nomads, fruit trees had been added to the mix. Mathi could not see any pattern to their growth, but Balif assured her the abundant apple, cherry, and plum trees they saw were deliberate additions to the landscape. Elves did not plant trees in orchards, as humans did. Orderly rows of the same kind of tree would have struck an elf as crude and unlovely. The sunny landscape looked as natural as any lowland grove. True, there was little underbrush to clog the roots and impede the growth of the favored trees, but the hand of elf farmers was very hard to distinguish.

“Who owns this land?” Lofotan consciously bit off the usual “my lord.”

“This is the ancestral holding of the lords of Hestanthalas,” said Balif. The family name meant Hest of the Thalas.

“From here to the bay in the south is all theirs, granted to the family by the second Sinthal-Elish.” Even Artyrith was impressed. Such a large holding meant great wealth, power, and influence. Hestanthalas was an important name in Silvanost. Twice a lord of Hest had stood by the Speaker as his high councilor.

Treskan made notes as he rode. It wasn’t easy, writing while on the back of a swaying pony, but he had to take advantage of Balif’s order to compile a gazetteer of the region. The general wanted it as a cover for their mission, but a detailed description of the region would be invaluable to the masters of Silvanost. Little was truly known of the territory in the elves’ heartland. Maps trying to depict the eastern provinces of Silvanesti had frequent blank spots. Only the largest features-rivers, forests, mountains-were well marked. Treskan had a perfect opportunity to supplement the nation’s meager knowledge and earn points with Balif as well.

They didn’t stop for many miles. Noon came and went, and Balif rode on. He passed a flask of water back and forth with Lofotan, talking quietly about the terrain, the weather, and their previous journeys through the region. Artyrith, Treskan, and Mathi had to make do. The cook broke out food and drink, a sweet nectar that he said was from the Thalas delta. They ate in the saddle. Artyrith grumbled the whole time. While he talked, Mathi half listened with a vacant but sympathetic smile. The cook scarcely noticed.

The longer they rode, the more the trees thinned and eventually disappeared. They topped a low knoll, and Balif reined up. Spread out below was a wide, rolling plain. Unlike the largely flat savannah of the distant west, the eastern plain was hilly, cut by small streams and dry ravines. Thick, dark green grass as high as the horses’ bellies waved in the wind. Ahead of them there wasn’t a tree in sight. Hawks wheeled overhead, screeching. Everyone looked skyward, attracted by the noise-everyone but Balif.

“This is no elf’s land,” he announced. “Whatever the Great Speaker thinks, his power ends with the forest. From here on we shall have to be on our guard.”

“What about the outpost at Free Winds?” Lofotan asked. It was about six hours’ ride farther east. Should they make for it?

Balif nodded. “Free Winds it shall be.” He steered his horse down the shallow slope.

Free Winds wasn’t a town. It was a military post, a Silvanesti island in an ocean of grass. Besides a garrison of elves, there were traders, tax collectors, and other trappings of civilization, but the rule of the Speaker’s law ended outside the outpost’s stone walls.

They rode on. Over the course of the long, summer day the riders strung out according to their ability and the strength of their mounts. Balif forged ahead with Lofotan close at hand. Artyrith, though an accomplished rider about town, wasn’t used to so much time in the saddle. He labored to stay within sight of the leaders, but it was poor Treskan and Mathi who really struggled to keep pace. The pack train didn’t hamper them as much as did their lack of riding skill. By late afternoon Balif and Lofotan were over the horizon, and Artyrith was just a dot in the landscape far ahead.

Treskan tried to get his balky pony go to faster. He was afraid of being left behind, and said so repeatedly. Mathi feared he would start weeping if they didn’t catch up with the others. Thumping the pony’s ribs with her heels and shaking the reins to urge the beast forward, Mathi gradually became aware of the profound silence around them. Stretching high in the simple padded saddle, she saw Artyrith meandering through the grass more than a mile away. They were crossing the bottom of a large, bowl-shaped valley, ringed by low hills. The wind had ceased, and the ever-present hawks were no longer circling overhead. Mathi’s hand went slack on the reins. Her pony slowed then stopped. He fell to cropping the lush grass surrounding them. So did the packhorses. Feeling the drag on their reins brought Treskan to a stop too.

A dull red disk hung close to the horizon. Mathi had the sun at her back, but she shaded his eyes to better see the unexpected object. It was Lunitari, the red moon, uncharacteristically rising before sunset.

She felt a chill pass over her, as if the sun had been suddenly cut off by a passing cloud. The horses sensed it too. One by one they raised their heads and looked at the red moon.

A low rumble rolled over the valley. The sky was dotted with a few fluffy, white clouds, but no thunderheads were present. The packhorses began to whinny and shake their heads. Mathi didn’t pay much attention to their distress until it infected her mount. Treskan’s pony pranced in a tight circle, snorting loudly.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said soothingly. What had them spooked?

Mathi sensed it first. Something was lancing through the high grass about a hundred yards behind them. On all fours, it was moving fast. It wasn’t visible above the grass. She called out to Treskan, alerting him to the danger.

He yelped in alarm. The eastern lands were home to many beasts seldom seen in the well-hunted west: wolves, panthers, great plains bears. Treskan groped for his sword. He didn’t know how to use it, but having it in hand was better than nothing. Mathi had her sword too, thrust upon her by Lofotan, though she had never used such a weapon in her life.

Her pony reared, despite its blinders. Apparently the horses had gotten wind of the intruder. Mathi was not prepared to keep her seat. She fell off, hitting the thick mat of grass not too hard. Freed of its clumsy rider, the pony trotted away, whinnying and shaking its blunt head.

Mathi got up, throwing off her long riding cloak. Her sword was conveniently sticking point-first in the sod nearby. She tugged it free. Where was the menace?

“Over there!” Treskan called, pointing with his blade. Behind her!

The packhorses, tied together, were nearly mad with fear. They pulled and snatched at the rawhide lines binding them to each other. Curiously, the unseen creature had circled around the easy prey and was creeping through the grass toward Mathi. Then it stopped moving and growled. Low and throaty, its malign intent was unmistakable. Had it said, “I am going to kill you,” in well-inflected Elvish, Mathi could have not felt more threatened.

Sweat stung her eyes. Lashing out with the sword, she slashed out a circle in the grass to give herself a little better view. It was a desperate gesture. She was not a warrior. Neither was Treskan, who had lost his sword trying to keep his seat on his pony. Where were Balif and the others?

She heard the guttural growl again, much closer. By chance she’d been facing Lunitari floating above the horizon. Hearing the beast, Mathi whirled back to front and saw the sanguinary light of the red moon in the thing’s eyes. They were large, dark eyes, set in a face covered with dappled brown and gray fur. Hands shaking, Mathi lowered her blade.

“Stay,” she said as calmly as she could. “I am not an enemy!”

In answer the thing leaped headlong from a low crouch. Mathi backed away, shut her eyes, and held out both hands to ward off the creature’s lunge. She backed away until she tripped in the grass and fell backward. The beast let out a full-fledged roar. Even through tightly clenched eyelids, Mathi sensed a dark mass passing over her. She tensed for the tear of fangs and the rake of talons-

— and received instead a soft but weighty blow on the chest. She gasped, opened her eyes, and saw the beast was lying full length atop her. It was moving but feebly. She felt its last hot breath against his face.

Several pairs of legs came swishing through the grass. Strong with terror, Mathi heaved the body off. When she sat up, she saw three long arrows lodged in its ribs.

Balif, Lofotan, and Artyrith were walking up slowly. Treskan held their horses’ reins some yards away. The three elves approached in a wide arc with bows drawn. Dazed, Mathi didn’t even remember seeing bows among the baggage.

“Are you hurt, girl?” asked Lofotan. Mathi managed to shake her head no. She felt a burning sensation on her right cheek. Absently wiping the spot, she noticed blood on her fingers. She didn’t know if it was hers or the creature’s.

Artyrith reached the body first. Bow drawn, he nudged it hard with his toe. It didn’t move, but he planted another arrow in its neck, muttering an obscenity under his breath.

Balif arrived. He put his nocked arrow back in his quiver and lowered the bow. He knelt on one knee beside the corpse. “Roll it over,” he told Artyrith.

The cook levered the body over with his bow stave. When he beheld its face, the worldly Silvanesti backpedalled. Mathi’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped.

“What is it?” said Artyrith.

“One of Vedvedsica’s children,” said Balif. Hearing the mage’s name brought everyone’s eyes to the general. He looked down at what had so startled Artyrith.

It was like no creature he had ever seen. The beast-elf who broke into Balif’s villa his first night there had been elflike but covered in brutish hair. The creature before them was different. In general form it resembled a tawny panther, though leaner and with considerably longer limbs. Covered in light brown fur, it was tailless. It was also clearly female. White fangs protruded from its bifurcated upper lip. Strange as it was, it could have passed for an unhealthy breed of plains cat except for its face. It had a woman elf’s face, lightly furred, with ears on the sides of its head, a small nose, and elflike eyes. Open and staring, they were round like any elf’s, with brown irises.

Balif drew his sword and used it to lift the dead creature’s paws. It had fingers, five per limb, tipped with hard, yellow claws.

“What is it?” Treskan said, echoing Artyrith. His curiosity had overcome his fear, and he had crept forward to see what had been slain.

“An animal, magically altered to resemble an elf,” Balif said. He rose, still gazing at the creature. “One of Vedvedsica’s less successful efforts, I would say.”

That was the mage’s crime-whispered about, here and there, and scrupulously suppressed by every Silvanesti official and sage since. Vedvedsica had used his considerable magical skills trying to create elves out of common animals. But why create such abominations?

“Do you know this one?” Lofotan asked solemnly.

“She was called Urnya. She was a highland lynx at birth.”

Tears streamed down Mathi’s face, though not for the reason the elves understood.

“Why was it stalking us?” asked Treskan, agog.

“Not us … me.” Balif closed the staring eyes. “Some of Vedvedsica’s creations escaped the Speaker’s net. They have all the cunning of their motherkind, after all, and each has vowed vengeance on me.”

“Why you, sir? Why not a curse upon the Speaker, who ordered their destruction?”

“Great Silvanos dwells within a fortress, guarded night and day. I have only my wits and a few good comrades with me, and I did turn Vedvedsica over to the Speaker’s justice.”

The truth dawned on Treskan. That’s why Balif lived in such isolation. He had dispensed with servants and isolated himself from his kin to spare their becoming targets of the vengeful beast-folk.

“They hunted me in Silvanost,” Balif went on. “I thought we could outdistance them and reach Free Winds first.” He sheathed his sword. “Urnya always was fleet.”

Balif offered Mathi a hand. Shaking, the girl took it.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently. “Did the beast hurt you?”

She shrugged off his hand. “It’s nothing.”

He went to the packhorses, still tied together and trembling even though the threat was dead. They shivered and flecks of foam covered them as though they’d run ten miles. Balif hunted around and returned with two short-handled spades.

“Time to bury her,” he said. “Poor, unnatural thing, she at least deserves not to feed the crows.”

Lofotan took one spade. Mathi stepped forward and tried to take Balif’s tool. It wasn’t right that a great lord should bend his back digging a grave, she said.

Balif would not relinquish the spade. “I’ve buried many a comrade,” he said. “No one is too good to render this service to the dead.”

Artyrith, Treskan, and Mathi stood back as the two warriors dug a short, deep hole. They put the creature in and replaced the dirt and sod so carefully that it was very hard to tell where the grave was. Treskan remarked that no one would ever find the body.

“Oh, they already know she’s dead.” Balif’s handsome visage was streaked with sweat and grime. Artyrith offered him his flask of nectar. The cook wondered how anyone could know Urnya had been killed.

“They are beasts inside, even when they resembled us on the outside,” Balif said after downing a long swallow of nectar. “They can smell her blood on the wind. Ours too. When she doesn’t return with my blood on her claws, they will know why.”

Since leaving the woodland, Balif had known they were being followed. He purposely had rode far ahead to lure any pursuer into attacking the straggling pack animals. Circling back with Lofotan and Artyrith, they arrived in time to stop Urnya’s attack.

Sunset was fast at hand. “Come,” said Balif. “We’ll stay together this time. Treskan, you lead the way.”

Bows still strung, the three Silvanesti rode in a line abreast behind the pack train. Treskan preceded them on foot for a mile or two until they spied Mathi’s wayward pony grazing at the base of a hill. Remounted, they were able to set a better pace.

Dusk was unusually quiet. Crickets and peepers were still, and the whippoorwill did not sing its melancholy song. It was nerves of course, but Mathi felt a hundred eyes upon her as she guided her pony across a shallow stream. Running water would obscure their scent from the sharpest nose.

She heard a sharp call from behind. Twisting around, she saw Artyrith sit up high in the saddle, take aim, and loose an arrow into the gathering darkness. Balif asked what he saw.

“A pair of eyes, watching up from that thicket!”

A stand of high grass filled the base of a substantial hill north of them. Mathi looked but saw only lengthening shadows.

“Never mind,” Balif ordered. “Keep going. Free Winds isn’t far.”

“But what about the eyes?” demanded the cook.

Lofotan said, “You put an arrow between them, didn’t you?” Unwilling to deny his accuracy, Artyrith said he did. “Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

When the hills flattened out, they found themselves on a plain, higher and drier than the grasslands they’d crossed. Half an hour’s ride more, and they beheld a lone, steep-sided hill, rising up from the flat terrain. Twenty or so feet high, it was the only promontory around. Centered atop the hill was a curved stone wall, the outer defenses of Free Winds.

Artyrith gave a cheer. Balif rebuked him in a mild but definite way. The party rode faster. It was truly night. Every chirp, every chuckle by a night-dwelling animal made them flinch. None of them had any desire to meet another one of Vedvedsica’s children that night … or ever. The sooner they were safe behind stone walls, the better.

There was a wide, well-used track up the hillside. Mathi had to lean far forward to keep her seat as they climbed. The packhorses stumbled but kept going. At the top of the hill there was a narrow strip of level ground six feet wide, before the wall. To Mathi’s surprise, the trail ended against a blind expanse of stone.

Balif and the others arrived. Their horses were panting with fatigue. Finding the girl motionless before a solid wall, Balif asked what she was waiting for.

“There’s no gate!” she said, perplexed.

Artyrith said, “I shall ride around.”

Picking his way carefully in the dark, the cook disappeared off to the right. After a time, he reappeared on the waiting party’s left. It was his turn to look puzzled. “There isn’t a gate,” he declared.

Balif was amused. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called out in a clear, strong voice, “Hello! Soldiers of the garrison, hello!”

A torch poked up, held by an unseen hand. “Who goes there?”

“A surveying party out of Silvanost! We need shelter for the night!”

More torches joined the first. “How many in your party?”

“Five, with ten horses!”

“Stand fast,” called down the voice. “We’ll lower the crane!”

Squeaking and creaking, a contraption of wood and rope rose above the battlement. As they watched, it swung out over the wall. It looked like a platform of planks with a waist-high railing. It was lowered by a single stout rope from a derrick leaning over the wall.

The platform landed with a thump. All four stepped up, colliding at the single entry through the rail.

“You go,” Lofotan said, deferring to Balif. The general got on. Artyrith and Lofotan collided, trying to enter next.

“We’d better not go together,” Balif said to his old comrade. “Lest we are both lost at the same time.”

“How could you get lost?” wondered Artyrith. Lofotan dryly observed that the rope could break halfway up the wall.

The cook got on, and their respective horses were led on next. When Balif shouted they were ready, the platform jerked skyward. It swung back. Balif and Artyrith vanished behind the wall.

Standing in the dark with Lofotan and the scribe, Mathi had a distinct sense of foreboding. She mentioned her unease. Lofotan affected calm.

“Trust the general. He’s no fool. I’ve never known him to unwittingly thrust his head into danger.”

Even so, the crane did not return for a long time. Weary, Mathi knelt in the dust. The horses snorted and nudged her, impatient for water and rest. Then without warning, the platform swung noisily over the battlement and descended for them.

Lofotan put Mathi and the packhorses on. Groaning and creaking, the apparatus hoisted them aloft. She gripped the rail tightly. Fortunately it was dark, and she couldn’t see the ground reeling beneath her. The horses huddled together as quiet as could be. When the platform reached its zenith, the boom pivoted, swinging the scribe and horses in a breathtaking arc. Below, torches burned, lighting a courtyard inside the fortress. Down came the platform. As she neared the ground, Mathi saw that the platform was operated by a gang of human prisoners in tattered rags and dirty breechcloths. They were chained by ankle and wrist with heavy, bronze fetters. Five elves armed with spears stood by them, while an elf in artisan’s robes gave orders to operate the machine. But where were Balif and Artyrith?

A well-dressed elf standing between two warriors greeted Mathi. “I am Dolanath Arkesian, governor of Free Winds.” Mathi gave her name and described herself as the daughter of the surveyor Camaxilas.

“Your father is within, enjoying our hospitality,” Dolanath said smoothly. He indicated an open, lit doorway in the central keep. “Go and refresh yourself.”

Warily Mathi complied. She glanced back and saw their packhorses being led off to a stable built against the outside wall. The crane squeaked into life a third time to fetch Lofotan, Treskan, and the last of the horses.

Unescorted, Mathi wandered inside. It was pleasantly cool inside the thick, stone walls. She smelled something savory and, going straight down the hall, came upon a dining room with a set table. Several chairs were askew, but the plates had been cleared away. There was no sign of Balif or the lordly cook.

She picked up a plate. It was made of that parchment-thin stuff the city elves called “porcelain,” shiny as glass and hard as metal. No one made porcelain like the Silvanesti. Silver urns simmered on a sideboard with fat candles beneath them. Mathi lifted the lids one by one. Fine fare: airy dumplings, clear soup, edible leaves flash-fried so quickly they didn’t lose any color but were as light and crisp as the finest wafers. Crystal ewers of nectar and fruit essence stood on a separate table, chilled in wet basalt buckets. All very hospitable, but something was not right by a mile. Balif would not absent himself before all in his party were inside.

Carrying a plate and a fine silver goblet, Mathi drifted to the table and sat down. No sooner had she done so than two elves appeared on either side. A wooden rod was jammed between her teeth. It tingled strangely and Mathi found that she couldn’t spit it out. Nor could she lift her arms from the chair or stand up. She was pinned down by some unseen force.

The elves picked her up, chair and all, and hustled her through a curtained opening. In moments she was dumped rather roughly in a small, plain room. The elves went out. The ominous sound of a bolt being thrown made it chillingly clear Mathi was a prisoner.