Paul Thompson - Firstborn

The sky had lightened to pink by the time they reached the dark wall of trees. The party spread out, far enough apart for easy movement, but near enough to stay in sight of one another. All idle talk ceased.

The sun rose behind them, throwing long shadows through the trees. Kith-Kanan sweated in his cotton tunic and mopped his face with his sleeve. His father was ahead to his left, Parnigar slightly behind to his right.

Being in the forest again brought Anaya irresistibly to mind. Kith-Kanan saw her again, lithe and lively, flitting through the trees as silent as a ghost. He remembered her brusque manners, her gentle repose, and the way she felt in his arms. That he remembered best of all.

The heavy rains of summer had washed the sandy soil of the forest away, leaving chuckholes and protruding roots. Kith-Kanan let his horse pick its way along, but the animal misjudged its footing and hit a hole. The horse stumbled and recovered, but Kith-Kanan lost his seat and tumbled to the ground. The stump of a broken sapling gouged him in the back, and he lay there for a moment, stunned.

His vision cleared and he saw Parnigar leaning over him. “Are you all right, sir?” the old sergeant asked concernedly.

“Yes, just dazed. How’s my horse?”

The animal stood a few yards away, cropping moss. His right foreleg was held painfully off the ground.

Parnigar helped Kith-Kanan stand as the last of the hunting party passed by. Kencathedrus, in the rear, asked if they needed any help.

“No,” Kith-Kanan said quickly. “Go on. I’ll see to my horse.”

The horse’s lower leg was bruised but, with care, it wouldn’t be a crippling injury. Parnigar offered Kith-Kanan his horse, so he could catch up to the rest.

“No, thank you, Sergeant. They’re too far ahead. If I go galloping after them, I’ll scare off any game in the area.” He put a hand to his aching back.

Parnigar asked, “Shall I stay with you, sir?”

“I think you’d better. I may have to walk back to Sithelbec from here.” His back stabbed at him again, and he winced.

The news that Kith-Kanan had dropped out was passed ahead. The speaker expressed regret that his son would miss the hunt. But this was a rare day, and the expedition should continue. Sithel’s course through the trees meandered here and there, taking the path best suited to his horse. At more than one place he paused to examine tracks in the moss or mud. Wild pig, definitely.

It was hot, but the elves welcomed such heat—for it was a good change from the ever—present coolness of the Quinari Palace and the Tower of the Stars. While Silvanost was constantly bathed in fresh breezes, the heat of the plains made the speaker’s limbs feel looser and more supple, his head clearer. He reveled in the sense of freedom he felt out here and urged his horse on.

In the far distance, Sithel heard the call of a hunting horn. Such horns meant humans, and that meant dogs. Sure enough, the sound of barking came very faintly to his ears. Elves never used dogs, but humans rarely went into the woods without them. Human eyesight and hearing being so poor, Sithel reckoned they needed the animals to find any game at all.

The horns and dogs would likely frighten off any boar in the area. In fact, the dogs would flush everything—boar, deer, rabbits, foxes—out of hiding. Sithel shifted his lance back to his stirrup cup and sniffed. Humans were so unsporting.

There was a noise in the sumac behind and to his right. Sithel turned his horse around, lowered the tip of his lance, and poked through the bushes. A wild pheasant erupted from the green leaves, bleating shrilly. Laughing, the speaker calmed his prancing horse.

Sithas and a courtier named Timonas were close enough to see each other when the hunting horn sounded. The prince also realized that it meant humans in the woods. The idea filled him with alarm. He tightened his reins and spurred his horse in a tight circle, looking for other members of the party. The only one he could spot was Timonas.

“Can you see anyone?” Sithas called. The courtier shouted back that he could not.

Sithas’s alarm increased. It was inexplicable, but he felt a dangerous presentiment. In the heat of the summer morning, the prince shivered.

“Father!” he called. “Speaker, where are you?”

Ahead, the speaker had decided to turn back. Any boar worth bagging had long since left these woods, driven off by the humans. He retraced his path and heard Sithas’s call from not too far away.

“Oh, don’t shout,” he muttered irritably. “I’m coming.”

Catching up to him, Sithas pushed through a tangle of vines and elm saplings. As the prince spurred his mount toward the speaker, the feeling of danger was still with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of metal in a stand of cedar.

Then he saw the arrow in flight.

Before Sithas could utter the cry that rose to his lips, the arrow had struck Sithel in the left side, below his ribs. The Speaker of the Stars dropped his lance and pitched forward, but he did not fall from the saddle. A scarlet stain spread out from the arrow, running down the leg of Sithel’s trousers.

Timonas rode up on Sithas’s left. “See to the speaker!” Sithas cried. He slapped his horse’s flank with the reins and bore down on the cedar trees. Lance lowered, he burst through the dark green curtain. A quick glimpse of a white face, and he brought the handguard of his lance down on the archer’s head. The archer pitched forward on his face.

The royal guardsman accompanying the party appeared. “Come here! Watch this fellow!” Sithas shouted at him and then rode hard to where Timonas supported Sithel on his horse.

“Father,” Sithas said breathlessly. “Father…”

The speaker stared in wordless shock. He could say nothing as he reached a bloody hand to his son.

Gently Sithas and Timonas lowered the speaker to the ground. The rest of the hunting party quickly collected around them. The courtiers argued whether to remove the arrow, but Sithas silenced them all as Kencathedrus studied the wound. The look he gave the prince was telling. Sithas Understood.

“Father,” Sithas said desperately, “can you speak?”

Sithel’s lips parted, but no sound came. His hazel eyes seemed full of puzzlement. At last, his hand touched his son’s face, and he breathed his last. The hand fell to the ground.

The elves stood around their fallen monarch in abject disbelief. The one who had ruled them for three hundred and twenty-three years lay dead at their feet.

Kencathedrus had retrieved the fallen archer from the guardsman who watched him. The commander dragged the unconscious fellow by the back of his collar to where Sithel lay. “Sire, look at this,” he said. He rolled the inert figure over.

The archer was human. His carrot-colored hair was short and spiky, leaving his queerly rounded ears plainly visible. There was a stubble of orange beard on his chin.

“Murder,” muttered one of the courtiers. “The humans have killed our speaker!”

“Be silent!” Sithas said angrily. “Show some respect for the dead.” To Kencathedrus he declared, “When he wakes we will find out who he is and why he did this.”

“Perhaps it was an accident,” cautioned Kencathedrus, inspecting the man. “His bow is a hunting weapon, not a war bow.”

“He took aim! I saw him,” Sithas said hotly. “My father was mounted on a white horse! Who could mistake him?”

The human groaned. Courtiers surrounded him and dragged him to his feet. They were not very gentle about it. By the time they finished shaking and pummeling him, it was a wonder he opened his eyes at all.

“You have killed the Speaker of the Stars!” Sithas demanded furiously, “Why?”