Douglas Niles: The Puppet King

The warrior poked the snout again, and with a growl of anger and pain the dragon jerked backward, neck twisting, head rearing high above the two elves. With its massive jaws spread wide, the wyrm blasted a roar of fury.

Boldly the elder elf stepped forward and pressed the tip of his lance against the dragon’s breast at the place where the sinuous neck merged into the emerald body. He pushed, and a green scale cracked. The dragon tried to recoil, but it was blocked by the side of the cavern.

“Be silent, Aerensianic, and heed me or you will die!” barked the warrior, his tone stern and unafraid.

“You know me?” growled the serpent, his eyes narrowing in confusion and surprise.

“It was twenty-five years ago that we met. You may not remember me,” declared the elf calmly.

The wyrm fixed his gaze at the weapon poised for a killing thrust. But he made no move to attack.

“I could crush you with my jaws or in my talons!” growled the dragon called Aerensianic.

“You could try,” the elf allowed, “but I’ll take the chance that I could drive this dragonlance into your foul heart before you could move.” He seemed utterly unconcerned.

“I have sheltered here for a dozen winters or more, bothering no one in all that time,” the serpent replied in a tone of injured pride. “Leave me alone!”

“Not until we get what we have come for,” replied the lancer, twisting and pushing his weapon slightly, drawing an insulted snort from his massive adversary.

“What is it you want of me?” the dragon finally demanded, his voice a deep hiss. “My treasures? My life? Take it and begone!”

“Not your treasure... nor do we have any wish to claim your life. Rather, the lad here has a simple request,” said the elder, indicating his companion with a hunch of his shoulder.

Still staring, the second elf moved forward, eyes wide over the green mask as he stared at the monster rearing so high above.

“Make your demand!” spat the serpent.

Mustering all his courage, the young elf took another step. He glared into the dragon’s face, trying vainly to suppress the trembling in his knees. Still, his voice, when he spoke, was firm and steady.

“I want you to tell me a story,” he said.

The green wing curled gracefully, slicing the fetid air, bearing the great body through a shallow, banking turn. Aerensianic looked across the landscape of dark green, seeing the tracks of brackish streams like bright veins against a backdrop of verdant decay. Tall trees rose from the muck here and there, many draped with tendrils of stringy moss, while others loomed gaunt and skeletal, bereft of leaves and greenery. No breath of wind disturbed the air, and the landscape shimmered with a heat that was oppressive and unnatural even for this late summer day. Pale sunlight thickened the atmosphere, and vapors rising from the swamp were rich with the odors of decaying foliage, carrion, and the fishy, lizardy smell of scaly denizens.

Truly this swampland was a place of rot and death, and now it was the last such within the borders of the elven nation of Silvanesti. Beyond the delta of the silvered river, the Thon-Thalas, past horizons to the north and east and west, thriving forests rose from soft black loam. Sculpted as orderly, elegant gardens by the Woodshaper elves, these woodlands were places of precise order, carefully tended and schemed into regimented patterns. Aeren could see the lofty treetops waving in the balmy breeze, he could smell the hateful fragrance of vast, flowered meadows, and he could hear the relentless melody of a million songbirds as the feathered minstrels warbled their joy at the land’s rebirth.

There was no place for a dragon, not in those tamed woods.

Only here, in the delta of the kingdom’s great river, did decay and rot still linger in Silvanesti. Bordered by swift currents on all sides, an island inhabited by draconians, ogres, and other savage denizens, this murky fen was a stronghold of evil, the one such remaining within Silvanesti. Thirty years ago, the whole realm had been like this, but in that time, the elves had waged a relentless campaign of reclamation. Region by region, grove by grove, they had driven the monstrous denizens out, and the Woodshaper elves had then gone to work, sculpting and controlling and taming the wilds.

Aeren knew that the elves must inevitably be gathering their strength, preparing to clean out this last outpost of their enemies. In the thickets below were numerous bands of draconians, as well as ogres and two more dragons. Together they made a teeming, powerful force of savage and bestial warriors. But despite the might of the creatures gathered in opposition, it had seemed an unchangeable fact that the elves must prevail.

Until he had gotten the message, brought by a draconian who had once been a prisoner of the elves. The summons, too intriguing to ignore, drew Aerensianic from his moss-shrouded lair. Though he naturally suspected treachery, the green dragon had been curious in spite of his misgivings, and so he had come.

Now he saw the hillock at the southern end of the delta and tucked his wings, arrowing toward the slight elevation. Beyond the mossy rise stretched miles of brackish salt flats, merging with an indistinct border into the Courrain Ocean far to the south. Meandering channels of water connected the low hill with the deep river waters to the west. No doubt the other party at this meeting would reach the hill by boating along one of those canals.

Aeren could remember a time when this delta had not existed, when the Thon-Thalas had flowed deep and clear all the way to the sea. In the past decades, the river had been sorely taxed by the elven efforts to restore Silvanesti. So much of the wracked landscape had been carried seaward as silt that this vast fen had developed at the mouth of the river. Naturally, all the surviving creatures of foulness and evil had collected here, and the marsh had become a stronghold of villainy within a realm that was, in all other respects, once more pristine and healthy.

A spot of whiteness showed at the crest of the hill, and the green dragon curled his lip in an unconscious sneer. How like a Silvanesti. Even on a mission calling for stealth and subterfuge, he could not divest himself of the elegant robe of his station. Under other circumstances, Aeren would have enjoyed punishing the elf for his disdainful lack of camouflage, but for now the wyrm contented himself with a snort of disgust as he circled lower, finally coming to rest on the crest of the mossy hill. A sidelong glance showed that, as he had suspected, a longboat was pulled into the rushes at the base of the elevation. Two elven polers, dressed in the humble leather tunics of servants, waited in the narrow hull.

The elf on the hilltop made no effort to hide his distaste. Indeed, he pulled a fold of his robe over his mouth and nose as the unmaskable stench of green dragon wafted across the ground. Aeren snorted again, enjoying the Silvanesti’s discomfort as visible fumes drifted past his face. Then the dragon settled down, crouching like a cat and curling his neck around to bring his head down to the elf’s level.

He studied the fellow, noting the gold-laced sandals, the gilt-trimmed robe, and the jewel-encrusted bracelets of precious metal. Looking more closely, Aeren saw the unconcealed hatred in the elf’s narrowed eyes. Though he must be weakened by the effects of dragon awe, the Silvanesti was doing an admirable job of masking his unease.

“Audacious, don’t you think, to wear these baubles into the presence of a known collector such as myself?” Aeren said, his voice a low, sibilant growl. “Those bracelets would look exceptionally nice atop my treasure mound.”