Douglas Niles: The Puppet King

Again the Silvanesti waited a long time before replying.

“Yes. My fellow patriots and I recognize that this is unavoidable. Of course, our own Silvanesti fliers were decimated in the first ten years of this campaign, so now Porthios’s flying troops are a bodyguard of Qualinesti elves. His chief lieutenant, Tarqualan, is as much a radical as his master; it would be good if you could kill many of the griffon riders. But it is true that he will lead a large contingent of Silvanesti warriors as well. Losses among them are... regrettable but necessary to the greater good.”

The green dragon regarded the elf coolly. “It may be, Silvanesti, that there are not so many differences between your people and mine as both of us have imagined.”

Again the emissary’s features drew into haughty disdain. “I shall not dignify that remark with a reply, except to say that you would not understand the priorities that lead us to make such a sacrifice for those who will come after us.”

Aeren’s smile was crocodilian. “It seems to me that the greatest sacrifice will be made by Porthios, if the plan works as you propose.”

“It will work. It must work!” Now the elf was all earnestness. “The campaign will not begin for at least a fortnight. Porthios will need time to rest and reorganize his armies from the liberation of the Tarthalian Highland, the thick forests in the eastern niche of our kingdom.”

“How will I identify Porthios?”

“He rides a griffon called Stallyar. The creature has silvered feathers at each wingtip. It is quite unique. Also, Porthios and Samar tend to remain aloof, above the bulk of the troops. With Samar drawn away, the prince will probably be alone.”

“And how will you get word to me?”

“I will come here one more time, to this hilltop.”

“You will come again in person?” Aeren’s tone was subtly mocking, but the elf was too serious to perceive the sarcasm.

“Yes. It is very dangerous for me to be gone from the capital. Even this mission is fraught with risk, but I had to see you face to face so that you would know we are serious. I cannot trust this matter to others.”

“I believe that you are serious, elf, even though you do not tell me your name, nor the names of your co-conspirators.”

“I tell you, we are patriots!” insisted the Silvanesti. “There is no alternative to ensuring the security of our future!”

“No other alternative save killing Porthios yourself,” the green dragon couldn’t help but observe.

“We are not assassins!” Again the elf’s shock was palpable, though Aeren was utterly mystified by the distinction. To him, whether the elves arranged for a dragon to kill their marshal or did the murder themselves seemed very much the same, morally speaking.

Not, of course, that he had any moral qualm about implementing the death of Porthios. Indeed, that warrior elf had been creating vexing problems for the green serpent since he had first come to Silvanesti, and his death—whoever brought it about—would be a very good thing for Aerensianic and his clan dragons. He was only too willing to accept the elves’ assistance in doing the deed. In fact, the advance intelligence about Porthios’s attack would be crucial, since the elven commander had demonstrated a knack for striking his enemies when and where they least expected. It would be a pleasure to turn the tables on him for a change.

“Then I shall be your assassin,” Aeren declared finally, striving for a soothing tone that was, despite his best intentions, a little beyond his grasp. Still, the elf seemed content with the resolution, not to mention eager to get away from this hilltop.

“Look for the information here. I will get you word as soon as Porthios makes his plans known.”

“I shall check this hilltop every day, within an hour of the sunset. But there is one more thing, before you rush off...”

The elf, who was about to do just that, hesitated suspiciously.

“How do I know that you will honor your word once Porthios has been removed? It may be that you will still decide to eradicate my clan and our ‘lackeys,’ as you called them, from this corner of Silvanesti.”

“You have the word of a Silvanesti general, an elf of House Protector... that is my bond.”

Aeren snorted. “That, and one other thing,” he growled ominously.

“What is that other thing?”

“Without the leadership of Porthios, your army may come after us, but they will surely die.”

The elf may have wanted to dispute that argument, but he thought better of his urge to reply. Without a backward glance, he stalked down the hill toward the boatmen, who were already making ready to depart.

Aerensianic, in not so much of a hurry, squatted on the mossy hilltop, watching the elves pole through the brackish fen toward the silvery river glinting on the horizon. Even when the robed figure had dwindled to a tiny spot in the distance, he stared and pondered.

In the end, he knew that it had been a good day’s work.

“This elf who wanted to kill Porthios... he claimed that he was Silvanesti?” asked the younger of the pair who had entered the green dragon’s den.

The serpent sniffed derisively. “Elves are all the same to me, but, yes, that was his claim. And I knew that was the elven name for the place where I dwelled, so his assertion made sense.”

“Why did he hate Porthios so much?” The youngster was perplexed, deeply troubled by the tale.

“How would I know the follies of elvenkind?” retorted the dragon, who then yelped as the elder elf pushed and twisted the lance.

“Why do you think he would betray his country’s hero?” asked the lancer.

The dragon shrugged disdainfully. “I suppose I can guess. There was a time, a mere eye blink ago by the reckoning of my life, when the whole realm of Silvanesti, all the forests and hillocks and streams, was a swath of delicious corruption. It was a time when Lorac Caladon was king of that elven land, and he was maddened by the power of a crystal sphere... a dragon orb. His darkest nightmares were whispered into his ear by the mighty green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, a wyrm even greater in age and power than I. For years Lorac was caught in the spell of that orb, and he writhed under the grip of powerful and ancient magic. All the realm had withered under the influence of massive corruption. Trees bled, monsters skulked in the shadows, and the elves—those who survived the scourge—all fled to distant lands.”

“That is ancient history. Silvanesti is not like that anymore!” insisted the young elf. “The forest has been restored, and the elves have returned!”

“True... because of the leader called Porthios.”

“But first,” interjected the elder of the pair, “Lorac died, and the Silvanesti General Konnal tried to vanquish Lorac’s nightmare. But he failed abysmally. His campaigns led to the decimation of the Windriders, the Silvanesti griffon riders who were once a feared force across all Krynn. The Kirath scouts penetrated parts of the realm, but Konnal’s army was thwarted at every turn.”

“I remember those days,” the dragon resumed. “And I knew that only after ten years of Konnal’s failures did the proud Silvanesti call for help, seeking a leader from their kinsman in the west. Porthios came, and he was a ruler in effect as well as name. Under him, the elves reclaimed their land, scourging the madness from forest and glade, slowly, inexorably restoring the pristine woodlands that had ever been the hallmark of this ancient kingdom. For years Porthios had led his elves on relentless campaigns, with armies of warriors attacking the denizens of the Dark Queen—denizens such as I myself—until we were cornered in a small corner of that once vast realm