Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

“My lord, you can well imagine the consternation we all felt upon your mount’s arrival. There is not an elf here that did not pledge his life and his sword to avenge your death. Indeed, there are many parties of warriors in the woods, both searching for you and exacting whatever vengeance they can against the Dark Knights.”

Porthios described his encounter with the brutes and learned that similar ambushes were experienced by many of the refugees. Samar had led dozens in a fighting retreat, running a gauntlet of attackers and wounding a blue dragon with his lance. Finally he had led the group here, arriving a few hours before Porthios with many wounded in tow.

“The attack plan was worked out with an eye toward strategy,” the prince realized. “The enemy general only sent his dragons against our camp when his troops were already in place in the surrounding woods.”

And, tragically, it was a tactic that had proven lethally successful, for even four days after the appointed time of the rendezvous, barely two-thirds of the elves who had fled the encampment had arrived at Splintered Rock.

It was with relief and delight, on that fourth evening, that Porthios and the rest greeted Dallatar and his band of Kagonesti. Not surprisingly, the wild elves had made their way around the enemy’s traps, even turning the tables on several companies of brutes who had been lying in ambush alongside well-traveled trails.

But Porthios was surprised by the news Dallatar shared as the two of them sat around a small fire later that evening. Alhana reclined nearby, resting uncomfortably as she nursed her baby, still trying to recover from the rigors of the flight. Samar, too, was present, watchfully eyeing the dark forest. Porthios felt a pang of guilt as he saw that the warrior-mage seemed to take care to avoid sitting at Alhana’s side.

Porthios asked the Kagonesti chieftain if he had made contact with his spies in Qualinost.

“Yes, I did. As you expected, they surrendered to the Dark Knights without a fight. The city has been occupied, though the senators and nobles have been allowed to keep their wealth and stations, except for a few of the more independent thinkers. The senators called Quaralan and Anthelia, for example, have been arrested and imprisoned in a camp outside of the city.”

“And what about the common people?” Porthios asked.

Dallatar shrugged. “There, again, those who have the courage to speak out against the occupation have been arrested, their property—such as it is—confiscated.”

“Who is the ruler of the occupation forces?”

“A lord called Salladac. It was he who commanded the operation against your encampment. He was aided by Palthainon, who revealed the location of your band. Rumor has it that the lord knight is quite pleased with the attack. However, it might please you to know that another Lord—Haldian, I think they called him—who originally commanded the invasion of the west was sentenced to death, executed by order of Salladac.”

“No great loss... he was a fool,” Porthios declared grimly. “Better for us if he had been left in charge. Are your own agents safe?”

“My agent is my daughter... and, yes, thank you for the inquiry. She is well. In fact, in addition to a belated warning about Palthainon’s treachery, she sends a message for you.”

“A message?” Porthios felt so separated from his previous life in that place that he had somehow brought himself to believe that his own existence was no longer relevant to the elves of the city. “From whom?”

“From the Speaker of the Sun, your nephew, Gilthas.”

Porthios spat scornfully, drawing a sizzle from the embers of the low fire. “What does he have to say to me?”

“He begs the honor of a meeting with you.”

Now the outlaw sat up straight. “Why? So he can turn me over to his puppet master, this Lord Salladac?”

“I don’t know why he wants to speak to you, but the question was phrased as though he asks you for a favor.”

“And why should I grant that favor? This is a transparent attempt to trap me. After his dragons and his brutes failed, Lord Salladac is obviously turning to my own kinsman to use against me!”

Dallatar was noncommittal. “My... agent seems to feel that the young lord is sincere, that he feels genuine disgust at the betrayal of his homeland.”

“He was a part of that betrayal!” Porthios declared passionately. “He wears the medallion that I gave up—gave up because a Qualinesti arrow was pointed at my wife’s heart.”

“Gilthas didn’t know that!” Alhana, pushing herself awkwardly to a sitting position, spoke with surprising vehemence.

Porthios turned to his wife in anger and astonishment, but something in her direct gaze caused him to hold his temper in check. “You spoke with him about the matter?”

Alhana smiled, albeit a thin and bitter expression. “We were held prisoner in the same room for a time, until Rashas decided that I was a bad influence on him.”

“What—what was he like?” For the first time, Porthios found himself thinking about his nephew in more than just superficial terms. “Why would he take the throne from me under those circumstances?”

“For much the same reason you gave up the medallion,” Alhana explained gently. “He, too, knew of the arrow pointed at my heart. He is terribly young, not as wise as either you or I could wish. But I believe, my husband, that he has a good heart.”

“I still say it would be madness to meet him!” Porthios declared, groping for the strength of will that had stiffened his resolve when first he had heard this harebrained idea.

“You can always take precautions,” his wife noted. “Choose the place of the meeting yourself. Place plenty of guards around it.”

“And what if he has a company of Dark Knights follow him to the rendezvous. Do you want to risk another ambush?”

“What about sending a griffon for him?” Alhana countered with maddening logic. “No one on foot or even horseback could follow, and if a dragon appears, you can cancel the meeting—even, if he betrays you, send the boy to his death,” she added harshly.

“Boy?” asked Porthios. “This is the Speaker of the Sun, the ruler of Qualinesti, we’re talking about!”

“And he’s also the son of your sister and her husband, Tanis Half-Elven, in case you’ve forgotten. I think you should see him!”

“All right—all right!” Porthios snapped. He turned to Dallatar. “I’ll see him as soon as you can arrange a rendezvous.”

He was irritated at allowing himself to be persuaded, frustrated by this enforced isolation in the wilderness, galled by his dependence on others.

Even so, he was surprised by his certainty that, however reluctantly, he had made the right decision.

“And so the blues left you alone after you breathed in the face of one of them?” Silvanoshei asked.

“For a time, yes,” Aeren replied. “I knew they would be back eventually, however.”

“Were you afraid?”

The great serpent snorted in disdain. “I watched and I waited. I was ready to fight for my lair. But they were busy with the elves—and besides, along this shore the eating was very good.”

Gilthas looked out from the upper floor of his house, studying the city sprawled across the landscape. He was purposely looking south and west, away from the Tower of the Sun. He saw the domed hill where the Hall of Audience lay under the open sky, and from his vantage on the third floor, he could even catch a glimpse through the treetops of the mosaic tiles of the great map, the detailed relief depiction of the nation and its surroundings that had been scribed right into the floor of the hall.