Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

“They make sense to me.”

“You said that I could help you, that you wanted information about the Dark Knights. What do you want to know?”

“This Lord Salladac... you have met him?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what he’s like, his strengths, especially, and any weaknesses you might have observed.”

Gilthas tried to comply. He listed the Dark Knight leader’s grasp of strategy and tactics, his obvious mastery over his own troops. He described the speed with which the knightly army moved, the well-disciplined dragons, and the rank after rank of fierce-looking brutes, all apparently devoted to their lord. Gilthas also mentioned Salladac’s utter ruthlessness in dealing with the incompetence of his own lieutenant, the soldier who had been executed for failing to guard his camp.

“That incompetence was highlighted only by our attack,” Porthios interjected with no attempt to conceal his pride.

“Exactly. Salladac is a diplomat, too. In negotiations, he is unfailingly pleasant, yet he seems to get exactly what he wants.”

“That’s because he deals from a position of strength.”

“Perhaps... and also because, in my experience, he’s been negotiating with weaklings.” Gilthas was startled by his own frankness.

“Do you include yourself in that assessment?” Porthios looked at him shrewdly.

The Speaker merely shrugged. “You can, if you want. I was present, but—as I’m sure you could imagine—it was Rashas who did the talking.”

“Gilthas—that is, the Speaker—tried to raise a company to defend the city!” Kerianseray, speaking for the first time, interrupted with surprising vehemence.

A warm flush of pleasure flowed through the young elf at her words, though he tried to mask his emotion from Porthios and from the fierce-looking Kagonesti who glowered at Kerian’s side.

“This is true?” asked the outlaw captain.

Now Gilthas’s emotions shifted again toward shame as he remembered his pathetic efforts. “I tried, that much is true. But the elves of the city showed no stomach for the fight. I was able to gather about fifty old warriors, half of them lamed during the War of the Lance.”

“They had no stomach for the fight, or for their leader?” Porthios stabbed shrewdly.

Gilthas remained silent, biting his tongue as he glared at the outlaw.

Porthios snorted in contempt. “I would have expected more from the son of Tanis Half-Elven. Your father was impetuous, a fool in some ways, but at least he—”

Gilthas had heard enough. His features twisted into a snarl and he jumped to his feet. “Listen, damn you—leave my father out of this! Tanis has more wisdom in his big toe than you, a so-called elven prince, have in your whole body! You won’t insult him in my presence, or I will fight you!”

He dropped his tone, his voice deliberately scornful, challenging. “Are you a complete fool? Can’t you see that I don’t have any more choice in these matters than you do? If you’re too stupid to get that through your head, then send me away or kill me... whatever you plan to do.”

With a glower of pure fury, he raised his fist—he had no weapon—and took what he assumed was a martial stance. “That is, you can try to kill me!”

Porthios stared at him, his face darkening to a furious crimson. Then, to Gilthas’s immense chagrin and embarrassment, the outlaw prince threw back his head and laughed out loud. He bounced to his feet and, still laughing, reached forward to clasp the Speaker’s clenched fist in both of his hands.

“Well said, young nephew. You are your mother’s—and your father’s—son after all. And you’re right to talk to me like that. I apologize for my rudeness.”

Utterly flustered now, Gilthas followed the other’s lead and sat back down. He regarded Porthios warily, surprised to realize that the outlaw now seemed to be in a fine mood, for he was chuckling and shaking his head in amusement.

“You were telling me about this Dark Knight lord... painting a rather formidable picture, I must admit. Does he have any weaknesses?”

Gilthas had actually given this question some thought, and he had an answer prepared. “If he has a weakness, and I am not certain that he does, it is that Lord Salladac is convinced—is too convinced—that he cannot fail. He exhibits a sense of arrogance that might lead to his undoing.”

“In what way?” Porthios was listening intently.

“He has been ordered to send his dragons and half his army to aid in the campaign against Silvanesti, for example, but he’s decided to remain here, fully confident that he and his regime are safe.”

“As to the city, is it true that the Thalas-Enthia is allowed to meet, to conduct business as usual?”

“Yes... up to a point. The most radical members have fled, and their houses have been given over to the knightly garrison. There is a curfew now, but of course that doesn’t mean much to elves—it’s not as if we carouse like dwarves until all hours—though the knights have many guards patrolling the city at night.” He flashed a smile at the Kagonesti woman across the campfire. “Fortunately Kerianseray didn’t seem to have much trouble in leading us past them.”

“My daughter has been trained to know the stealth of the deer and the speed of the rabbit,” declared the tattooed warrior who sat so protectively beside the wild elf maid.

“Your daugh —of course, yes,” Gilthas said, flustered. Alhana’s eyes sparkled at his discomfort, though he tried manfully to maintain his composure. Nevertheless, he was almost giddy with delight at the news. Though the wild elf brave was clearly mature, his tattooed elven face gave no hint that he was anything more than a grown male, so the Speaker had naturally formed a mistaken impression about him

“Forgive me,” Porthios said. “This is Dallatar, chieftain of the Kagonesti in these woods. His warriors have allied themselves with ours in defense of our homeland.”

“I’m glad,” Gilthas said sincerely. “And you should know that there are those in the city who would be your allies as well.”

“I believe you,” the dark elf said, and Gilthas was surprised at the wave of relief those words sent through him.

“Now that we’ve gotten some of this business out of the way,” Alhana suggested, with a pointed look at her husband, “why don’t we move to the council fire. There we can eat—not a palace feast, of course, but we make do with the humble fare that the forest provides—and perhaps our guest might get a taste of our hospitality instead of our suspicions.”

“Agreed,” Porthios said cheerfully.

The elves made an informal procession as they left the enclosed space between the tree trunks. Gilthas was surprised to find, a few paces deeper in the forest, a wide, open space in which were gathered hundreds of elves and griffons. A few tall trees grew here and there, with broad upper branches sweeping outward, interconnecting enough to deny any glimpse of the sky. More significantly, he realized, this huge encampment was consequently invisible to discovery from the air.

The “humble fare” of the forest was a dazzling array of foods, centering around roast venison, stuffed game hens, and fish fillets spitted and grilled over hardwood coals. There were fruits and tubers in accompaniment, including berries that had been whipped into a light froth and then spread over thin strips of bread. The outlaws even had wine, though Porthios cheerfully admitted that it was not of their own making. Instead, they had taken it from an outbound caravan. Many jugs had been cached near here, so that when the blue dragons had driven them out of their previous camp, they had still maintained a ready supply of the beverage so favored by the elves.