Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

“Talk to me now,” the human said brusquely. “Surely you can see we’re in a hurry.”

“Yes, well... about my agent, Guilderhand. I have yet to hear his report, but if he’s successful, then we may have more enemies than just this ‘Storm of Chaos’ to deal with. If that’s the case—”

“I’ve spoken to Guilderhand, just tonight,” Salladac said breezily.

Despite the man’s light tone, Gilthas felt his heart sink to his knees. He knows—and I’m doomed! Again he thought of the sword, weighed his chances, and knew he would be dead before he pulled the weapon halfway out of its scabbard. Vaguely, as though from a long distance away, he heard the lord continue to talk.

“Don’t look so surprised,” chided Salladac, speaking to Rashas. “And you certainly shouldn’t be hurt by the fact that he didn’t come directly to you. You see, there was a feature inherent to that ring of teleportation that he thought he stole from me. In reality, as I told you, I provided the thing to him, though I kept that feature a secret. No matter where he wanted to go, the magic would bring him directly into my presence.”

“And he used the ring... He found... that is, he made a report,” pressed Rashas.

“And the ring took him to you?” added Gilthas, appalled at the implication and wondering why the lord hadn’t already ordered him arrested or worse.

“Oh, yes,” Salladac said smugly. He cast a meaningful look at the young Speaker, then shifted his attention back to Rashas. “He told me many things.”

“Where is he now?” demanded the senator. “I have to see him, to talk to him myself!”

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” the human replied.

“Why? Why? ”

“Well, you see, I decided that the little weasel was giving me nothing but a pack of lies. You’ll understand, of course, that I had no choice in what to do.”

“What did you do?” gasped Rashas, the color draining from his face.

“The same thing I’d do to anyone who told me lies,” Lord Salladac replied, rising from his stool and stretching again. “I had him hanged.”

Rashas, too stunned for words, had departed with his Kagonesti guards. The senator would return to his house and begin making plans for keeping order in a city menaced by a hitherto unknown threat. Gilthas had started for his own house, but had been delayed by the subtle gesture of one of the human knights escorting Lord Salladac.

After Rashas had vanished down the street, he was led back into the tower, where the lord met him with a stern glare.

“Guilderhand’s report was interesting, as I’m sure you can well imagine,” Salladac said without preamble. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“For what?” blurted the elf, whose head was still spinning.

“For killing him and saving your life. What do you think senators like Rashas would have done if they’d had the chance to talk to him?”

Gilthas didn’t need to exercise his imagination too hard. Hadn’t he been prepared to commit murder, just to prevent those conversations from occurring?

“Th-thank you,” he said, realizing that he was indeed grateful to the man, even as he was powerfully mystified. “But why did you do it?”

“Frankly, I wondered a little bit about that myself,” Salladac admitted. “And it comes down to a couple of reasons.

“One, it goes back to what I said before. I like your mettle. You haven’t had a chance to show it much, and with that vulture staring over your shoulder, the queen knows you don’t get much of a chance to do so. But I think you’ve got some good stuff in you, and what Guilderhand said didn’t do anything to change my mind. At the same time, just between you and me, every time I talk to Rashas I come away with a bad taste in my mouth. Between giving you over to him or tightening a noose around his pet spy, it was a pretty easy decision.”

“Then I thank you again sincerely,” the elven Speaker said. He decided to be blunt and forthright. “But surely you know that I was seeking to undermine your rule, even to find a way to resist the Dark Knights’ conquest.”

“Certainly. But I think that mission has been overtaken by events. Another thing I meant: Lord Ariakan sounded damn worried, and he’s not a man given over to worry. These Storms of Chaos are a real threat, and if they come here, it’s not going to be Rashas and—I admit—not you, either, who’ll put up a real fight.”

“But Porthios...?” Gilthas said. Finally he saw the reasoning, some reasoning, behind the knight’s actions.

“Aye, lad. We will need fighters like Porthios on our side—on both our sides.”

“You fear it will be that bad?”

“I fear it will be worse... a fight for our very lives, a battle for the survival and the future of the world.”

Gilthas found it odd that he felt a greater respect for this human warlord, conqueror of his people, than he did for the elves like Rashas who had led Qualinesti into the place where it could so easily be overrun. His own pride made it difficult for him to acknowledge these truths, but he declared that he would do whatever he could to prepare his city for defense.

“And as to Porthios, I will try to reach him, to let him know of the danger... and to bring him into common cause,” he pledged.

“That’s all we can hope for,” Salladac replied. “Good luck to you.”

“Thank you, lord.” Gilthas hesitated, then knew what he really felt. “And good luck to you as well.”

Turning to go, the elf sensed a strange hesitancy, looked back to see that Salladac had something more he wanted to say.

“What is it?”

“There is more news from the Tower of the High Clerist... news of a personal nature. Grim news, I’m afraid.”

Instantly Gilthas knew—he had sensed it, from the moment he learned about the Dark Knights’ invasion. He knew that there were people, many people, who would resist that onslaught and that many people would pay with their lives.

“My father...?” he said, his voice a dry rasp, hoping that he was wrong, yet knowing he was right.

“Tanis Half-Elven fought bravely. He almost won the struggle to hold the main gate,” Salladac said, his voice devoid of emotion. “In the end, he died a warrior’s death... a death that should make a son proud.”

“I never did get to Ergoth,” Aeren said softly, his thoughts returning to the present.

“You were caught up in the war?” Silvanoshei pressed.

“Yes, but it was not the war that I expected...”

The two green dragons passed a week in sublime relaxation. Toxyria’s next season for mating was still several years away, which spared them the frantic, even savage passion of an immediate draconic rut. Instead, they hunted, feeding each other the plumpest seals, catching dolphins to share, and lolling on their bluff with leather-lidded eyes peeled, constantly studying the northwestern horizon in search of a promising sail. Aeren remained alert for danger from the forests, too, but his earlier observation seemed accurate: The blue dragons had apparently abandoned Qualinesti.

If not for the oppressive heat, it would have been an interval of splendid peace and rest. Yet the unnatural weather was too extreme to ignore, and the relentless presence of the baking sun, the utter lack of moisture in the air, caused the two dragons to share a lingering sense of unease. The sky remained devoid of clouds, but it never reached the depths of blue that normally would have characterized fine summer weather. Instead, the sun blazed relentlessly, trees wilted, and the world seemed to wait... for something.

And the green dragons watched.

The first sign of significance, noticed by both of them at the same time, was not the indication of a passing ship that Aeren had been hoping for. Instead, it was a glowing redness that, with startling rapidity, suffused the sky to the north and west.