Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

Alhana lifted herself to speak. “A place not terribly far away,” she said. “The people are tired and many are wounded. They need rest and food, a chance to get their strength back.”

The wild elf chieftain thought for a little while. Finally he gestured to the stream that flowed past the encampment. “We can follow that creek toward its headwaters in the southern highlands. Perhaps three days’ march will take us into the hill country. There are many valleys there, still thickly forested, with plenty of game. However, the trail will climb steeply toward the end. It will not be an easy march.”

“That’s too far!” Samar interjected. “You heard the queen. Many of us cannot make a trek like that!”

The others looked at him, startled by his vehemence, while Alhana reached a restraining hand to his arm.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I know we can do it. The strong will help those who are weaker, and the tribe can make it.”

Porthios felt that increasingly familiar twinge of jealousy. He shook his head, angry at himself. Why did he let it bother him? He knew that his wife loved him, that she had given birth to his baby! Wasn’t that enough?

Tarqualan was speaking. “I suggest we use the griffons to move those who are too weak to walk. It’s even possible that we could get more of them to join us, though it would take a few days.”

“I know there were many griffons in Qualinesti years ago,” Porthios said. “Do you know where they’ve gone?”

“Most are dwelling in the valleys of the High Kharolis,” said the scout, speaking of the lofty mountain range that sprawled over the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, miles to the south and east of Qualinesti.

“Do you think they would agree to help us?” wondered the prince.

Tarqualan nodded, but it was Alhana who spoke. “They abandoned the Qualinesti just a year ago, after Rashas ordered me imprisoned. It may be the knowledge that the prince has returned and I am now free could bring them to our assistance.”

Porthios was somewhat heartened by this news. “For this move, I don’t think we can count on more help than the griffons we have with us right now. But if we can make this march and reach a new camp, then we can send an emissary to the mountains to see if we can bring more griffons into our camp.”

“That emissary would have to be you,” Alhana said, addressing her husband.

“Why?”

“You are the symbol of Qualinesti, of the heritage that the griffons have served for so many centuries. If you were to go to them, to speak to them and show them our need, I think they’d follow you back here.”

“Very well,” Porthios agreed. “For now, we’ll move out first thing in the morning, and as soon as we make a new camp, I’ll see if I can enlist the aid of Stallyar’s clan.”

Later in the evening, with pickets posted on all sides of the camp, the tribe settled down to a night of rest. Sometime before dawn, Porthios awakened with an uneasy sense that something was amiss. He listened for the normal sounds of the nighttime forest and immediately realized that he could hear nothing except the rippling of the nearby stream and the soft breathing of Alhana who, with Silvanoshei wrapped in her arms, lay beside him. The stifling, muggy heat made it feel more like a midsummer day than the middle of the night.

But there should be soft birdcalls whistling through the woods, heralding the imminent arrival of dawn. Tiny mammals should be scurrying through the brush, looking for a last morsel of food before daylight once again sent them cowering into dens and burrows. Bats, too, were common in these forests, and their shrill, almost inaudible cries had been an accompaniment on every night spent out in the open.

Now there was none of that.

Instantly tense, though not yet alarmed, Porthios rose to his feet and silently made his way among the slumbering elves. He was holding his sword, only because the weapon gave him a sense of security, and he probed into the undergrowth beyond the clearing.

“Guards? Are you there?” he whispered, quietly approaching a sentry post. Odd... he had personally appointed all the pickets, but now he had no memory of the elf he had sent to watch this quadrant. The lapse in recollection was deeply disturbing, uncharacteristic of him and very unsettling in this strange, still night.

He stumbled over something. He looked down with a gasp to see a helmet and an empty shirt of leather armor. There was a sword, a longbow—This was the guard’s equipment! But where was the man? He stared into the underbrush, trying to see through the thick swaths of darkness that gathered so closely beneath the trees.

And then, with a chill of icy horror, he realized that the shadows around him were alive.

Gilthas couldn’t help but be pleased with the results of his second effort at recruiting. For some reason, now that they had already been conquered by the Knights of Takhisis, the elves seemed more inclined to realize that their kingdom could actually be facing an additional threat. Rumors and tales about the “Storms of Chaos” had spread through all strata of city society. In addition, the hot weather, the unnatural stillness of the air, and the thickening miasma that seemed to plague each breath all contributed to the feeling of impending disaster.

In any event, young elves, males and females both, came forth in the hundreds to join the ranks of the “Qualinost Legion,” as the Speaker was calling his new command. They joined him on the hillcrest where the Hall of Audience spread under the open sky, and Gilthas found all his skills taxed as he tried to organize them into ranks, companies, and platoons.

In these efforts, he had the assistance of a burly Dark Knight sergeant named Fennalt, a man assigned by Lord Salladac as the elven commander’s aide. Curling mustaches framed a square face with a stern, rocklike chin, making the veteran soldier a picture of strength and competence. Fennalt took charge of the actual organization and training, a fact that relieved Gilthas as soon as he heard the man’s voice boom across the makeshift parade ground.

Still, the Speaker was kept busy with matters of procuring supply, continuing to gather recruits, and maintaining accurate records of the legion’s formation and training. In fact, he was glad for the distractions created by this mountain of work, for it kept him from worrying about the thing that would otherwise have been at the forefront of his consciousness.

Kerianseray had yet to return from the camp of Porthios. Two days after his own arrival, the young elf had seen no sign of her, nor did any of his other servants admit to any knowledge of her whereabouts. Even when the workload was filling his head with facts and figures, he found his mind drifting away, occupied by concern for the beautiful wild elf slave who had risked so much for him.

Until he awakened in his house, the third day after his return from the forest, and was delighted to see Kerian enter his sleeping chamber to bring him his day’s garments.

“I-I’m glad to see you!” he blurted. “I was afraid for you. I didn’t know if you were safe.”

“I stayed with my father and his tribe for a day. Last night I flew on the back of a griffon to the city. The elves are preparing to move again, for they feared that Guilderhand might have revealed their position—and I feared that you might have met difficulties when you got back here.”

Gilthas quickly described the events following his return. “Thank you for taking me to Porthios... and for coming back to me.”

“As you can see,” she replied in a level tone, “I have willingly returned to slavery.”

He flushed and shook his head. “No... you have your freedom. You shall do what you want with your life.” His heart pounded, and he watched her carefully, wondering if she would immediately start for the door.