Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

A flush of energy overtook him, and Gilthas raised the blade, lunging toward the hissing daemon warrior. He saw the fiery light flare brightly in the wicked pools of the creature’s eyes—and then he hesitated as the visage before him changed, shifted, sprouting a beard, the human’s features lengthening into an image that was at least partially elven. The creature closed its eyes, and immediately that horrible presence was gone.

“Father...” whispered Gilthas, recognizing Tanis Half-Elven in that once-ghastly face. He looked down at the hand, shocked and grieving. “Forgive me...”

The wounded image of Tanis bent double, moaning in pain.

“Kill it!” cried Laurana, pushing herself up to her knees and shouting. “It’s not your father! It’s a trick!”

Gilthas stared dumbly at the person he knew so well. He brought up the sword, but he couldn’t drive it forward, couldn’t force himself to attack. “It’s Tanis, don’t you see? Look!”

The half-elf was hunched over, his wounded hand clutching the stump of his bleeding wrist. “Help me!” he gasped, his voice taut with pain. It was the voice Gilthas knew so well, the sound of the man who had given him life, who had raised him from infancy until his destiny had brought him here.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” he said, lowering the blade and stepping forward.

The bearded face came up a little more, but there was a flash of something there, and suddenly Gilthas saw the hateful fire burning in those eyes.

And all the force of his rage, of his frustration and betrayal, went into his arms and hands as he thrust the sword forward, driving the keen steel through the monster’s breast, tearing away at the foul stuff of its innards.

The daemon warrior screamed, an unworldly howl, and stumbled backward, writhing on the steel blade, finally breaking free to tumble to the floor. Tanis’s features disappeared. Instead, Gilthas was staring at a beast of unspeakable horror, a gaping maw bristling with sharp teeth, skin black as oily coal except for the hellish fires of its eyes.

Slowly those flames faded to dull embers, and then went dark.

“So that’s how Chaos came to the city,” said the dragon quietly as Samar, white-faced and sweating, stopped to catch his breath.

“And as it came to everywhere, all over Krynn,” continued the elf grimly. “Like the Great Rift that opened in the Turbidus Ocean, the fires that burned across the crest of the Vingaard Mountains...”

Aeren nodded somberly. “And the horror that lived in my own skies...”

Porthios tumbled back into the clearing, shouting an alarm, waving his sword, frantically stabbing... at what? Despite the aura of menace, the bone-chilling horror he felt, there was no substance, no mass of flesh to these attackers.

For the writhing shapes seemed to be nothing more than pure shadow, insubstantial patches of darkness that closed menacingly around him yet had no bodies, no physical form. But when he recalled the empty helm and cuirass, he knew that somehow these bizarre nothings had destroyed the life and the soul of at least one brave elven warrior. And they were relentlessly determined to close in, to kill again and again.

The steel long sword in his hand, hallowed weapon of his family and cherished artifact of elvenkind, tore through one of the shadows with a sound like water sucking down a drain. Porthios felt the resistance, knew that he had gouged one of these shadows. But there were more, dozens more, oozing out of the darkness. They came at him from all sides, clearly attacking, though he could distinguish no details of face or body on any of them. At the same time, he knew they were real, and he sensed the deadly menace in the chilly and silent advance. They reached with tendrils of horrific darkness, lashing limbs that changed in shape or size as he dodged and retreated.

He shouted as loud as he could, desperately trying to raise an alarm in the camp. Then he stabbed and slashed again with his sword, lunging forward, dodging to the side, striking like a snake as he made sure than none of the tentacles of inky black could reach far enough to come into contact with his skin. Each time his sword cut through the tenuous shape of a shadow, he heard that awful gurgling death and saw the darkness wisp away.

But there were so many of them! They began to close a circle around him, and in seconds, his retreat was nearly cut off. Spinning frantically, slashing in every direction, he cut at the things, dissolving more of them, opening a gap in their ranks that allowed him to tumble past. Porthios rolled across the ground until he slammed against the trunk of a tree. Instinctively he knew that to be touched was to die. He was on his feet in a half a heartbeat, slashing and parrying, holding the eerie things back as once more he raised his voice in alarm.

“To arms, elves of Qualinesti! We’re attacked!”

In the camp, the elves were already aroused, griffons growling and screeching, warriors raising their weapons, other elves streaming into the woods, fleeing the mysterious attackers that were now emerging from between the trees. Most of the outlaws abandoned what few possessions they had brought with them, splashing through the stream, racing through the woods around the base of the Splintered Rock bluff. Porthios saw that Alhana had already snatched up Silvanoshei and fallen back, joining the flight that threatened to become a panic. Only then did the elven prince turn back to the fight, brandishing his blade, striking at any of the shadows that came within range of his steel.

He saw a dozen brave elves charge, instinctively forming a battle line, but their blades sliced harmlessly through the looming shadows. A moment later the tendrils of darkness reached forth, and the elves were simply gone. In their places, weapons dropped to the ground, shirts and belts and boots still tumbling from the momentum of the charge, but of the flesh and the lives that had been there, Porthios saw nothing. It was as though the courageous warriors had never been there.

More shadows swirled toward him, and his blade cut through them, killing some and driving the others back. Already he was realizing an important truth: His weapon, blessed by ancient powers, was potent against these things, but the blades of nearly all of his warriors were utterly useless against these beings of foul magic. The elves as a whole had no means of fighting this unnatural enemy.

Another rank attacked before Porthios could call them back, and these, too, perished, vanished utterly except for the tools and clothing that they had carried into the fight. His elves did not lack in courage, but they had no effective tools for battling this foe. More of them were turning to run, overcome by fear and lacking any means of stopping the horrific assault. Griffons, too, were winging away after too many of them had flown at the shadows, only to vanish in utter, complete dissolution.

“Fall back!” the prince shouted, still wielding his own blade against a press of attackers. “Get out of here! We’ll regroup on the far side of the bluff!”

Many of the warriors heeded his command, fleeing with the elders and children. But others stayed behind to wage the fruitless fight. Porthios recognized a brave warrior, silver sword flashing like lightning in his hand as he raced to defend his prince.

“Tarqualan!” cried Porthios, watching as that elven warrior came up against the rank of seething, squirming shadows.

And then the valiant fighter, veteran of so many of his prince’s battles, was gone, vanished in body and sight... and even, Porthios realized with a chill, in his very memory. He couldn’t recall the name of the bold commander who had stood so staunchly in the face of a nightmarish attack, who had ridden at his side through twenty years of campaigns in Silvanesti.