Paul Thompson - The Forest King

Mathi all but dropped the broom. “That’s monstrous!”

“Your word, country girl, not mine.”

The conversation finally seemed to spook the loquacious cook. He suddenly professed to be extremely busy and shooed Mathi out of the kitchen. Head abuzz with new facts, she made her way back to the front hall. There she found Lofotan removing a cloak and wide-brimmed hat.

“What are you doing here? Where is our lord?” Mathi had to admit she had lost Balif in the crowd outside the Tower of the Stars. The old soldier did not appear concerned. When Mathi told him about the Speaker’s command that Balif investigate the infiltration of the east by foreign interlopers, the majordomo was elated.

“Good!” he said. “It’s about time we quit this wretched city! You cannot trust anyone here.”

Mathi said the general was ordered to leave at first light.

“It shall be done! You will help, girl. The clumsy scribe too.”

“My name is Mathi,” she replied. “The scribe’s name is Treskan. They’re not hard names to remember.”

Lofotan ignored her. He bustled in and out of rooms, collecting garments from chests and flinging them into the girl’s arms. When Mathi was staggering under the burden, Lofotan led her to a small room under the grand stairway. Neatly racked along the walls were swords, bows, quivers of arrows, javelins, and light lances. Lofotan spent some time examining the blades, checking them for straightness and their edges for nicks. He had selected three when he asked Mathi to come forward. Struggling under an armload of clothing, the girl tried to comply.

“Oh, drop all that.”

Mathi heaved the garments on the floor.

“Are you right-handed? Hold out your arm.” Bewildered, she did so. Lofotan laid a slim elf sword against her outstretched arm. “How can you have long limbs and such a short reach?”

Not understanding the question, Mathi let the observation pass. “What are you doing?”

“Measuring you for a sword.”

“I’m no warrior!”

Lofotan took a too-lengthy blade away and tried a stubbier one. “Maybe so but you can defend yourself if needed, can’t you? A party of five armed elves stands a better chance in the wilderness than a party of four.”

“Five?” asked Mathi.

“My lord’s cook is no stranger to the blade. The scribbler, though blessed with five thumbs on each hand, is sturdy enough to bear a blade.”

The shortest sword in the armory fit Mathi’s reach. Lofotan was looking for a shirt of mail for her when muffled chiming filled the empty mansion. He stood stock still, listening.

“Someone’s at the door.” Mathi understood by then that visitors were not common at Balif’s abode. Lofotan hurried out. Mathi was at his heels, still carrying the short sword by the scabbard.

Lofotan opened the small postern set in the monumental door. There stood Balif. He was not alone. A draped figure stood close by in the starlight, hidden from view by a heavy cloak.

“My lord?” Lofotan was taken aback.

“I have a visitor I wish to entertain in private. Everyone in the house will withdraw to the kitchen.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Seeing they were in the midst of preparations from the coming trip, Balif said, “Keep that sword, Captain. Fetch the scribe. Go with him and the girl Mathi to Artyrith’s domain. All of you must remain in the kitchen until I give you leave to come out.”

He reached through the postern, taking Lofotan by the wrist. “You will slay whoever tries to leave the kitchen without my permission.”

“Yes, my lord. What if we have another intruder?”

He let go. “I am armed,” was Balif’s terse reply.

Lofotan took the short sword from Mathi and saluted with it. “It shall be done, my lord.”

He herded the girl to the passage downstairs. Mathi looked back over her shoulder several times. All she saw was a draped figure entering the house. Balif shut the door. Mathi had the distinct impression the visitor was female, but she could not make out her face.

Artyrith feigned outrage when he heard Balif’s orders. Lofotan told him why they were imposing on the prickly cook.

“Ah!” said the handsome young chef. “She pays a final call?”

“Still your tongue, fool, or I’ll still it for you permanently.”

Artyrith might have snapped back at the blunt threat, but the sword in Lofotan’s hand discouraged discussion. He went back to rolling bread dough.

Lofotan went out and quickly returned with Treskan. The scribe stumbled along, all the time writing on his board with his black metal stylus. Mathi asked what he was writing about.

“Events of the day,” he said, not looking up from his work. “I am still describing Balif’s march to the Tower of the Stars.” Absorbed by his work, he didn’t notice Artyrith peering over his shoulder until a gout of flour dusted his instrument.

“What kind of writing is that?”

Treskan turned the board over so the cook couldn’t see it. “It is called ‘record-hand.’ It allows us scribes to record full words in just a few strokes of the stylus.”

“Ingenious.”

Artyrith returned to his pots and pans. Lofotan sat grimly in front of the kitchen door, arms folded across his chest. The bare sword lay on his knees.

Darkness crept into the kitchen. Mathi helped start luminars around the room. When Artyrith had the meal ready, no word had come from Balif. Lofotan wouldn’t let anyone out to see if their lord required dinner. With an expressive shrug, Artyrith offered the fine repast to Mathi, Treskan, and the majordomo. They ate the large, golden-green, squashlike vegetable, carved to resemble a capon. Artyrith had stuffed it with nuts and berries, seasoned with the same bright orange spice he’d salvaged from the broken jar that afternoon. Mathi ate slowly, wary of bits of glass. The food was excellent. Artyrith had a splendid nectar to wash down the imitation bird. It was light as water, with a slightly acidic tang. The nectar vanished on the tongue like dew off early-morning grass.

“Wonderful,” Treskan declared. “My lord, you are an artist.”

“You have an educated palate to match your writing skills,” Artyrith said, beaming. “Would that our lord shared your taste.”

“He doesn’t like your food?”

The chef shrugged. “Who knows? He never says he does or does not.”

Mathi drank only water. Artyrith tried to fill her cup with nectar, but she refused it.

“You do not take spirits?” he said, holding out the slim, brown bottle.

“Not even mead,” she replied. “My people sold honey to meadmakers, but I do not drink such things.”

Lofotan ate in silence. He downed glass after glass of nectar until the bottle was dry. Artyrith grandly opened another. The old soldier put a hand over his cup.

“No more,” he said. “I have duties to perform.”

“Fear not, my two-legged griffon. This Runo vintage is lighter than a sea-maid’s kiss. We could down a bottle each and feel nothing more than gentle warmth.” Lofotan was unconvinced.

The cook filled Treskan’s glass not for the first time.

“See, the rustic scribe is not afraid. Are you?”

Treskan drained the cup in one long gulp. He seemed quite unfazed by it.

“That’s the way! This isn’t mere drink; it’s medicine for the gullet!” Artyrith refilled his cup and Treskan’s. Seeing the pretentious cook and awkward scribe outdrinking him wounded Lofotan’s pride. He shoved his silver cup forward.

Artyrith gave Mathi a secret wink. He filled Lofotan’s cup to the rim.

By the strong aroma, the girl could tell how potent the nectar was. It had an airy taste, but the rosy glow in her companions’ cheeks hinted at hidden strength. Sure enough, by the time the second bottle of Runo nectar was finished, Lofotan flushed from collar to crown.