Paul Thompson - The Forest King

“Mathani Arborelinex. Yes, I know. But who are you?”

The Silvanesti knew her name? That was perplexing. Mathi explained that she had been in the wilderness many days, hobnobbing with centaurs, humans, and kender. No doubt they all rubbed off on her a bit.

The griffon rider unbuckled his chin strap and removed his helmet. A mass of blond hair emerged, and with a face she knew well.

“Mistravan Artyrith! How can it be you?”

“Lord Artyrith,” he said loftily. “Recently restored to my proper titles and property by the Speaker of the Stars.”

Mathi congratulated the former cook. “You made it back to Silvanost?”

Artyrith perched his helmet on the pommel of his sky saddle. “I did. My report to the Speaker convinced him to send an expeditionary force. Even now we are driving the savages from the woodland below.”

More revelations followed. Artyrith had caught the Speaker’s favor with his dramatic return to Silvanost. News of the nomad incursion, along with the failure of Govenor Dolanath to protect the eastern province, resulted in Dolanath’s dismissal. Who was now governor of the east? Mistravan Artyrith, once more Lord Artyrith. Mathi didn’t know if she should laugh or weep.

The defenders of the hilltop came streaming down to meet the griffon riders. The Silvanesti remained aloof, not getting down or mingling with the centaurs or kender.

“Where is the general?” Artyrith asked. Kender braved the ferocious griffon and closed around him, patting the skittish beast and the rider’s legs with equal enthusiasm.

“The general is, well-”

“The general is dead.”

Lofotan was last down the hill. He was covered with cuts, bruises, and grime, but he walked proudly, gripping his well-used bow.

“What? Are you certain?” said Artyrith.

“He fought the chief of the nomads in single combat and won, but subsequently died of his wounds.”

No one present-not the Longwalker or his kender, Zakki, the remaining centaurs, Treskan, or Mathi contradicted Lofotan’s bold lie.

“I have orders from the Speaker himself to bring General Balif back to Silvanost,” Artyrith said, annoyed. “May I see the body?”

Lofotan nodded. He bid Lord Artyrith dismount and follow him. Lord Artyrith handed off his long lance to a flanking rider and got down. Admiring kender crowded around, but Artyrith’s severe expression convinced them to keep clear. Holding the edges of his cape, the new governor of the east parted through the crowd imperiously. Mathi fell in behind him. She was worried. What was Lofotan thinking? It was one thing to lie to the Speaker’s emissary, but what body could he possibly show Artyrith?

Elegant in his flying silks, Artyrith was still overshadowed by the taller, taciturn Lofotan. They faced each other for what seemed like a very long time until Artyrith cleared his throat and said, “Lead on, captain.”

Lofotan held out his arm. “This way, my lord.”

Oh the irony of the last two words! Treskan and Mathi exchanged knowing glances. Did Artyrith relish them, or was he wise enough to sense the threat in Lofotan’s tone?

The elf led them over the battlefield, through the line of stakes to where Balif had fallen. Mathi’s cloak was where he left it. A lumpy shape lay covered, until a stray breeze lifted a corner. Mathi saw nothing but a pile of dirt underneath. Where was the general?

Lofotan went on. He led Artyrith to the very summit of the bluff overlooking the river. With one foot on the edge he pointed dramatically to the green water below.

“We dropped the body off here,” he said.

“You threw the general’s body in the river?”

“We had to. We were besieged, and the remains were corrupting. He died valiantly, but he was not himself.”

He let that veiled reference hang in the air. Artyrith looked down at the river.

“When did he die?” he said.

“Yesterday, about sundown.”

“I’ll have to search the river and both banks,” Artyrith said. “The Great Speaker would expect nothing less.”

He turned away irritably in a swirl of silk. Mathi queried the captain with an upraised eyebrow, but Lofotan ignored her, falling in step behind his one-time underling.

When they returned to the hillside, a large contingent of the Silvanesti army was mustered there. The nomads were fleeing, the officers reported. Artyrith ordered them pursued.

“Harry them out of the country,” he said. “Whatever goods or chattels they abandon are to be taken and made the property of the Speaker. Any camps or settlements you find must be burned to the ground. This is the will of Silvanos Golden-Eye, Speaker of the Stars.”

The officers scattered to their companies to carry out the severe orders. While Artyrith conferred with the other griffon riders about what areas to patrol, Mathi sidled up to Lofotan.

“What really happened to Balif?” she whispered.

“He’s gone. What more do you need to know?”

Lofotan explained another reason why Artyrith had come. The Speaker had learned from Artyrith that the general had been transformed into a beast by Vedvedsica’s curse. Silvanesti law did not differentiate between those who willingly trafficked in sorcery and those who were accursed. On the pretext of protecting elven society from the abomination Balif had become, Silvanos had ordered the arrest of Balif. Trial, imprisonment, and death would surely follow.

Silvanos had a long memory. He could never forget a good number of his subjects had once preferred Balif as their ruler to him. Silvanos had made it his duty to remove the accursed Balif from respectable society. His popular rival would disappear forever.

“Surely the Speaker is not so ruthless?” Mathi said, aghast.

“I credit him for being merciful,” Lofotan replied. “If he were truly ruthless, he would put the general on display in a public square in Silvanost, chained to a post. That would ruin the name of Balif forever.”

Lofotan walked away, mixing into the crowd of kender until he was eventually lost from sight. Mathi, shaken by the hard rules of elven society, watched him go and pondered her next move. Her mission was over, finished. Her brethren, wherever they were, had nothing left to avenge. When the time was right, she would slip away and join them. The children of Vedvedsica still had secret enclaves in the western forest. There, with vigilance and luck, they might pass their lives hidden from Silvanesti persecution.

One problem remained. She should not have cared, but it mattered to her was where Balif had gone. The general’s disappearance was still a mystery. In the space of a few thoughts Mathi decided she was not leaving until she discovered Balif’s true fate.

Someone cleared their throat decorously behind her. Mathi turned. There a fresh-faced elf, wearing the finest silk robes and a circlet of ivy on his head, held a polished silver tray out to the scribe. On it lay a gilded card.

Mathi understood the card was for her. She picked it up. At once crimson letters appeared, hovering a hair’s breadth off the otherwise blank rectangle. Judging by its weight, the card was solid gold.

Summons , it said. Mathi asked the messenger what it meant.

“You are summoned to the August Presence,” he replied. “Two hours past sundown.”

“Whose presence?”

“The name of a great person is not idly spoken before foreigners and savages.”

It sounded stuffy, if intriguing. “All right. Where will I go?”

The messenger stepped aside. “You will come with me now.”

Mathi pointed skyward. “It’s a long time till sunset. Are we going so far?”

“The journey is not far, but you must be prepared if you are to enter the presence of a very August Person. Come, if you please.”