Paul Thompson - The Forest King

She cupped her hands to her mouth. Absurd, really absurd, the gesture, but she had to try.

“Rufe! Rufus Wrinklecap! Are you there?”

Frogs grunted in the mud around them. She shouted again. Turning in a circle on the river bank, she squinted into the twilight for some hint of the kender’s presence. Mathi drew in a deep breath to shout a third time but, before she could, she felt a tug on the back of her trailworn gown.

Without even turning around she said, “Rufe, I have a new task for you. Or I should say, an old one you may do again.”

“What’s up, boss?”

The kender was decked out in an assortment of leather and furs, spoils from the nomads no doubt. He had an oversized knife shoved in his belt and a bronze gorget at his throat. The martial effect of his attire was spoiled by his bare, muddy feet and the sprig of green sumac he was chewing.

“I need to find Balif.”

Rufe balked. “That’s not a good idea, boss. He’s not a friendly elf anymore.”

“Nevertheless, I need to find him. I’ll pay what it’s worth. What do you want for the job?”

Rufe thought for a long time, at least to a count of five. “I want to go with him,” he said, pointing to Treskan.

“Eh? Go with me where?”

“Wherever you go, boss. Back home to Woodbec, or anyplace else.”

It was unexpected. Mathi asked why he wanted to go with the scribe.

“He visits strange places,” said the kender. He poked his pointed chin with a finger. “Places I can’t get to. That interests me.”

Treskan pronounced it impossible. Absolutely impossible. Even if he wanted to take Rufe, he could not. The rules of his profession forbade tagalongs.

“Will you take me with you then?” he said to Mathi. She was taken aback. Her ultimate destination was unknown, even to her, but since she needed the kender to find Balif, Mathi said yes.

“Swear to it,” Rufe said with great solemnity.

She did, though she felt very guilty. Rufe gravely shook hands with her, hitched up his sword belt, and announced he would find Balif before sunrise. Mathi hoped that he could.

Rufe slipped away into the dark, damp woods. A mist was rising from the river.

“If I don’t sleep soon, I’m going to die,” Treskan declared. Mathi heartily agreed. She felt damp to the skin, so they went up the riverbank to the kender’s bridge. They crossed over and climbed the hill so many had died trying to take.

The wanderfolk were scattered over the hill in their usual careless fashion. The biggest campfire marked the Longwalker’s shelter, cobbled together from cast-off nomad blankets and poles salvaged from Lofotan’s barrier of stakes. Serius and his cronies hailed Mathi and offered her food and drink. It was good fare, cured venison and wheat beer, again courtesy of Bulnac’s shattered horde.

“What a day!” the Longwalker declared. “I have never seen the like!”

Mathi agreed. The kender refought the battles of the day, each storyteller emphasizing his own part in the struggle. Listening to them, Mathi had no idea so many brave kender had fought so well. The elves and the centaurs were mere bystanders in their version.

“Where are Zakki and his fellows?” Mathi asked. They were gone with the elf army, tracking the humans. And what about Lofotan?

“The Elder lord”-the Longwalker meant Artyrith-“tried to force Lofty to go with him, but Lofty refused. He said his place was here. I think he expects the general to return.”

“Lofotan is here? Where?”

Four kender hands pointed four different directions. The Longwalker scolded them and said, “On the high bluff, overlooking the water.”

Mathi thanked them for the meal. Treskan would have, too, but he had slumped forward where he sat, dead asleep.

She wove in and out of the hodge-podge of shelters until she reached the highest point of the hill. There she found Lofotan seated cross-legged in front of a small twig fire. Fire painted his face in dark colors.

“Greetings, captain.”

“Girl. Where have you been?”

Mathi sat down and told him everything. Lofotan was not surprised that Amaranthe had shown up. He was surprised to hear she granted the orphan girl and clumsy scribe such an intimate interview.

“I’ve known her a century and a half, and I have never had such a conversation with her,” Lofotan grumbled. Mathi shrugged. It was only because she had information about Balif that Amaranthe wanted to know, she said.

“I’ve set Rufe on his trail. He’ll find him.”

Now Lofotan shrugged. Artyrith had hundreds of trained trackers combing the forest for Balif. How could one erratic wanderer do what three hundred Silvanesti could not? Hearing the question, Mathi laughed. There was nothing beyond kender, she declared, and among kender, anything was possible with Rufe.

Faint white light flashed over them. Mathi saw her hands briefly emerge from the night, then fade back again. She looked up, but the sky was clear of stormclouds.

A shooting star streaked from east to west over the trees. Then another. And another.

“Look, captain! Falling stars!”

The meteors whizzed overhead, making sizzling sounds. Denizens of the lowland woods quieted under the aerial display. Frogs fell silent. Even crickets ceased to sing.

A cry went up from the kender downslope. Mathi and Lofotan stood up and saw sheets of light forming in the sky. It was hard to describe exactly. The light formed long curtains of glowing color in the air. The upper edges were bluish white, but the color deepened, becoming dark red at the ragged bottom edges.

“What is it?”

“Aurora,” said Lofotan. He’d seen many things in his long life. “The air itself has taken on light.”

Aurora high in the sky was natural enough, but when the sheets of color began to descend to the trees, everyone knew it was no natural phenomenon. Even stranger, as Mathi looked on the glow infused Lofotan. His hands, feet, and face started to shine with a pale, cool light. He stood back from Mathi, holding out his hands. His skin was shimmering.

The kender abandoned their shanties and fled into the woods. Streams of cool blue or angry red light drifted like smoke among the trees. Alone on the bluff, Mathi and Lofotan tried to fathom what was happening.

“I am glowing, but you are not,” Lofotan observed. “What does that mean?”

Mathi had figured out what was going on. Lofotan was alight because he was an elf. Though she looked like an elf on the outside, Mathi did not glow. She didn’t dare explain her deduction to the captain. But why were elves glowing, and who was responsible?

It came to her in a flash: Amaranthe, or Artyrith. They were searching for Balif. Both had magicians of skill at their beck and call. To find a feather in a field of wheat, make the feather stand out. Someone had created that strange aurora to highlight elves-including Balif.

“How does it feel?” Mathi asked, hoping Lofotan would not reach the same conclusion she had.

“I feel nothing unusual.” He waved his hand hard, as if to shake the light loose from his skin. “Damned strange sight, though.”

“I’d better find the Longwalker,” Mathi said, sidling away.

“Why?” Lofotan asked irritably. The wanderfolk weren’t glowing, and they certainly couldn’t cast such a powerful spell.

“I want to reassure him. He needs to keep his people here if his claim to the land is to stand up.” It was true enough, but what Mathi wanted foremost was to look for Balif. She went swiftly down the hill in the dark, skirting curtains of light that drifted soundlessly out of the woods. By the time she reached the bottom of the hill she was running. Once out of Lofotan’s sight she halted to catch her breath. Fragments of aurora moved among the trees, but the steady moonglow of elf skin was nowhere to be seen. It felt futile, but Mathi had to try to find the general. She had one advantage over the legions of elves looking for Balif. The general might be willing to be found by her.