Paul Thompson - The Forest King

“Can you break it?” He vowed he could not. “The reward for success would be substantial,” she added.

Talaramitas folded his hands, causing his many bracelets to jingle. “Gracious Highness, no one in Silvanesti can break this curse.”

Balif threw back his head and howled. He went in two bounds toward Amaranthe. To her credit, she did not flinch. Her magician did. Talaramitas hastily backed away, muttering words of a quick spell. The air between him and Balif sparkled. The beast halted, panting. He was close enough to touch the princess.

More soldiers and courtiers came pounding down the stairs. Raising her voice, Amaranthe commanded everyone to stay where they were and say nothing.

“Highness, this creature is the victim of a transmutory invocation. I have read of these, but to my knowledge no one in living memory had succeeded in casting one. Without exact knowledge of the words used and the intruments employed, I cannot reverse it.”

“What if the caster were found and killed?”

It would make no difference, he said. “In this type of invocation the magician sacrifices a portion of his own living soul to obtain his end. There is no way to counter such a spell, as its energy is independent of the life of the caster.”

The grief on Amaranthe’s face was profound. Turning away, the beast loped slowly back to Mathi. All eyes followed it. Then Talaramitas spoke up.

“There is one thing I can do, Highness. It is not a cure, but if enough of the cursed one’s soul remains untainted, I can call it forth to speak-for a short time only.”

Without looking at him Amaranthe pointed a finger at the magician and said, “Do so, now!”

The room was cleared of soldiers over the protests of the captain of the guard. Talaramitas walked slow circles around the beast, one finger pointing at the deck. His eyes, half-lidded, fluttered as he walked. A stream of soft syllables escaped his lips.

From her vantage point it seemed to Mathi that the room darkened a bit. Luminars changed colors when their output declined, but the clusters around Amaranthe’s throne did not alter hue. A pervasive shadow filled the room. Sound felt deadened too. Words and noises fell lifeless the moment they were born.

This went on for some time with the magician describing right-hand circles and muttering the words of an extremely long conjuration. At last an indistinct shadow coalesced next to the beast. It was upright and unmoving, quite unlike any shade cast by the bearcat. It was inside the circle Talaramitas had made, and he was careful not to tresspass on it.

Mathi had never seen magic performed openly before. In front of onlookers, in full light, the elf mage was summoning Balif’s soul from the deepening well of darkness. Before Mathi was fully aware of the change, the shadow by the beast became a clear image of the general. He was standing, hands at his sides with his palms turned out. He was naked. The image was not flesh colored, however, but faintly sepia. Mathi dared to shift position so that she could see the specter’s face. His eyes were closed.

Talaramitas explained, a bit breathlessly, that he could not stop circling or the spell would end. Ask what you will, he gasped. If the spirit of Balif could answer, it would.

“Why is he naked?” one of the courtiers asked in a loud whisper.

“Do you think your soul wears clothes?” the mage replied.

Amaranthe called for silence. Addressing the apparition she said, “General Balif, can you hear me?” He sighed in reply, which the princess took as yes. “Balif, how can I save you?”

“You cannot.”

It was his voice, incredibly soft and distant. The specter’s lips did not move but the sound of Balif’s voice was perfectly clear.

“There must be something we can do-I can do!”

“There is nothing. Already I dream without color, without words.”

He meant he was already thinking like an animal. Mathi felt a tightness growing in her throat. Here was the fate that awaited her.

Tears brightened Amaranthe’s eyes. The sight of the stalwart sister of the Speaker so moved astounded her attendants. Mathi heard one whisper to another that she had never seen the princess cry, not once in more than a century of service.

“The world is an empty place without you,” she said. “Full of vain, little beings of no strength and no worth.”

His shade uttered a few words, the only one of which Mathi understood was “love.” The apparition lost clarity and began to fade.

“Magus!” she cried. “Hold him here!”

Talaramitas, still circling, was dragging his feet, forcing himself to continue. Mathi was shocked to see his face as the magician swung round his way. His countenance was ashen. His eyes were rolled back in his head.

“I live,” Balif managed to say. “Let my forest live too. Leave it to the wanderfolk for all time.”

“They can have anything I possess, if you would only come back to me!”

“Too late … too late …”

Talaramitas staggered. Mathi stepped forward and caught him. When his perambulation ceased, the soul of Balif departed. The air in the below-deck hall stirred.

The beast, quiescent during the raising of his soul, threw back his head and howled. Archers and sword-bearing soldiers stormed in, ready to defend the princess. It wasn’t necessary. The bearcat turned away, bounding up the wide wooden stairs. Mathi heard shouts and splashes, followed by a single louder splash.

A sailor ran halfway down the steps. “The monster leaped overboard!”

“Let him go,” said Amaranthe. “Let no hand be raised against him. That is my order.”

Mathi lowered Talaramitas to the deck. A shadow fell across them. Amaranthe stood over them. She was fully composed again, a figure of living alabaster and marble.

“Mage, you failed me. I would have talked to him longer,” she said.

Mathi closed the elf’s eyes. “He can’t hear you, Highness. He’s dead.”

She regarded her coldly. “I thank you for your efforts, girl. Because of your deeds I will not have you put in irons for violating the sanctity of my ship.” Amaranthe gave curt orders that Mathi was to be rowed to the nearest point on shore and turned loose.

Soldiers took rough hold of her. Another pair picked up Talaramitas and bore him away, probably to an unmarked grave ashore. As Mathi disappeared up the stairs, she heard the Speaker’s sister order the anchors raised. They were sailing back to Silvanost as soon as the tide would permit.

The main deck churned with activity. Signals were hoisted to alert the rest of the fleet. As the great ship was readied for sea, Mathi’s escort marched her to a gap in the rail. She looked down. There was no boat below. For a wild instant she imagined they would throw her over the side, but before she could protest a skiff came sculling around the flagship’s stern. A rope ladder was let down, and without further ado Mathi was required to climb down. Two sailors rowed her to the dark shore, helped her out, got back in the boat and pulled away without saying a word. Mathi stood in the night surrounded by mosquitoes and chirruping frogs, wondering if beast-Balif had made it ashore.

He was lost to Amaranthe, forever. There was still time for Mathi to claim Balif for herself.

The cart bumped and squeaked along the narrow woodland track. It was not a well used trail. Grass grew so tall in the center that it brushed the worn wooden slats on the bottom of the cart. Ruts on either side of the grass were dimpled with small puddles, still wet from recent rains. A stolid bullock pulled the old cart along. He was a slow beast, but the bullock was all they could get to draw the cart. No horse would come near the occupants.