Paul Thompson - The Forest King

The driver, draped in an ancient gray smock, held the reins loosely. Beside him on the seat his companion idly chewed a long grass stem. In the back, wedged between cloth-wrapped bundles and a few boxes sat the scribe, Treskan, and Mathani Arborelinex, cowled and draped in a shapeless cloak of dirty white linen.

Treskan was scratching out words as fast as he could on an enormous scroll of parchment, his parting gift from the Longwalker. The gods only knew where the kender obtained it.

Their final days in the province were full of portent. Upon her return to the bluff, Mathi found the Longwalker and several hundred kender had taken up residence there in defiance of Artyrith’s army. The elves were scattered far and wide across the province chasing humans, and there was no one left at the Thon-Haddaras to oppose the kender. Since possession is everything to kender, they regarded the land as theirs. By the time Artyrith returned with sufficient force to expel them, the kender had built a stockade across the hill and refurbished their tunnel system. Lofotan warned Lord Artyrith not to attack them. While Balif’s former cook pondered the situation, a recall order arrived from Silvanost. Princess Amaranthe had returned by sea, and she apparently convinced the Speaker to allow the kender to remain in the eastern woodland as a buffer against future human intrusion.

The wanderfolk went mad with excitement. They held a four day celebration atop the bluff, during which the Longwalker was proclaimed “chief, king, and valuable friend” by the assembled kender. Imitating humans and elves, Serius Bagfull chose a regal name to replace his ordinary one. He took the name Balif, after their great benefactor.

Treskan’s charcoal stick had worn blunt. He paused writing a moment to sharpen it, then resumed. Rocking back and forth atop a pile of baggage and assorted gear, Mathi tried to understand his intense interest in the Longwalker’s choice of name. The scribe cryptically remarked that the whole country would one day bear the general’s name. She didn’t know if he meant the new nation of wanderfolk, or Silvanesti itself. At any rate, people were bound to be confused for a while. There were two Balifs, one the elf general ruined by a curse, and the other a kender chieftain. Mathi wondered if Serius Bagfull had thought of that when he adopted the general’s name. It certainly would give their enemies pause if they thought the elf lord sat on the throne of the kender kingdom.

The original Balif had not been seen since leaving the elven flagship. Even the kender could not find him, including the indefatigable Rufus Wrinklecap. Mathi spent a month investigating a rumor that a large predatory beast was living near the edge of the northern desert, but it turned out to be a manticore. Even as she abandoned the hunt, the desert beast was hunted down and slain by griffon riders from Silvanost.

“What are you writing now?” she asked.

“My conclusions about the general,” said Treskan. Mathi asked him to read to her what he had written.

“‘Of the general there is no sign. I like to think’-” Mathi stopped and rubbed these words out and began again. “‘He probably will pass the balance of his life as a wild denizen of the Haddaras woods, unrecognized by any sentient beings. I see no reason to hunt for him further. May his soul find true peace.’”

“Who do you record all this for? The general cannot pay you to keep his chronicle any longer.”

“For history,” Treskan said, letting the scroll roll shut.

That said, he soon nodded off, lulled by the swaying of the cart. Mathi unbuttoned the frog at her throat and slipped the cloak off. She was sweltering in the wrap.

Her reversion was well advanced. Already she was covered from head to toe in short, tawny fur. Her traveling companions knew, but she kept herself covered most of the time, out of consideration of their feelings. Treskan was quite tolerant, but as for-

The cart lurched very hard, throwing Mathi from one side to another. Remarkably, Treskan slept on. She protested, and the driver replied, “Quit complaining! What sort of ride do you expect from an oxcart?”

Time and travail had done nothing to mellow Lofotan. He looked out of place in peasant togs, but when he had offered to escort Mathi and the scribe out of Silvanesti territory, they happily accepted. He was still a fell hand with a sword, and you never knew who or what you might encounter in the forest.

Mathi climbed up higher on the baggage, rubbing her hip. “What in the world was that we hit?”

“Tree root.”

“Felt like a boulder.”

Lofotan drew back on the reins until the bullock shuffled to a stop. At rest, it felt like they were inside a vast green-roofed hall. Closely growing trees rose like walls on either side of the winding trail. Vine wove the trees and undergrowth into a single living tapestry of green. The trail didn’t run more than ten yards in a straight line, so it was impossible to see forward or back any further than that.

“Anything to drink?” asked Mathi.

The small passenger beside Lofotan held out a leather-wrapped gourd. Mathi thanked Rufe and had two swallows of spring water.

“Four days and we’re still not out of the woods,” Mathi remarked.

“Well, it’s not like we’re going in a straight line.” Lofotan replied. He took the gourd next and took a short sip, carefully avoiding looking at her. “We’ll reach open country in another day.”

And then, Mathi reminded herself, then I will be free.

The cart lumbered forward. Mathi pulled the cloak up around her shoulders and settled down to watching the track unspool behind them.

Her mission was over. Soon after her visit to Princess Amaranthe, a trio of her brethren had met her in the deep woods upriver. It was not a happy reunion. They still wanted to capture Balif, try him for his alleged crimes, and kill him. In vain Mathi argued that the general had been punished far worse than death, punished by the Creator no less, and that the brethren had no claim on him any longer. Balif had lost everything he valued in life-his home, his love, rank, fame, and privilege. He was condemned to roam the woods as a lowly beast to the end of his days, and who knew if the Creator had left him the tiniest bit of memory, so he could agonize over what he had lost?

Mathi’s arguments fell on deaf ears. For her failure, the brethren cast her out. She could never return to their range in the western forest of Silvanesti, on pain of death. By that time she no longer cared. She felt more kinship with the kender, with Zakki, with the disguised human scribe Treskan, with Lofotan, and yes, with Rufe, than she did with her own kind. Mathi accepted her banishment with indifference. Rufe tried to cheer her up

The elusive kender kept promising her a surprise. “Just wait, boss,” he said. “You’ll get it soon.”

That kind of promise from a kender was both intriguing and vaguely worrying. At times Rufe seemed capable of almost anything.

“I’m also stubborn,” Rufe said.

Mathi started. The kender was peering over her shoulder, chin perched on his hands.

“Since when can you read minds?”

“I can’t. Can hear you mumbling, though.”

Mathi flushed. Was she mumbling aloud? That was the sort of habit that could cause a lot of trouble-like now, come to think of it.

“You shall have what you want,” he said. “Soon, I swear.”

“How do you know what I want?” she replied tartly.

“Easy, boss. I just watch and listen.”

That was true enough. “Where are you bound?” Mathi said, changing the subject.

“I can’t decide,” said the kender. “I’m tired of these parts. I want to go some place very far away. Maybe I’ll go with Long-Ears, or the scribbler.”