Paul Thompson: The Forest King

Neither Lofotan or Treskan would have Rufe, but there was no point arguing with him. Mathi let it drop.

A sudden shower of rain quenched all conversation. Mathi huddled under a square of canvas as the cart rolled on. Treskan stirred long enough to crawl in with her. She must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake. Lofotan had his hand clamped over her mouth.

“Be silent. Rise and see.”

With great care Mathi rolled to a crouch in the cart. Lofotan was standing alongside, as was Rufe and Treskan.

It was sunset. The sun was going down in a blaze of red fire. They had reached the edge of the woodland. Behind the the cart was the green forest track. Ahead was waving grassland.

Lofotan lifted his head, pointing with his chin. Silhouetted against the sunset forty yards away was a large, dark-colored beast. It was standing on all fours stock still, watching them. The bullock made deep snuffling sounds and wagged his horned head from side to side.

“Is it?” Mathi whispered.

“Yup. My surprise,” Rufe said in a low voice.

“How did you-?”

With remarkable candor the little man replied, “I did nothing. A day after we left the Haddaras river I found his tracks. He’s been trailing us ever since.”

Why didn’t he say so before? Mathi flashed with anger, but quickly put it aside. Balif had followed them. “What does he want?” she said.

“You, I guess,” said the kender.

In a daze, Mathi leaped down from the cart. Lofotan caught her by the arm, steadying her as she stood up. His hand was touching her furred skin. Without revulsion, he removed it.

“Take care of him,” he told her. “And yourself.” From behind Treskan removed her cloak. “Good-bye, Mathani. I could not have accomplished anything without you.”

She walked away, dreamlike. Every nerve in her body was in a heightened state, humming with the sights, smells, and feel of the landscape around her. After a dozen or more steps, her back twinged until she dropped forward on her hands and ran.

Lofotan raised his hand in salute.

“Farewell, my lord.”

Mathi reached Balif, and together they vanished into the high grass.

Locusts hummed through the still air. They stood watching the spot where the pair had disappeared until Lofotan turned, clearing his throat.

He said good-bye to Treskan, shaking his hand human-fashioned. To Rufe he simply harumphed. Then he unloaded their gear from the cart and laboriously turned the heavy conveyance around.

“What will you do now, captain? Return to Silvanost?” Treskan asked.

“I think not. There’s nothing there for me.” The faintest of smiles flickered across his face. “I think I’ll keep to this forest. It speaks to me. Maybe I’ll offer my services to the Longwalker. A good soldier can always find employment in this dangerous world.”

“Maybe you’ll finally make general,” said Rufe.

With a final wave Lofotan rolled away. When the cart was gone, Treskan and Rufe faced each other in the failing light.

“You’re leaving me behind.” The kender was acute as always.

“I must. Where I am bound you cannot go.”

“Woodbec?”

Treskan clapped the little man on the shoulder. “That’s not where I’m going, or where I am from.”

He divested himself of all his possessions but his writing board and his handwritten scroll. He gave all to the kinder. Opening his collar, he took out the talisman.

“I knew that was more than good luck piece. Is that how you travel?” Rufe said. “Shoulda asked more for getting it back.”

“You can have all this. There’s gold in the satchel. Balif left it to me. There’s some other trinkets, too, and some good metal blades.”

Rufe sat down on a rain-spattered crate. “At least let me watch,” he said, annoyed.

“Why not? Seeing me depart wouldn’t violate any rules.”

He held the talisman in his fingers and quietly recited the words. A warning tingle raced through him. In the damp air after the shower, a faint corona of light played around the hand that held the talisman.

Rufe watched keenly. Treskan had a fleeting notion that the kender was hoping to see some maneuver he could use on his wanderings.

The recitation done, the scribe raised his hand in farewell. Pinpoints of golden light glinted around him, increasing in size and number as the talisman worked its magic. When the aura was large enough to obscure Treskan from sight there was a clap like thunder. Trees and bushes tossed in the sudden wind. When the air calmed and the dust settled, Treskan was gone.

“How about that!” Rufe said to no one in particular. “Wish I had one of those things.”

He ambled off along the trail, leaving the scribe’s gifts and his own baggage behind.