The Forest King

CHAPTER 22

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.

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.”

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.