The Puppet King

Prologue

The elf made his way carefully down the steep, narrow trail. He ignored the massive waves crashing into the rocks so far below, concentrating instead on the placement of each foot, taking care to avoid patches of slick moss or crumbling gravel. A single misstep could send him plunging to certain death, yet his face was calm, unconcerned by thoughts of danger.

In his hand, he carried a long, slender lance, using the haft of the weapon like a walking staff to aid his balance as he moved along the treacherous trail. His clothes were rough, sturdy, and practical, showing the wear of long exposure to weather and time. He moved with speed and grace, skipping over a slippery patch of smooth stone, making steady progress until he came to rest on a rough promontory halfway down the precipitous bluff. There he remained frozen in place for a long time, as still as one of the crags jutting from the slope all around him. Intent on the base of the cliff, he stared, sniffing the air, searching with darting eyes for any sign of movement, of danger. He studied the empty gray sea, the line of waves rolling inexorably from the west to crash onto this continental shore. The lance he balanced upright, the pole rising a good three times his own height, capped by a barbed, lethal-looking head of shimmering silver.

Only after dozens of waves had crashed against the rocks did he move again, raising a hand and gesturing curtly toward the underbrush that draped the edge of the bluff over his head. Carefully, hesitantly, another elf came forward. This one’s face blanched at the sight of the steep descent, and for a moment he turned a yearning glance back to the shelter of the woods. But then the first elf gestured again urgently, and the newcomer forced himself to follow in the footsteps of the other. His slender hands clutched at rocks and weeds, and his steps were short, tentative. Still, he came down the steep trail, staring wildly at his companion, at the raging surf, at the expanse of sea rolling unhindered to the west.

By the time he reached the ledge, he had regained some of his composure, disdaining the balancing hand offered by his companion. The second elf wore finer clothes and held his head high, looking over the seascape with an expression of wonder. Fastidiously he kept his boots out of the mud, though he, like the other, was dirty and unkempt, with the look of one who had lived, bathed, and eaten in the forest for a long time.

Ensuring that the youngster had a solid perch, a place that was dry and flat and offered secure footing, the first elf murmured some soft words, passing his hands in an intricate pattern around the other. When he had finished gesturing, he released a pinch of down, and the tuft drifted away on the breeze, dancing through the air, gradually settling toward the pounding surf. Only when the feather had vanished in the froth and foam did the elder return his attention to the descent.

Now he had to move carefully, turning to face the cliff, grasping for holds with his free hand while his toes sought resting places, then gingerly adjusting his grip slightly lower. He wedged the fingers of his left hand into cracks in the face of the cliff, and balanced his toes on narrow ledges or tiny shoulders of jutting rocks while he clung tightly to the lance with his other hand.

Though his progress was slow, his face betrayed no hint of strain or fear. If the great lance was an encumbrance, he did not allow it to slow him down. Instead, the expression of concentration remained fixed. He squinted slightly when it took him a long time to find the next toehold, but even so, his progress remained steady.

Finally the elder elf stood upon a seaside boulder, and here he leaned around a crag, looking into the large cave mouth that yawned darkly just a few feet above the reach of the waves at high tide. He balanced the lance in both hands now, head forward as he hesitantly advanced into the darkness, sniffing quietly, seeking to penetrate the darkness with his keen, almond-shaped eyes. The shadowy cavern dwarfed the warrior with its vast domed ceiling, but it did not seem to awe or intimidate him. Instead, an aura of soft light originated from the lance head, and an aura of confidence came from the elf himself.

The second elf, still waiting on the narrow shelf, looked down with unmistakable apprehension. It was a very young face, this elf’s. Indeed, he was more a boy than a man. He tried hard to look unconcerned, to be brave, but there alone on the shelf, he seemed to shrink within himself. He leaned against the slope to grab any handholds he could find. When the elder reappeared at the base of the cliff and waved, the youth’s face grew pale and his eyes widened in momentary fear. Firmly the elf below waved again, gesturing him down.

Taking a deep breath, the young elf stepped off the bluff, into the empty space yawning below. He floated gently, easily downward, no faster than the tuft of down that the elder elf had loosed into the wind a short time before. In half a minute, he came to rest beside his companion.

“Here. Put this on.” The elder elf extended a thin fabric of green weave and assisted his companion in strapping the thing across his face. The mask covered the young elf’s nose and mouth in a material that seemed to be woven from supple grasses.

“Don’t you have one for yourself?” asked the youth, his voice naturally soft but unmuffled by the light screen. The elder merely shook his head and once more hefted the great lance.

Without further speaking, he led his young companion into the dark cave. The pair crept along soundlessly, moving gradually around a curving passage until they were cloaked in shadow. Here they paused, allowing their elven eyes to attune to the darkness. After a minute, they moved forward again. There was a strong smell, like bleach, that permeated the air. The floor of the cave was clean, except for small patches of moss and a channel where seawater rolled in during high tides.

Momentarily the young elf hesitated, but when his companion continued forward, he rushed after him, apparently preferring the dangers of the cave’s interior to solitude close to the entrance. They moved farther into the darkness, the warrior holding the great lance at the ready. His eyes flashed back and forth, seeking to penetrate the shadows, alert to any movement, any sign of danger. Above the mesh mask, the youngster’s eyes were wide, staring with barely concealed fear at his companion’s back. Still cautious, the two crept around one more corner, and here again they froze as rigid as statues.

A massive shape coiled in this deep alcove, and the elder elf held his finger to his lips, an unnecessary gesture of caution as the youngster froze, horrified and silent, eyes widening while the visible skin of his face drained of all color. The scaled flanks of the huge shape rose and fell gradually. Huge wings of green membrane were folded along the back, while moss and lichen crusted along the great legs, even growing across several massive talons, an effect that appeared to merge the foot right into the cavern floor.

The lance-wielder approached the reptilian shape, holding the weapon pointed straight toward the snakelike head. The soft breathing, an exhalation from massive lungs, rasped around him with a stinging odor that brought tears to his eyes. The warrior winced, though his companion breathed through the mask without any appearance of discomfort. Still, the youngster’s eyes widened over the green fabric, and he quickly moved back.

The lancer brought the weapon forward hard, stabbing the point into the sensitive skin within one of the massive nostrils. Leather lids rolled back, and golden eyes, the size of melons, came into focus with a growing sense of shock and rage. A cloud of green gas boiled from the gaping nostrils, but the elder elf stood to the side of the misty vapor. The younger elf, protected by his mask, blinked and coughed slightly but didn’t recoil.

The warrior poked the snout again, and with a growl of anger and pain the dragon jerked backward, neck twisting, head rearing high above the two elves. With its massive jaws spread wide, the wyrm blasted a roar of fury.

Boldly the elder elf stepped forward and pressed the tip of his lance against the dragon’s breast at the place where the sinuous neck merged into the emerald body. He pushed, and a green scale cracked. The dragon tried to recoil, but it was blocked by the side of the cavern.

“Be silent, Aerensianic, and heed me or you will die!” barked the warrior, his tone stern and unafraid.

“You know me?” growled the serpent, his eyes narrowing in confusion and surprise.

“It was twenty-five years ago that we met. You may not remember me,” declared the elf calmly.

The wyrm fixed his gaze at the weapon poised for a killing thrust. But he made no move to attack.

“I could crush you with my jaws or in my talons!” growled the dragon called Aerensianic.

“You could try,” the elf allowed, “but I’ll take the chance that I could drive this dragonlance into your foul heart before you could move.” He seemed utterly unconcerned.

“I have sheltered here for a dozen winters or more, bothering no one in all that time,” the serpent replied in a tone of injured pride. “Leave me alone!”

“Not until we get what we have come for,” replied the lancer, twisting and pushing his weapon slightly, drawing an insulted snort from his massive adversary.

“What is it you want of me?” the dragon finally demanded, his voice a deep hiss. “My treasures? My life? Take it and begone!”

“Not your treasure... nor do we have any wish to claim your life. Rather, the lad here has a simple request,” said the elder, indicating his companion with a hunch of his shoulder.

Still staring, the second elf moved forward, eyes wide over the green mask as he stared at the monster rearing so high above.

“Make your demand!” spat the serpent.

Mustering all his courage, the young elf took another step. He glared into the dragon’s face, trying vainly to suppress the trembling in his knees. Still, his voice, when he spoke, was firm and steady.

“I want you to tell me a story,” he said.