The Forest King Read online

  I HAVE DONE NOTHING THE GODS THEMSELVES HAVE NOT DONE.

  The cone of light revealed the intruder dead at his feet, lying in a spreading pool of blood. He resembled an adult male elf except for the startling fur.

  Lofotan cursed again and stepped back out of the gore. Remembering that he was in the presence of a Haven girl, he apologized, saying, “Forgive me. It was stronger than I expected.”

  The old soldier edged into the light. He was wounded. A long, bleeding gash ran from his left ear down across his throat. The front of his white tunic was soaked with blood. A patchwork of scratches covered his face.

  “What happened here?” she asked

  A new voice said, “It came to kill me.”

  The servant and the girl looked down the stairs and saw Balif, bearing an oil lamp in one hand and a naked sword in the other. Lofotan instinctively straightened. Ignoring his hurts, he raised his bloody blade in salute.

  “The other one got away,” Balif said, approaching. Mathi stared at the pair of unsheathed blades handled with such casual skill.

  “My lord, shall I fetch the city guard?” Treskan asked. Death by sword was uncommon in Silvanost.

  “This is no one’s affair but my own. Remember that. Whatever happens in this house is my affair and mine alone.”

  TRACY HICKMAN

  Present’s

  THE ANVIL OF TIME

  The Sellsword

  Cam Banks

  The Survivors

  Dan Willis

  Renegade Wizards

  Lucien Soulban

  The Forest King

  Paul B. Thompson

  for Glenn

  CHAPTER 1

  Stars

  Darkness, true darkness, is usually found deep underground, where layers of soil and stone block every ray of the sun. Night is only half dark. The darkest night in the world cannot compare to subterranean darkness. Absolute dark clings to the eyes and heightens the senses, for no living creature is immune to the imagined perils of the unseen.

  Strange, then, that the darkest place in the world was not deep underground, but high atop a shining tower in the city of Silvanost. In that place the clear light that was music and life to the elf race was shut out by all the skill and craft of their ancient wisdom. Dark deeds are best judged in dark places, and that was the darkest spot elf artifice could create.

  It was called the Night Chamber. Built at the order of the Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Goldeneye, its exact location was hidden from the outside world. By clever use of light and shadow, the penthouse containing the Night Chamber could not be seen from outside. The tower it capped was just like so many others in the city, constructed of thousands of deeply fluted bars of rock crystal. Some of the exterior surfaces were polished like mirrors, while others were etched with acid until they resembled pure milk. It was an ordinary facade in an extraordinary city, but the veiled dome at its peak was one of the most closely guarded secrets of Silvanost. On cloudless nights the invisible penthouse could just be seen as it eclipsed stars passing behind it. In heavy rain or fog, a vague outline was discernible, though it looked more like an errant cloud than solid architecture.

  The Night Chamber had a single entrance. When in use—and to date it had been used only once before—the great lords whose duty brought them there entered one by one, in order of absolute precedence. First was the Speaker of the Stars. Bearing his own luminar, a lamp lit by a cold fluorescence, Silvanos ascended to the highest seat in the domed room. Once there, the rest would follow. Lords of the houses, senior sages of the magical fraternity, and the commander of the royal army all entered alone and silently took the seats protocol assigned to them. Each bore a faint lantern, just bright enough to prevent undignified stumbling in the black hall.

  Those high persons were the judges. Their task was to hear the evidence of a great crime and render an absolute verdict. From their decision there was no appeal.

  Next to enter were witnesses summoned under dire oaths of secrecy. They were given no lamps, but were directed to seats by the chamber’s bailiff. Each was isolated from the other. No one was allowed to speak until bidden to do so. Last of all, the accused entered. There was no seat for him. The accused stood on the last step of the rising spiral stair. Once there, the passage they had ascended was closed.

  The second trial ever in the Night Chamber began in the fifty-fifth year of the reign of Silvanos. It was high noon on the median day of summer, the longest, hottest, sunniest day of the year. The recorder of the secret transactions noted the irony in his shorthand record. Inside the Night Chamber, weather and climate were meaningless.

  Preceded by bailiffs, the accused climbed the winding stairs. From below, only a black half circle revealed where they were going. With each step, the prisoner dragged his heavy shackles over the polished marble treads. The guards walked behind with drawn swords. If the accused faltered or tried to resist in any way, the warriors’ orders were to run him through.

  But the chains were heavy, and though the prisoner was not trying to stall, he could not climb with any grace. Shuffle, shuffle, clank—that was his cadence. Above, the entrance of the Night Chamber looked like a pool of black water fixed impossibly to the ceiling. The prisoner reached the last step before entering the dome. His feet rested side by side for a moment.

  Two lengths of glittering bronze blade lay lightly on his shoulders. The bailiffs did not speak, but their message was clear. With a heave, the accused mounted the last step.

  When the guard gained the top step, he raised his sword hilt to his face, saluting the Speaker of the Stars. He could not see him, seated well up on the curved wall of the dome, but the highest lamp in the hall was his. To that pallid light the bailiff paid honor then departed down the steps. Weapons were not permitted within the chamber. As the plume on his helmet descended below the level of the floor, the passage silently flowed shut.

  When the well of light from below was cut off, a brilliant beam lanced down from the dome’s peak, impaling the prisoner in its blinding glare. He threw up a manacled hand to ward off the light.

  “Is that necessary?” he called loudly. There was no reply from the ranks of dim, blue lamps. “At least let me shield my eyes. Or is it your desire I be blinded?”

  There was a soft chime, and the restraints on the accused’s wrists and ankles fell away. He gave them a vindictive kick, sending them skittering into the outer darkness.

  “The prisoner will show proper respect during the proceedings, or his bonds will be restored,” intoned a deep, distant voice. Transfixed in the shaft of light, the accused raised the flimsy hood of his prison garb to shade his face.

  “All give attention! Silence before the throne of the stars!”

  The prisoner did not know which way to face, but he stood up straight.

  “The Night Chamber is now in order. Sitting in judgment is His Gracious Serenity, Silvanos, called the Golden-Eyed, first Speaker of the Stars, supreme ruler of Silvanost and all those of our ancient race wherever found. Pray, give thanks for his wisdom and understanding!”

  Some words came to the prisoner’s lips. Wisely he stifled them.

  “I am the Advocate of the Speaker. It is my duty to conduct the case against the prisoner,” said the booming voice.

  “Who are you?” asked the accused. “Where are you? I want to see your face!”

  “Your requests are irrelevant. Do not speak again unless so ordered. Is that clear?”

  Fuming, the prisoner folded his arms. The sight of his hands, bristling with hair, provoked a stir in the void beyond the light.

  “My lords, Great Speaker, you all know the accused. You have seen the specification of his crimes. Because of the blasphemous nature of his deeds, I will not degrade
our Great Speaker by speaking aloud his odious actions.”

  “Are you so afraid of me, you won’t even speak my name?” called out the prisoner.

  At once the cone of light around him shrank by half. The accused felt a tremendous pressure bearing on his chest, limbs, and head. Gasping, he fought for air. The light was not simply theatrical. It was a magical barrier, restraining him as thoroughly as his bronze shackles had. Speaking out of turn earned him his punishment. His available space was violently reduced by half. If he continued to defy his judges, things could become very tight for him indeed.

  “Your deeds are known. What do you say to them, prisoner? Are you guilty or not?”

  “How can I answer when I don’t know what I am accused of?” he replied, eyeing the cone of light. It did not shrink again.

  “Guilty or not?”

  “I cannot answer—”

  “Guilty or not?”

  Arms tight against his chest, the accused lowered his hooded head and said nothing.

  “Let the record state the prisoner stands mute. We shall proceed.”

  His eyes had adjusted to the glare as much as they could. Around his dazzling cell were various elves, waiting to be questioned by the tribunal. The advocate called out the name Wenthus. At the mention of his name, a second beam of light shone down, picking out a lean, rangy elf clad in green leather. Over his head he wore a black velvet hood.

  “You are Wenthus, son of Garathan?” said the advocate.

  “I am, your lordship.” His voice was not muffled, despite the cloth.

  “You are a forester and hunter, are you not?”

  “I am, your lordship. My family has ranged the South Sward for five hundred years—”

  “In what capacity do you know the prisoner?”

  The woodland elf shifted on his feet. “I don’t know him, your lordship.” The accused suppressed an urge to laugh.

  “Did he not hire you to supply him with a certain number of animals, which you would trap in the wildwood?”

  “No, your lordship. I was hired by another. A high lord.”

  “What lord?” the advocate prompted.

  “The one we in the green lands call Camaxilas.” Camaxilas was forest dialect and meant Sword-Lord.

  “What did this Camaxilas require you to do?”

  “He sent me to catch animals, as you said, your lordship. He wanted small predators like foxes, martens, and ferrets. I thought he wanted them for their fur, but he would only pay for them if they were alive,” Wenthus said.

  “How many animals did you supply this Camaxilas with?”

  The hunter counted on his fingers. “Thirty-six live animals, your lordship. Fourteen dead ones he wouldn’t buy.”

  Three more foresters were called. All had their faces concealed. Each told a similar tale. A great lord called Camaxilas hired them to trap wild animals, small carnivores all. The creatures had to be alive and in good health, or the Silvanesti lord would not pay for them. In total he purchased just greater than one hundred live animals from the rustic elves. The prisoner listened to their testimony indifferently. When the advocate was done with them, the woodland hunters were dismissed.

  “Is the one known in the woodlands as Camaxilas present in the Night Chamber?” the advocate boomed.

  Footsteps rang on the polished floor. Striding into the outer aura of the prisoner’s wall of light came a male elf in the prime of life. By the standards of his race, he was tall, with dark blond hair cut short, in a warrior style. Most Silvanesti males affected long hair, drawn back in a braid.

  His posture was military too, though he was dressed in a simple kilt and white tabard. Even in the unnatural dimness of the chamber, his eyes were arresting, large and very blue, like beads of lapis lazuli. The prisoner gave the new witness a quick sidelong glance then averted his eyes altogether.

  “My lord,” said the advocate with clear deference, “will you state your name for the chronicle?”

  “I am Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker. I am the son of Arnasmir Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan. The people know me as Balif, loyal subject of the Great Speaker.” He bowed in the direction of the highest lamp, knowing Silvanos sat behind it.

  The unseen advocate apologized for summoning Lord Balif to the Night Chamber but added, “Are you called by the name Camaxilas?”

  “Yes, my lord. In the southern and western woods, I am sometimes called that. It’s more a title than a name.”

  A moment passed. The advocate said, “Did you commission several foresters to catch animals?” Balif admitted he had. “Why? For what purpose?”

  “My counselor requested it.”

  “And who is your counselor, my lord?”

  Balif extended his left arm, pointing straight at the prisoner. “That is him.”

  “Speak his name for the chronicle.”

  “Uristathan Cavolox, called Vedvedsica.”

  That was a name as well known as Balif’s, if not so respected. Vedvedsica—the name in rural patois meant wise, wise fellow—was a magician of great erudition. He was known for his vast knowledge of the magical art and for his refusal to join any established temple or guild. Whispered rumors clung closely to his gaunt frame. Not only was he a master of the art of high magic, but it was said that he soiled his hands by dabbling in low arts such as alchemy and divination. No real crimes had ever been laid at his feet, but a vague air of ruthlessness and personal corruption rendered his company unworthy and his name suspect to most Silvanesti.

  Hearing his name spoken at last, the accused raised his head. His hood dropped away, revealing a nearly bald pate. The light shone down harshly, rendering Vedvedsica’s lean face in high relief.

  “Thank you, my lord. You may go.”

  Balif turned but the captive cried out, “Am I not allowed to question those who speak against me?”

  The cone of confinement contracted again, crushing Vedvedsica’s arms against his chest. He had so little room, he could hardly draw breath.

  Seeing his predicament, Balif said, “My lords, if it pleases you, relent. Let the prisoner speak.”

  “We have no desire to hear his blasphemies!”

  Balif walked in a circle around the gasping wizard. “He will guard his tongue. Won’t you?” Vedvedsica could only blink in agreement. “Relent, my lords. Let him pose his questions.”

  The beam of light expanded, releasing the wizard. He reeled around, greedily sucking in fresh air. When at last his discomfort subsided, he said, “Thank you, my lord.”

  “It is nothing,” said Balif.

  “The prisoner will address the Chamber only!”

  Vedvedsica bowed mockingly. “My lords. I would like to ask Lord Balif how long we have known each other.” The advocate agreed; the elf lord could answer.

  “A century and a half, I think.”

  Through the clumsy process of voicing his questions through the Night Chamber advocate, the wizard went on to ask what services he had performed for Balif over so many years.

  “Healer, soothsayer, counselor, and adviser,” Balif replied. Vedvedsica had been his retainer a long time. Everyone knew that.

  “In all that time, in all those capacities, did I ever fail you, my lord?”

  “Never.”

  “How is it I find myself on trial now for my life?”

  “I delivered you into the hands of the highest authority in Silvanesti,” said Balif tersely.

  “And we are grateful for your diligence,” the advocate put in.

  “So grateful,” snarled the wizard.

  At the time of the conjunction of the three moons three years past, Vedvedsica had come to his master with a modest but unusual request. He was trying out a new magical operation. He needed some live animals. Not the usual sacrificial beasts such as goats, sheep, or doves. Vedvedsica wanted wild animals. Carnivores and scavengers only, no rabbits, squirrels, or boars. After a hundred and fifty years of service, Balif did not
question his counselor’s intention. He contacted some woodland hunters he knew and arranged for them to trap the animals the wizard wanted.

  “That’s the last I heard about the affair until six months ago,” Balif concluded. That’s when he discovered the outcome of Vedvedsica’s experiments.

  “Stop. Say no more,” warned the advocate. “The Speaker’s ears must not be soiled by hearing about these abominations.”

  Balif agreed. “I sent word to House Protector. Vedvedsica and some others were taken by the royal guard. Because of his long association with a high lord, the wizard was treated carefully, but his assistants were put to the question.”

  “Tortured, you mean,” said Vedvedsica bitterly.

  They revealed a secret complex of houses, far away in the western forest, where the results of the wizard’s work were kept. A company of griffon riders swept down on the hidden site. There was resistance. Those who fought were put to the sword. Those who surrendered were in the worst dungeon in Silvanost, Thalasdown, located deep under the waters of the Thon-Thalas river.

  “I have done nothing wrong,” Vedvedsica proclaimed. “Nothing the gods themselves have not done!”

  At that, the light collapsed so tightly that it barely encompassed the wizard from his skin inward. Unable to stand yet unable to fall, he drifted slowly in a circle with only the tips of his toes touching the floor. As he turned past Balif, the elf warrior saw the deep hatred in his eyes.

  The captain of the guard who captured Vedvedsica testified, as did the commander of the griffon riders. Seeing the fate of the outraged wizard, the warriors wisely obeyed the advocate and did not speak too clearly about what they found, only about what they did.

  The griffon riders’ commander, a veteran soldier named Pirayus, dared to offer advice to the Night Chamber. “Destroy everything, my lords. Use fire until nothing remains of this horror but ashes!” He gave the prisoner a meaningful glance. “Destroy everything, my lords.”

  The warriors were dismissed. Balif took that as his cue to go too. When the stairs opened in the chamber floor, the other elves descended. Balif went down one step, paused, then went down one more step. He halted there.