The Forest King aot-4 Read online

  Loud footsteps heralded the arrival of Lofotan. Treskan ducked out of sight. Mathi hurried to the couch and sat down demurely. The majordomo came right in without knock or announcement.

  “My lord dines. He asks that you attend him,” Lofotan said. Before Mathi could reply, he turned his head from side to side, frowning. “You have had a window open?”

  “Why, yes.” How did he know?

  “This suite has not been aired in many months. The fresh air is quite distinct.”

  Mathi went to the door. Lofotan remained, hands clasped behind his back. “How did you get a window open?”

  “Oh, I tried one after another until one opened,” Mathi replied. He demanded to know which one. Outwardly blithe, Mathi took him to the exact door Treskan used. It opened under the majordomo’s hand.

  “I see. Can you find your way downstairs by yourself?” He stepped through onto a broad balcony. It followed the bank of windows from one end to the other. When Mathi emerged behind Lofotan, she saw he had a short sword in his hand.

  “Go back. Now.”

  She did, retrieving her luminar along the way. Downstairs she followed her nose to the dining room. It was not the grand feasting hall she imagined, but a more modest, shelf-lined room she guessed was meant to be a pantry. Balif sat at a round table. A candelabra of sixteen tapers illuminated the scene.

  Balif stood. “Come, girl. Sit down.”

  There was only one other setting, so she sat there, at the general’s right hand. He poured spring water into an amethyst goblet.

  “How came you to the Haven of the Lost?” Balif asked without any opening palaver.

  She told him the story she had long rehearsed on the journey to Silvanost. Her family were beekeepers living on the edge of the great western forest. The only settlement near them was Woodbec, a military post three leagues from Mathi’s home. In the early morning hours, a band of humans on horseback raided them, killing her father outright and taking her and her mother prisoner.

  Somberly he said, “And when was this?”

  “Six summers past, my lord.”

  “What happened next?”

  Gazing at her empty plate, Mathi described how she and her mother were taken far to the north, on the open plain, and sold as slaves. Her mother could not bear her captive life and took the ultimate escape.

  “How?”

  “Fly agaric.”

  There was no antidote for the poisonous mushroom. It was a slow death but a sure one. In silent kindness, Balif said nothing for a while. When Mathi was ready, she continued her story.

  After that, Mathi’s human master, a warrior named Herndan, took her and his whole entourage east, to the Plains River. He got involved in a dispute with another human warrior, fought a duel, and was killed. All that was Herndan’s became the property of the victor, but Mathi used the confusion of her master’s defeat to escape.

  “Tell me,” Balif said remorselessly.

  “I am a good swimmer,” Mathi said. “I resolved to swim the river or die trying. The human males could not pursue me, weighted as they were with metal armor, so I was able to swim away with arrows flicking past my ears.”

  Balif opened a covered silver tray. With tongs, he picked up a delicately poached fish fillet and laid it on her plate. The second, smaller fillet he took himself.

  “I regret the arrows,” he said. “They are my fault.”

  “How so, my lord? You were not there.”

  He replaced the silver dome on the empty tray. “Humans have bows because I gave them to them. My apologies.”

  Mathi didn’t understand. She pulled her fish apart with her fingers and ate with them too until she noticed Balif using a tiny two-pronged metal spear to get the food to his mouth. As she was provided with an identical tool, Mathi tried to emulate her host.

  “I wandered along the eastern shore of the river, going south. I fell in with a party of woodlanders, who delivered me to the Haven. I lived there a year until the sisters of Quenesti Pah decided I was fit enough to go out on my own. They sent me here to seek your guidance, my lord.”

  The general tore a loaf of flat bread in two, placing half on his guest’s plate. For a great lord of Silvanost, he certainly kept an ascetic table.

  “The scribe, Treskan; you met him on the journey here?”

  “Yes, my lord. He hails from Woodbec, not far from my old home.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  Mathi poked her cheek with the little spear points. Wincing, she replied, “Only what he told me, my lord. He has had much bad luck in his life. Three of his patrons died, one after the other, and he acquired the reputation in Woodbec of being bad luck. Hence no one would hire him.”

  “Hah! Bad luck doesn’t frighten me. I’ll hire him. You may tell him that,” Balif said. Another cover lifted, revealed a bowl of fresh greens. Balif served Mathi. Oil and honey dressing was in the diamond cruet, he said.

  Mouth open, Mathi did not know what to say.

  “Food to your liking?” asked the general.

  “How did you know-?”

  “That the scribe is still about? My dear child, this house is protected by powerful conjurations. When someone breaks a door ward, the effect is noted immediately. Is he in the house right now?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “Your suite?”

  “Yes, my lord. Do forgive me! He’s desperate and I only meant to do him a kindness-”

  “I understand. It is because of your kindness, your belief, that I changed my mind.”

  Balif refilled her cup and his own. “This city, splendid as it is, is in many ways as cold and hard as the crystal towers soaring over us. Scarcely a week goes by that I’m not accosted by some worthy seeking favors, charity, or largesse. Lofotan has standing orders to throw such beggars out. Being from the Haven, you deserve every kindness, and by showing grace, you earn grace for your friend.”

  Mathi wasn’t about to deny being Treskan’s friend. She barely knew him, but she was delighted to have done him a service.

  Lofotan appeared as if on signal with a very chastened scribe in tow.

  “You know record-hand as well as script?” Balif said, raising his voice to fill the room in commanding fashion. Record-hand was an abbreviated form of writing used to keep records of events. Treskan swore he knew it perfectly.

  “You are retained. Lofotan will find you quarters. You may eat in the kitchen.”

  The old soldier clapped a heavy hand on Treskan’s shoulder to pull him away. The scribe said, “Thank you, my lord! May Astarin and Matheri bless you-but wait! What will my duties be?”

  “You will handle all the writing that needs to be done in the household, of course. Good night!”

  Lofotan steered Treskan away. Balif parted his last bit of fish with his fork and said loudly, “If you ever enter my house illicitly again, it will cost you your head. Understood?”

  Treskan stammered, “Ah, perfectly, my lord. Thank you for this chance!”

  “You will surrender the ward-breaker you used to Lofotan too.”

  “Already done, my lord,” said the majordomo, holding up a small metal and crystal talisman.

  Dinner ended with Mathi hardly less hungry than when she started. Balif did not escort her to her room. He merely asked her to return there if she was finished.

  Mathi got up and bowed to her host. “Thank you, my lord. May I ask one question?” Sipping spring water, Balif nodded. “What shall become of me?”

  “That is for the gods to decide, is it not?” He smiled not unkindly. “I shall inquire around the city for you. What skills do you have?”

  “My best talent is beekeeping,” she said.

  The general asked if she had any special deficiencies.

  Mathi lowered her head. “I do not get along well with domestic animals,” she said. That was a problem she never realized in her sylvan home, but while a slave of the nomads, Mathi discovered that their domestic animals could not abide her. Cows, goats, shee
p, even dogs were restless around her. Birds took wing, and cats fled in terror.

  “To what do you attribute such a reaction?”

  “I do not know, my lord. Perhaps my scent disturbed them. I cannot say.”

  “Very well, your warning is duly noted. Good night, Mathani. Remember to stay in your room tonight unless summoned by me or Lofotan.”

  She bowed and departed. Mathi’s head was reeling with many conflicting thoughts. The mighty general was nothing like she expected. Kind but aloof, humble yet commanding, he seemed like an elf at war with himself. All his precautions-all his defenses-had to be in place to ward off a real threat. But from whom … or what?

  Far off in the silent, empty house, she heard a sudden loud clang. Mathi was awake at once. Rapid footfalls echoed in the long hall outside her door. She picked up her luminar but left it unlit. Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open a finger’s width.

  Something flashed by. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Mathi was sure what ran past was on all fours, such as a dog. There was a shout from the top of the stairs, a wordless cry of alarm. Mathi pushed the door shut, held her luminar up and spoke the word to make it shine. Then she flung the door wide and ran out.

  Where the broad steps met the wide hall, two figures struggled in a deadly embrace. Both stood upright. Light glinted on a red metal blade. The taller one was Lofotan. He had a short sword in one hand as he grappled with a darkly clad opponent who seemed to be wearing fur robes. The old soldier’s eyes caught the glare of the luminar.

  “Put out that light!” he cried.

  His enemy turned to see who Lofotan was shouting at. In that instant Mathi saw his face. It was elf-shaped but covered with brown fur. Enormous dark eyes, all pupils and no white, reflected the light, glowing red as hot coals.

  Mathi stumbled back, dropping the light. The luminar hit the floor and went out.

  She heard rather than saw what happened next. Someone landed several hard blows, each one followed by grunts of pain. There followed the unmistakable sound of flesh being cleaved. A sharp howl filled the hall. Lofotan uttered a soldier’s oath. Then all was quiet, save for the elf’s labored breathing.

  “Come here, girl.”

  He had to call twice before Mathi gathered enough presence of mind to comply. “Bring your light,” Lofotan added. He coughed dryly. Mathi brought the luminar but did not activate it.

  “Shine it there.”

  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. Elves were not hirsute. They regarded humans and dwarves as beastly simply because they had body hair and beards.

  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.

  “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s nothing.” He prodded the corpse with the point of his sword.

  “What happened here?”

  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.

  “Can this one talk?”

  It was beyond speech. After a hard cut to the shoulder, Lofotan had run the beast through. It could answer only the gods.

  Padding down the hall came more footsteps. Balif and Lofotan squared off, swords ready, until they recognized the scribe, Treskan. Judging by his appearance, he had been sleeping in his clothes. He took in the scene with wide eyes.

  “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.” He sighed deeply. By the ruddy oil light, Balif looked aged and tired. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

  Lofotan held out an arm, blocking his general. “Don’t dirty your hands, my lord. Let us take care of it.”

  “You’re wounded, my friend. The scribe is in shock, and this girl is too tender in years for such a task.”

  Mathi held up her chin. “My lord, I was raised on a farm and lived many days as a captive. Blood is no stranger to me.”

  Lofotan also dismissed his lord’s concern. “My wounds are nothing. Not like the Battle of the Burning Tree, eh, my lord? Come, scribbler. Lend a hand.”

  Grimacing, Treskan took hold of one pair of the dead creature’s hands and feet. Lofotan took the other. Mathi went ahead with her luminar to light the way. They dragged the body to the top of the steps. Treskan suggested they roll it down the stairs, but Lofotan sharply squelched that idea.

  “Do you want to mop every stone between here and the cellar? I don’t. Pick him up. Your clothes will wash more easily than a mile of white marble!”

  They hoisted the dead creature to their shoulders and followed Mathi down. Balif trailed, carrying his lamp. In the entry hall, Lofotan directed Mathi down a side passage to another, narrower set of steps. Down the inky steps they went. Mathi could see nothing but winding stone stairs. She kept her shoulder tight against the cold stone wall and uttered a prayer as they descended.

  “What is that you’re saying?” asked Lofotan.

  “A prayer.”

  “For this unnatural creature?”

  “No,” said Mathi, struggling under the weight of the corpse. “I asked Quenesti Pah to guide my steps, so I don’t fall!”

  The air grew cooler and damper. Far below ground level, the steps ended in a vaulted room crowded with barrels and draped shapes of uncertain purpose. They put the body down. Lofotan went alone to root around in the shadowed recesses of the cellar. Balif, standing on the last step, noticed the girl was trembling. Treskan the scribe scrubbed absently at the stain on his shoulder.

  “Have you not seen death before?”

  “Yes, my lord.” In her life Mathi had witnessed battles, murders, and all kinds of mayhem. “But I still shake at the sight of blood.”

  Treskan remarked, “It was a heavy burden!”

  “Burden.” Balif pursed his thin lips. “Try bearing the weight of a hundred such creatures.”

  Mathi studied him. Was Balif boasting he had killed a hundred intruders like the one before them?

  Lofotan returned, dragging an empty crate. They wrapped the body in a makeshift canvas shroud, put it in the crate, and nailed the lid on. Lofotan promised to have the crate removed later. The body would be taken out of the city unseen and buried secretly. Not even Balif or his majordomo would know where it would ultimately lie.

  Mathi didn’t understand why they were acting like accomplices to a crime. Surely Lofotan acted in self-defense against an attacker of plainly unnatural origin. Why hide the incident?

  “Too many questions will be asked,” Balif said calmly. “Guilt will be applied where none is needed.”

  The four of them climbed the stairs to the entry hall in silence. Mathi’s mind was racing. If forces were arrayed to kill Balif, why didn’t the Speaker of the Stars send troops and magicians to protect him?

  “Your head is full of questions,” Balif said sagely. “I understand. Some things cannot be explained in ordinary conversation. If you prove yourself worthy, the answers shall come.”

  Balif made a graceful if weary exit. He did not go back down the corridor where he had previously gone. Having been disturbed once, he was off to find a different location to sleep.

  “What if I don’t prove worthy?” Treskan
asked.

  “Then I shall personally cut your throat.” There was no animosity in Lofotan’s promise, just blunt honesty. Mathi believed him completely.

  Wrung out, she returned to the couch in her vacant suite. Mathi was about to extinguish her luminar for the night when she spotted writing on the distant marble wall. It had not been there when she first came to the room. Someone had written it since-

  The intruder. The intruder had been in the suite while she slept. Mathi walked slowly to the graffito. The runny red letters were not written with paint.

  Honor demands honesty, it read. Survival needs secrecy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Honors

  A voice called out to her. For a brief moment, she thought she was back in the forest, but Lofotan’s gruff voice reminded her where she was.

  “Up, girl. The sun may still sleep, but we who serve our lord must rise.”

  Mathi sat up, stiff in strange places. The cunning couch, designed to be wonderful to look at, was not so wonderful to sleep on.

  “Good morning?”

  “The day begins. Come,” urged Lofotan.

  “Is there water? I’m dry.”

  “In the font.”

  Lofotan was dressed in a spotless military tunic and kilt and heavy sandals. He wore an officer’s woven silver band around his forehead. No trace of the previous night’s blood remained, though the gash on his neck was still visible. Mathi padded behind him, pausing at the bowl for a hasty gulp of water.

  “You have a light tread,” the old soldier remarked. “Were you born in the wildwood?”

  Mathi explained her quietness by saying she’d had to step quietly around her human captors. If she disturbed them or drew unwanted attention to herself, she was usually beaten for it.

  “Savages.”

  He led her deeper into the house to Treskan’s room. The scribe proved harder to rouse. Lofotan’s battlefield bark hardly moved him, so the old warrior grasped Treskan by the shirt-front and shook him. The scribe awoke with limbs thrashing. Lofotan stepped back, out of reach. Treskan subsided after a brief struggle with himself.