The Puppet King Read online

  A spot of whiteness showed at the crest of the hill, and the green dragon curled his lip in an unconscious sneer. How like a Silvanesti. Even on a mission calling for stealth and subterfuge, he could not divest himself of the elegant robe of his station. Under other circumstances, Aeren would have enjoyed punishing the elf for his disdainful lack of camouflage, but for now the wyrm contented himself with a snort of disgust as he circled lower, finally coming to rest on the crest of the mossy hill. A sidelong glance showed that, as he had suspected, a longboat was pulled into the rushes at the base of the elevation. Two elven polers, dressed in the humble leather tunics of servants, waited in the narrow hull.

  The elf on the hilltop made no effort to hide his distaste. Indeed, he pulled a fold of his robe over his mouth and nose as the unmaskable stench of green dragon wafted across the ground. Aeren snorted again, enjoying the Silvanesti’s discomfort as visible fumes drifted past his face. Then the dragon settled down, crouching like a cat and curling his neck around to bring his head down to the elf’s level.

  He studied the fellow, noting the gold-laced sandals, the gilt-trimmed robe, and the jewel-encrusted bracelets of precious metal. Looking more closely, Aeren saw the unconcealed hatred in the elf’s narrowed eyes. Though he must be weakened by the effects of dragon awe, the Silvanesti was doing an admirable job of masking his unease.

  “Audacious, don’t you think, to wear these baubles into the presence of a known collector such as myself?” Aeren said, his voice a low, sibilant growl. “Those bracelets would look exceptionally nice atop my treasure mound.”

  The Silvanesti’s eyes widened momentarily at the words, but his face quickly dropped back into its haughty scowl. “I have misjudged you badly if you yield to such a short-term inducement when I come to offer something much greater.”

  The green dragon huffed, affecting an air of great boredom. “I have come. I have not killed you. Speak.”

  The elf coughed—even that he did with casual elegance—and appeared to marshal his thoughts. Long pauses in conversation were nothing unusual to a dragon, so Aeren waited patiently.

  “You realize that the Qualinesti elf, Porthios, has nearly succeeded in driving your kind from Silvanesti.” The word “Qualinesti” rolled off the elf’s tongue as if the very sound of it reeked of venom.

  But Aeren was not prepared to concede this point. “My kind, as always, goes where it will. We are not driven anywhere we do not wish to go.”

  The Silvanesti made a gesture of impatience. “You know what I mean—draconians, that sort. They survive nowhere else in the kingdom but this island in the delta.”

  “Do not make the mistake, elf, of mixing draconians and dragons as the same ‘kind.’ I shall overlook your misstatement this once. Next time you are so careless, you will die and this meeting will be over.”

  With an admirable display of self-control, the elf showed no more reaction than a tightening of his lips. “Very well. The creatures of the Dark Queen have been exiled from all of Silvanesti except for this island. You must be aware that Porthios soon plans to clean out this last outpost.”

  “It is an obvious tactic,” the dragon allowed.

  “There are elves in Silvanesti who would be willing to see your ki—that is, to see you and other green dragons, as well as such lackeys as you are inclined to allow, retain this small foothold in our kingdom. A peace offering, if you will … a testament to the end of war between dragonkind and the elves.”

  “There are such elves … and you are one of them?” Aeren replied, intrigued in spite of himself. Of all the things he had speculated that this elf might want to discuss, the notion of a truce had not been one of them.

  “It is the reason I have asked to meet you here.”

  “And in return for your tolerance of our presence, you expect … what?”

  “We expect that you will do Silvanesti a single favor—a great favor, it is true, but only one task. It is a thing that you will doubtless find satisfying on its own level.”

  “Continue.”

  “We want you to kill Porthios when he comes here, when he leads the elven army against you.”

  Aeren snorted, unmindful of the chlorine gas that again wafted past the elf’s face. Despite the hasty raising of his silken robe, the Silvanesti coughed and gagged, stepping backward and wheezing in discomfort. And still the green dragon didn’t notice.

  “You want me to slay the hero who has restored your realm to the elves?” he asked curiously.

  “He is not a hero. He is a Qualinesti radical who threatens our future, every bit as much as the mad king Lorac Caladon threatened our past!”

  “Qualinesti … Silvanesti.” Aeren had heard the terms, knew of the two nations, of course, but the distinction was vague in his mind. “Are you not both elves?”

  “Bah!” The emissary’s tone was scornful. “I do not expect you to understand, but the Qualinesti are ill-bred upstarts, unmindful of tradition, uncaring of the racial purity that is the gods-given gift of our race! We have sculpted our realm into a garden of precise, controlled beauty! Qualinesti is a place where the trees are allowed to grow as they will, in disorder and chaos. It is full of deep, trackless groves, and like their trees, the people of the western realm are untamed, utterly lacking in the decency, the refined sensibilities and regal legacy of Silvanesti!”

  “But this upstart Qualinesti has you worried?” asked Aeren, privately thinking that the forest of the western elves sounded like a very fine place indeed.

  “If Porthios is allowed to live, there is a very real danger that he will seek to unite the two elven kingdoms, and then the hallmark of purity, the legacy we have to offer our children through centuries to come, will erode to the point of uselessness.”

  Deep in thought, the green dragon lowered filmy membranes over the yellow, slitted orbs of his eyes. He could still see his surroundings and the elf, but the milky veil helped him to focus his mind, to consider all aspects of this proposed arrangement.

  Truly he did not understand the elf’s fears. Green dragons cared little for the fate of their descendants and generally sought to destroy and steal from their ancestors, so the notion of a legacy for future generations meant nothing to him. Still, the relevance of the argument to his own decision came down to one thing: Was the elf lying?

  He considered the request, tried to imagine all the reasons the elf would come to him with such a proposal. Was it a trick, an attempt to lull the dragon into complacency before the attack? Aeren decided the elf would know that tactic was unnecessary. They had won every campaign Porthios had led them on. Nor could he see a way for the elf to make personal gain from this meeting. Instead, the dragon’s intuition gave him a strong signal, and he decided that this elf was telling the truth. However mad the reasoning was from a dragon’s perspective, the very presence of the Silvanesti on this hilltop, and the extraordinary nature of his bargain, persuaded Aeren to accept the fellow’s sincerity.

  The incentive, too, was powerful. Despite Aeren’s bluster about dragons going wherever they wanted, he had faced the armies of Porthios. He had seen his clan dragons, greens that once had numbered in scores, fall to lethal arrows, deadly lances, and potent elven magic. He knew the elf’s next campaign would be the last. The Silvanesti army would sweep this island as it had swept the rest of the realm, and the few green dragons remaining would either die here or be forced to migrate to new homes.

  And that was not a prospect that appealed to Aeren. He liked verdant forest, he favored warm weather and thick vegetation. And even if this delta was a little too swampy for his taste, nowhere along this coast was he likely to find as hospitable a place for his lair.

  He changed the tack of the conversation.

  “You know that Porthios has fought and survived many campaigns. I know, too, that he has an able lieutenant who goes everywhere with him, and that this elf is the wielder of a deadly lance and is a master of magic. What makes you believe that, merely because you desire it, we will be a
ble to kill Porthios when he makes his next attack?”

  For the first time, he sensed the elf’s hesitation, the difficulty he was having with this bizarre meeting. Long heartbeats passed without a word, and then finally the elf drew a deep breath.

  “As to the lieutenant, he is an elf called Samar, and we have a plan to remove him from the upcoming campaign.”

  “What plan is this?”

  “It is a distraction that will draw him away from Silvanesti, but the specifics are not your concern. Still, Samar is loyal to his queen—some say, excessively loyal—and it is this loyalty that will draw him away.”

  “And as to Porthios?” asked the wyrm.

  Once again there was a long pause.

  “There are those among the Silvanesti who have agreed this is necessary. Therefore, we will provide you with information about the nature and the timing of his offensive. This information will make it possible for you to arrange a lethal ambush.”

  Aeren’s eyelids popped open. This was indeed a singular offer!

  “You realize, of course, that during such an ambush it is very difficult to slay with precision … that is, it is likely that more elves besides this general, Porthios, are likely to lose their lives.”

  Again the Silvanesti waited a long time before replying.

  “Yes. My fellow patriots and I recognize that this is unavoidable. Of course, our own Silvanesti fliers were decimated in the first ten years of this campaign, so now Porthios’s flying troops are a bodyguard of Qualinesti elves. His chief lieutenant, Tarqualan, is as much a radical as his master; it would be good if you could kill many of the griffon riders. But it is true that he will lead a large contingent of Silvanesti warriors as well. Losses among them are … regrettable but necessary to the greater good.”

  The green dragon regarded the elf coolly. “It may be, Silvanesti, that there are not so many differences between your people and mine as both of us have imagined.”

  Again the emissary’s features drew into haughty disdain. “I shall not dignify that remark with a reply, except to say that you would not understand the priorities that lead us to make such a sacrifice for those who will come after us.”

  Aeren’s smile was crocodilian. “It seems to me that the greatest sacrifice will be made by Porthios, if the plan works as you propose.”

  “It will work. It must work!” Now the elf was all earnestness. “The campaign will not begin for at least a fortnight. Porthios will need time to rest and reorganize his armies from the liberation of the Tarthalian Highland, the thick forests in the eastern niche of our kingdom.”

  “How will I identify Porthios?”

  “He rides a griffon called Stallyar. The creature has silvered feathers at each wingtip. It is quite unique. Also, Porthios and Samar tend to remain aloof, above the bulk of the troops. With Samar drawn away, the prince will probably be alone.”

  “And how will you get word to me?”

  “I will come here one more time, to this hilltop.”

  “You will come again in person?” Aeren’s tone was subtly mocking, but the elf was too serious to perceive the sarcasm.

  “Yes. It is very dangerous for me to be gone from the capital. Even this mission is fraught with risk, but I had to see you face to face so that you would know we are serious. I cannot trust this matter to others.”

  “I believe that you are serious, elf, even though you do not tell me your name, nor the names of your co-conspirators.”

  “I tell you, we are patriots!” insisted the Silvanesti. “There is no alternative to ensuring the security of our future!”

  “No other alternative save killing Porthios yourself,” the green dragon couldn’t help but observe.

  “We are not assassins!” Again the elf’s shock was palpable, though Aeren was utterly mystified by the distinction. To him, whether the elves arranged for a dragon to kill their marshal or did the murder themselves seemed very much the same, morally speaking.

  Not, of course, that he had any moral qualm about implementing the death of Porthios. Indeed, that warrior elf had been creating vexing problems for the green serpent since he had first come to Silvanesti, and his death—whoever brought it about—would be a very good thing for Aerensianic and his clan dragons. He was only too willing to accept the elves’ assistance in doing the deed. In fact, the advance intelligence about Porthios’s attack would be crucial, since the elven commander had demonstrated a knack for striking his enemies when and where they least expected. It would be a pleasure to turn the tables on him for a change.

  “Then I shall be your assassin,” Aeren declared finally, striving for a soothing tone that was, despite his best intentions, a little beyond his grasp. Still, the elf seemed content with the resolution, not to mention eager to get away from this hilltop.

  “Look for the information here. I will get you word as soon as Porthios makes his plans known.”

  “I shall check this hilltop every day, within an hour of the sunset. But there is one more thing, before you rush off.…”

  The elf, who was about to do just that, hesitated suspiciously.

  “How do I know that you will honor your word once Porthios has been removed? It may be that you will still decide to eradicate my clan and our ‘lackeys,’ as you called them, from this corner of Silvanesti.”

  “You have the word of a Silvanesti general, an elf of House Protector … that is my bond.”

  Aeren snorted. “That, and one other thing,” he growled ominously.

  “What is that other thing?”

  “Without the leadership of Porthios, your army may come after us, but they will surely die.”

  The elf may have wanted to dispute that argument, but he thought better of his urge to reply. Without a backward glance, he stalked down the hill toward the boatmen, who were already making ready to depart.

  Aerensianic, in not so much of a hurry, squatted on the mossy hilltop, watching the elves pole through the brackish fen toward the silvery river glinting on the horizon. Even when the robed figure had dwindled to a tiny spot in the distance, he stared and pondered.

  In the end, he knew that it had been a good day’s work.

  “This elf who wanted to kill Porthios … he claimed that he was Silvanesti?” asked the younger of the pair who had entered the green dragon’s den.

  The serpent sniffed derisively. “Elves are all the same to me, but, yes, that was his claim. And I knew that was the elven name for the place where I dwelled, so his assertion made sense.”

  “Why did he hate Porthios so much?” The youngster was perplexed, deeply troubled by the tale.

  “How would I know the follies of elvenkind?” retorted the dragon, who then yelped as the elder elf pushed and twisted the lance.

  “Why do you think he would betray his country’s hero?” asked the lancer.

  The dragon shrugged disdainfully. “I suppose I can guess. There was a time, a mere eye blink ago by the reckoning of my life, when the whole realm of Silvanesti, all the forests and hillocks and streams, was a swath of delicious corruption. It was a time when Lorac Caladon was king of that elven land, and he was maddened by the power of a crystal sphere … a dragon orb. His darkest nightmares were whispered into his ear by the mighty green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, a wyrm even greater in age and power than I. For years Lorac was caught in the spell of that orb, and he writhed under the grip of powerful and ancient magic. All the realm had withered under the influence of massive corruption. Trees bled, monsters skulked in the shadows, and the elvesæthose who survived the scourge—all fled to distant lands.”

  “That is ancient history. Silvanesti is not like that anymore!” insisted the young elf. “The forest has been restored, and the elves have returned!”

  “True … because of the leader called Porthios.”

  “But first,” interjected the elder of the pair, “Lorac died, and the Silvanesti General Konnal tried to vanquish Lorac’s nightmare. But he failed abysmally. His campaigns led to the decimation
of the Windriders, the Silvanesti griffon riders who were once a feared force across all Krynn. The Kirath scouts penetrated parts of the realm, but Konnal’s army was thwarted at every turn.”

  “I remember those days,” the dragon resumed. “And I knew that only after ten years of Konnal’s failures did the proud Silvanesti call for help, seeking a leader from their kinsman in the west. Porthios came, and he was a ruler in effect as well as name. Under him, the elves reclaimed their land, scourging the madness from forest and glade, slowly, inexorably restoring the pristine woodlands that had ever been the hallmark of this ancient kingdom. For years Porthios had led his elves on relentless campaigns, with armies of warriors attacking the denizens of the Dark Queen—denizens such as I myself—until we were cornered in a small corner of that once vast realm

  “Who was the traitor?” the elder elf asked, his lips taut across his teeth and his finger tight around the hilt of his sword.

  “That,” the dragon said, with a smug tightening of his scaly lips, “is a question that will be answered in good time.”

  A Marshal of Elvenkind

  Chapter 2

  “Hail, Porthios! Long live Porthios!”

  The chants and cries rang from the balconies, from the lofty towers and the elegant, narrow windows of Silvanost, as the general led his weary troops on a triumphal march into the elven capital. Using the giant turtles that served as ferries around this island city, the army had just a few hours earlier crossed from the mainland into their capital. After forming into companies and divisions at the waterfront, they had straightened with practiced discipline and then started on this parade.

  The file of elves, four thousand strong, was mud-spattered, dirty, and exhausted after months of war. Yet for all their fatigue, these troops gave no sign of anything other than jubilant good spirits. They marched with crisp precision, and if a few uniforms showed the rents of draconian claws and ogre spears, if a few boots were patched or worn from the rigors of a long march, none of these cosmetic flaws gave any pause to the elves who paraded for their people in serene, righteous pride.