The Puppet King Page 9

  Porthios found Bandial on the shore of the river, where dozens of elves lay dead. They were not marked by wounds, but each face was distorted by an expression of monstrous horror. Tongues protruded from gaping jaws, and eyes bulged with the knowledge that death had come, had reached into lungs with tendrils of green mist and torn away life from the inside.

  The boats along the riverbank were still intact, and for a moment the marshal and the general looked at them longingly. Bandial, Porthios suspected, was feeling the same urge that was influencing him.

  Yet then he looked back toward the dark forest, toward the corrupt island that sprawled beyond this bloodstained parapet, and his decision—if there had ever been any doubt—was cemented in his mind.

  “We march after the bastards tomorrow?” Bandial guessed, his tone grim but not the least bit hesitant.

  “Aye, General,” Porthios replied. “There’s still a job to be done.”

  Three weeks later, the warriors of the Second Division closed in on the lone hillock on the southern terminus of the island. Behind them lay a forest that was slowly being restored by the nature priests who followed in the warriors’ wake. And it was a forest divested of dangerous denizens, for the division’s sweep had been thorough and deadly. Porthios knew there wasn’t a draconian or ogre anywhere on this island, except for the band that had now gathered on this one outpost of high ground.

  It was not a prepossessing force, this remnant. Perhaps two hundred ogres and twice that many draconians had formed a ring on the grassy slopes. Weapons pointed outward, they waited as the companies of elves emerged from the forest to gather in a large circle around the base of the rounded hill. They had been herded here like cattle, and now they were gathered for a last fight, a battle with a predetermined outcome, but which still must be fought before the conclusion of the campaign.

  “They’re up on that hill, my lord … all of them,” Aleaha Tamarkin reported for the Kirath, having skirted the entire elevation since early that morning.

  “This is where it ends, then,” Porthios said. He felt no elation, so sense of accomplishment as he contemplated this last attack, the culmination to a campaign that had lasted thirty years, had been his own quest for the last two decades.

  “And … my lord?” Aleaha hesitated but obviously had something else to say.

  “What is it?”

  “I … I wish I could tell you how sorry I am about the ambush. It was my failure and that of my scouts that led to—”

  “No, it wasn’t!” Porthios cut her off, speaking sternly. “It was my own fault more than anyone’s—and how could any of us have known?”

  “It’s just that we missed them, we Kirath,” she insisted. “If we had looked more carefully, stayed on the island longer …”

  “Then the Kirath would have been killed, just like Cantal-Silaster and the First Division,” Porthios shot back. “No, we all did our jobs as best as we could, and that one time, the enemy was ready for us.”

  His face softened as he acknowledged that his anger was directed at himself, not at this bold scout, nor at any of his brave warriors. “We have to be grateful, at least, that we’ve brought the matter to a close.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Aleaha replied. Still, her head was low, her eyes downcast as she backed away.

  But now there was the last battle to fight. Porthios swung onto Stallyar’s back, and the creature’s wings pulsed downward as, with a smooth leap, he carried his rider into the sky. Griffons spiraled overhead. Stallyar and Porthios rose to fly in the middle of the formation. The marshal looked over his enemies arrayed on the hill and wished he could take some pleasure from this final battle. He remembered the brave elves of the First Division and knew that they would be avenged here today … but even that knowledge was no consolation. It was time for the killing to be over, time for the elven veterans to go home.

  Twisting in his saddle, he scanned the horizon, saw the ocean waters gleaming dully to the south. All across this broad marsh, lined with the now healing forest to the north, there was no single sign of the enemy he really sought, the green-scaled horror who, he felt certain, was behind the initial ambush and the subsequent long and bloody campaign.

  He felt another pang of regret as he saw the thin ranks of the Second Division companies. These veterans had fought boldly, driven by duty and by a powerful desire to avenge the slaughter of their comrades. They had relentlessly pushed through the fen, butchering the denizens wherever they were encountered. But at the same time, they had suffered casualties, more than would have occurred if the two divisions had been able to work together.

  As a result, the remaining Silvanesti elves in his force were significantly less than half of the total that had departed Silvanost a month earlier. The losses were greater than he had suffered on any of his previous campaigns, and it seemed exceptionally tragic that they had come on this, the last march in thirty years of war.

  Looking at the ground for this final confrontation below, Porthios knew that still more of his warriors would have to die if they were to charge up that hill. Inevitably the Silvanesti numbers and discipline would carry them through the surrounded rabble, but just as inescapably, brutish ogres and savage draconians, holding the high ground, would be able to exact a horrific cost in blood from their attackers.

  Yet there was a way, perhaps, to change that toll. It was not a method that would assuage elven honor, or aid in the thirst for vengeance, but Porthios viewed these two considerations as far less important than saving elven lives.

  A gentle nudge with his knees guided Stallyar downward, and the griffon came to rest in the field before Bandial.

  “The troops are ready, my lord marshal,” reported that erstwhile general. “Would you care to give the orders to charge?”

  “We’ll attack, General … but not with a charge.”

  Bandial looked surprised but said nothing. He waited for an explanation.

  “Call up your archers,” Porthios said. He turned to squint into the sky, looking at the monsters arrayed on the open hillside. “We’re going to finish this off with arrows.”

  “And so they fell without fighting, killed to the last by elven arrows.” The dragon spoke without passion, as if describing the extermination of an anthill, or the removal of a nest of mice.

  “And you—you lived, but you didn’t help them?” the young elf demanded accusingly. He stalked a few paces away, then turned back and glared at the creature.

  “Why should I?” retorted the wyrm, his tone genuinely curious.

  “They were your comrades!”

  “They were nothing! The battle was lost, and there was nothing for me in Silvanesti. Instead, I decided to go away.”

  “Yes,” Samar noted wryly. “And perhaps that was not such a bad idea.”

  “But in Silvanesti, what happened next?” asked the young elf. “I must know!”

  “You should know—but it is a tale of elves, not dragons,” replied the serpent.

  “I was not there, not until much later, but I can tell the story,” said Samar softly. “It is not a pretty tale, nor one that should make any elf feel even a twinge of pride.”

  “You must tell me!” demanded the other.

  “And so I shall.…”

  Trial in the Sinthal-Elish

  Chapter Six

  “Two hundred and seventeen Qualinesti flew with this army … and two hundred and one of them came back!”

  Konnal’s voice boomed through the chamber in the Hall of Balif, which was crowded with Silvanesti nobles and high-ranking commoners. The gathering, occurring the day after the Second Division’s return to the city, was so large that it was occurring here in the palace, rather than in the smaller council chamber at the base of the Tower of the Stars.

  Now Konnal had the rapt attention of every elf present. Porthios sat on the marshal’s chair at the front of the rostrum, steeling his face to show no reaction as he listened to this elf’s words. He knew what was coming, hated the words, even the
speaker, but he had no reply.

  For Konnal spoke only the truth.

  “More than four thousand Silvanesti sailed down the river … four thousand of our bold sons, warriors we entrusted to the command of this—” the general groped theatrically for the term, making it apparent that he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the name of the other nation of elvenkind—“this prince out of the west!”

  He paused again, looking at a small piece of paper he held in his hand. On that paper were numbers, though Porthios suspected that the general was fully acquainted with each figure on the sheet. Still, Konnal made a great show of studying the information, and, like the rest of the nobles, generals, and lords, the marshal waited without making a sound.

  When Konnal spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, yet still it carried to the far corners of the marbled chamber.

  “Fewer than seventeen hundred of them returned.”

  “Shame!” The word was hissed by a Silvanesti noble, the elf anonymous among the throng of his fellows. All of them sat on their stools, rigid and stern, their looks cold and accusing. The charge was repeated, picked up, carried with sibilant force throughout the chamber. None shouted it, but every voice, it seemed, echoed it, until the sound washed over Porthics like waves pounding against a beach of sand, driving into his soul, twisting and tearing and flensing his flesh away.

  “Shame … shame … shame … shame.”

  Konnal, the master of timing, allowed the sound to be repeated for a long time, until the resonance had been drilled into every ear, repeating in the depths of every mind, universally condemning the marshal who stood alone on the rostrum. The golden images high on the walls glared down, silent and accusing. Only then did Konnal raise his hand. As if trained to wait for the cue, the elves ceased the chant.

  “This is a tragedy … a catastrophe … a failure,” he said grimly. “These facts are apparent to us all, and these facts alone suggest that action is required. But I submit, honored nobles, esteemed senators, brave generals, that this is more than a tragic, catastrophic failure.”

  He whirled, his cold eyes resting on Porthios, and suddenly, with utter clarity, Porthios saw where Konnal was going. And there was nothing he could do to prevent it, save to feel an insignificant twinge of satisfaction as, with his next words, the general proved that the marshal’s instant of foresight was correct.

  “I say to you, elves of Silvanesti, that this is nothing less than betrayal!”

  The hiss of agreement came from all over the hall, a nearly universal sentiment that surprised Porthios with its passion and depth. His first reaction was to flush with anger and scorn. Could these Silvanesti elves really be that stupid? He drew a deep breath before he stood and cursed them, knowing that such a course, however gratifying, would only fan the flames of a very dangerous situation.

  Instead, he rose from his stool to stand, his expression mild as he regarded the array of hostile glares around him. He spotted a few sympathetic faces—Lord Dolphius shook his head in dismay, while General Bandial’s one-eyed visage was locked in an expression of dignified outrage at his fickle countrymen.

  Like his expression, Porthios kept his voice calm as he began to speak. Ignoring the undercurrent of muttering, he spoke quietly, thereby forcing the elves in the hall to fall silent in an effort to hear.

  “General Konnal is right about a number of things.” His opening statement provoked some startled astonishment, though all too many elves nodded in arrogant agreement, as if he could have said nothing else. Grimly he resolved to ignore the prevailing mood, to speak his piece deliberately, carefully, accurately.

  “The events on the delta island were catastrophic and tragic. Far too many brave warriors lost their lives. The plan of attack was mine, and the responsibility for its execution lay with me as well.” He paused to draw a breath, fairly certain that his calm and reasonable approach would begin to reach these elves. After all, weren’t they famed as the calmest and most reasonable people on all Krynn?

  “The opposition on the island was well prepared, and our initial—”

  “You killed my son!” shouted a noblewoman from the back of the house, and abruptly the Sinthal-Elish rang with echoed cries of outrage. Once again Porthios was shocked by the depth of emotion, and for the first time, he worried that the outcome might indeed go badly for him. Furthermore, it was harder than ever to retain his self-control, to master the rising temper that sought to burst from his expressions and words.

  “I did not kill your son. In point of fact, I did everything in my power to save him, just as I have done everything in my power to restore Silvanesti from the effects of Lorac Caladon’s nightmare!”

  There was still an undercurrent of muttering, and Porthios felt his voice rising as he struggled to be heard. “Is there an elf here who does not remember the state of this nation twenty years ago? Who does not know that I have dedicated those years of my life, that I have worked with my wife—your queen—to wrest this hallowed land from the corruption that, some claimed, would forever make Silvanesti a place of ruin and death?”

  “Qualinesti scum!” came another shout, this one in an elder’s stern and unforgiving voice. “Your own people lived, while ours died!”

  “This is not the fault of Porthios!” interjected another voice. For a moment, the noise in the hall settled to a rumble as the esteemed personage of Aleaha Tamarin stood and spoke. “If you must lay blame, then call out the name of myself and my Kirath scouts! We looked over the island, and we failed to spot the ambush.”

  “But Porthios was in charge!” shouted another anonymous voice, and the bold scout was shouted down by more elves joining in a chorus of condemnation.

  “We’re all elves—can’t you see that?” demanded Porthios sharply. He shouted in the forceful voice that had carried across a score of battlefields, but even so, the rising swell of noise almost drowned his words in a force of outrage and recrimination.

  “Death to the Qualinesti scum!”

  “Exile to the traitor!”

  More cries, a disjointed volley of rare invective and hateful vituperation, came from all over the hall. Porthios glared at Konnal, who sat calmly on his stool, saying nothing, but expressing his smug satisfaction in a sneer he returned to the marshal. When he realized that he wished he had his sword, Porthios recognized that his own temper was fraying far beyond the boundaries of self-control.

  “Elves of Silvanesti, listen to me!”

  Somehow Lord Dolphius’s voice penetrated the angry crowd, and once again the shouts subsided to a murmured undercurrent. Dolphius, who sat near the front of the Sinthal-Elish, took three strides forward to climb onto the first steps of the rostrum. He turned to address the crowd, first sweeping a hand in an elegant gesture that seemed to encompass every elf in the crowded chamber.

  “My people … my esteemed elves … let us remember who we are. Should we trample over dignity and heritage like a mob of enraged humans? I think not.”

  With a slight inclination of his head, Dolphius acknowledged the presence of Konnal, high on the side of the chamber. “Our general has made some charges … highly inflammatory charges, it is true. But they are just that: accusations. We are not a lynch mob, nor would it serve us any purpose to allow justice to be short-changed by an explosion of rage that belittles us even more than it does the target of our anger.”

  Dolphius took a breath, and the throng waited for him to continue. “The charge of treason is not one to be leveled lightly. I, for one, do not believe that charge—not for a minute, not for a single heartbeat. I, for one, remember the sacrifices that Porthios of House Solostaran has made during the course of the last thirty years, of the work that he has led … that he has followed through to its most bitter conclusion. Yes, my elves, this … ‘Qualinesti’ ”—he said the term with a perfect sense of mockery, a scorn that belittled the pretentiousness of those Silvanesti who would use the word as an insult—“deserves credit for the restoration of Silvanesti. I do not think, n
or should any rational elf think, that he would have worked so hard only to plot base treachery at the conclusion of his labors.”

  Konnal’s sneer had turned from Porthios to Dolphius, and, watching that haughty expression, the marshal felt a grim foreboding, a sense that this meeting had not heard the last of the general’s charges.

  “I do not suggest,” the senator continued, in a tone of utmost rationality, “that we merely dismiss the charges. They must be examined, debated with thought and foresight, considered with dutiful care. Indeed, there are other charges—tales of missing dragonlances, and of faulty intelligence—that deserve scrutiny as well. But this is not the time, nor is the Tower of Stars the place, for such a trial. I urge you, elves of the Sinthal-Elish, not to act with haste but to consider with wisdom the weighty matter that has been placed before you today.”

  The hall was mostly silent as Dolphius returned to his seat, but then all eyes turned to the side as Konnal once more rose to his feet. His manner was sorrowful, his expression full of regret, as he began to speak.

  “Our esteemed senator is correct. This gathering is not the suitable venue for consideration of such charges. It grieves me, therefore, to declare that circumstances leave me no choice. But under the glare of my erstwhile colleagues’ pleas for reason, I must now reveal that there is more to my accusation than I was at first prepared to reveal.”

  Even Porthios was curious, and though he knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear, he waited in silence with all the other elves to hear what Konnal said next.

  “I have proof, noble elves, that Porthios Solostaran has engaged in the negotiation of a treaty that is a betrayal of our sovereignty, a relinquishment of our heritage, and a seditious mortgaging of the futures of our children and their children.”

  “That’s a lie!” snarled the marshal. “You are a liar, Konnal, and yours are the words that reek of treachery!”