The Puppet King

by Doug Niles

  “Thank you, General.” Porthios replied, suspecting that the elf’s pleasantries were merely an initial salvo designed to put him off his guard.

  The two elves stood only a few paces apart, but neither made any effort to initiate the ceremonial kiss that would normally formalize a greeting between two such colleagues. Ungraciously, conscious of the stiffness of his manner, the host gestured his guest to a chair, then offered him the glass of wine before settling into his own seat.

  Porthios found himself sizing up the general, who was his own age, and—if not for the Qualinesti Speaker’s presence—would doubtless still have been leading the Silvanesti army on its campaigns against the nightmare that had so long scourged the realm. Konnal was much beloved by the nobility and the senate of Silvanost, but his face and hands betrayed none of the hardness of soldiering, the grim weathering that had etched lines around Porthios’s mouth, toughened his fingers and palms with rough callus. For ten years he had led the Wildrunners, but his leadership had resulted in significant disasters, including the decimation of the nation’s griffon riders. Now Konnal’s generalship consisted of recruiting troops, of garbing them in splendid uniforms and equipping them with gleaming armor and sharp blades, and then of training them to march in precise file and drill.

  “I have the Keys of Quinarost,” the general said, handing over the ring of golden icons that gave access to the Tower of the Stars.

  “Thank you. I will keep them until I leave again on the next campaign,” Porthios replied.

  “It is true, then … the Tarthalian Highland is reclaimed?” asked General Konnal.

  “There are some matters for the foresthealers to attend, but, yes, the last of the dragons and their minions have been expelled from that part of the elven lands.” Porthios took some small pleasure in his geographical terminology. He had long made it known that he envisioned all the domain of the elves as one great land, not two eternally divided nations.

  “Your troops made quite a parade of their return. Was that really necessary?” Konnal’s tone was just short of insolence.

  “Stallyar had a strained wing, or I would have flown him in victory circles low over the city,” Porthios replied with a straight face. The savage griffon, loyal flier who answered to the elven warrior’s will, was well known to the people of Silvanost.

  Konnal sighed, as if he were dismayed but not really surprised by the Qualinesti’s display of humor. “I thought we had agreed that demonstrations of a martial nature were to be curtailed now that the populace has, for the most part, accepted that our land has been reclaimed from the nightmare.”

  Porthios felt his temper slipping but held on to his self-control with a powerful effort of will. “You will recall, General, that it was your suggestion that such demonstrations should be abolished. I never agreed to any part of it. Furthermore, these elves have fought bravely, under difficult conditions, and they were doing nothing more than returning to their homes for a brief interval preceding the next campaign. Surely you don’t expect that I would have them slink into the city after dark, like fugitives seeking to avoid notice?”

  “The fact is, you know how the people get stirred up by these displays. They cheer themselves hoarse, and then they are surprised to learn that there is one more battle to fight. There’s always one more battle to fight!”

  Porthios was feeling very tired, and his fatigue shortened his patience as much as Konnal’s words. “Ah, but this time we might be finished after one more battle. I trust that even you can see the truth of that!”

  “You speak of the Thon-Thalas delta, I presume.”

  “Unless you know of some other district where the nightmare has suddenly blossomed resurgent, yes.”

  “I know of no such place … the delta, then. When do you presume to launch your so-called ‘final’ campaign?”

  “Perhaps I won’t go at all!” Porthios snapped. “Maybe I should turn my back on this city and let you handle a campaign in the field!”

  Konnal’s eyes widened momentarily, but he was too shrewd to reveal much of his alarm at this prospect. Instead, he merely shrugged. “If that is your wish, I shall make my preparations at once.”

  “It’s not my wish, and you know it! My men need some time—a fortnight, at least—with their wives and their families. Time to let the nightmares settle, to remember why we embark on these battles.”

  “Two weeks, then?” Konnal suggested. “Then you will move against the delta?”

  “Two weeks, and then the last battle begins. Now go away, General Konnal.” Porthios had lost all pretense of politeness; this conversation had left a foul taste in his mouth. “I am suddenly reminded that I need a bath.”

  “I admit, through it all, that Porthios was a worthy foe,” the dragon said pensively. “Much more capable than that imbecile he replaced, Konnal.”

  “Yet you promised to kill him!” accused the younger elf.

  The wyrm sniffed. “He was a foe, after all.”

  “And the traitor?” asked the elder elf, still holding the lance pressed firmly against the dragon’s scaly breast. “He carried through with his promises?”

  “He was as good as his word,” admitted the green dragon.

  A Council in Silvanost

  Chapter Three

  “And so I place the matter before you, esteemed nobles, honored lords, and all Silvanesti who take an interest in the future: The island in the Thon-Thalas delta is the last remaining outpost of Lorac’s nightmare. It is a broad place, flat and festering, but it is surrounded by water and thus isolated from the rest of the land.”

  Porthios looked across the ranks of gowned and robed elves gathered in the great chamber at the base of the Tower of Stars. This was the Sinthal-Elish, the ruling body of Silvanesti. He had their attention, and he knew what he needed to say.

  “Isolated though it is, it cannot be allowed to stand. The island morass blocks trade, barring all seafaring traffic between us and other realms. Too, it stands as a symbol of the nightmare that has been our legacy for too long. I ask you now, the elven citizens who are the true rulers of this hallowed land, to authorize one more campaign. The Kirath, our bold scouts, have reconnoitered the place. The leader of the Kirath, Aleaha Takmarin, has reported to me personally.

  “The delta, like all the rest of the realm that had languished under corruption and evil, is vulnerable to a combined operation. We will use troops and wizards and the healers of House Woodshaper, employing the three-pronged approach that has served us so well throughout the past three decades. We will root out the corruption at its very foundation and use the skills and artistry of our greatest minds to restore the fen to the pastoral grove that it once was.”

  “Hear, hear!” The stamping of feet came from all around, and other elves whistled softly to indicate their approval. The clamor, as was the way with elven outbursts, quickly faded as a young, handsome elf clad in a robe and the silver sandals of an ancient noble house stepped forward.

  Porthios bowed toward the proud Silvanesti. “I recognize you, Dolphius. Please share your words with the Sinthal-Elish.”

  Dolphius returned the bow with serene dignity and turned on the steps just below the dais where Porthios stood. The lord looked at the gathered elves, waiting with the patience of a born speaker until the room had grown absolutely still.

  “I offer a resolution of commendation for our esteemed marshal, Porthios of House Solostaran. Not only has he selflessly devoted his life toward the restoration of a land that is not his native realm, but he has also done so in a manner that we can only label as impeccably proper and selflessly devoted. Therefore, good lords and ladies, all elves of Silvanesti, I suggest we declare that upon his return from this last campaign, we declare a holiday and that our greatest artists and musicians prepare an homage to an elf who must be regarded as a great hero of our people.”

  Again came the foot-shuffling applause, this time maintained for a surprisingly—and, to Porthios, embarrassingly—long time. As Dolphi
us returned to his stool and the sounds again faded, the marshal found himself compelled to speak.

  “You do me great honor, people of my wife’s homeland.

  And I shall be grateful for the acknowledgment—after our campaign is successful. But I beg you not to forget that the restoration of Silvanesti has been a task faced by countless numbers of Silvanesti as well. Indeed, without the use of the dedicated and capable army that the nation has raised and supported, none of these campaigns would have even been possible.”

  “And it is worth noting—” General Konnal’s voice came from his seat high on the side of the chamber; he rose from his stool and stood straight and tall, allowing all eyes in the chamber to locate him—“that this final campaign has yet to be fought and the results determined. It is on this matter that I have a proposal to make.”

  “Speak, General, please,” Porthios declared, his own dignity highlighting the other elf’s lack of manners in his interruption.

  “I join my esteemed colleague, the lord Dolphius, in expressing our gratitude toward the royal elf of Qualinesti who has devoted so much of his time to our problems,” Konnal began. His tone was free from irony, but somehow he still managed to state the name of the western realm as if it were a distasteful word.

  “At the same time, we have reached a point where we can begin to assess the end of the long war of reclamation that has so long been the focus of our populace, our army … and, not least, our treasury.”

  Konnal sighed, an exaggerated gesture that emphasized the weariness brought about by the long years of war. “Naturally we must insure the success of this last venture, the expedition to annihilate the final, lingering corner of the nightmare from our realm. With the esteemed Marshal Porthios leading the way, we can be all but certain of success.”

  “Get on with it, Konnal,” called Dolphius, gently mocking. “Where do you want to pinch pennies this time?”

  “My honored colleague, the lord, has brought us to the heart of the matter, as usual, without wasting time on the niceties of formal debate. Naturally I am grateful.” Konnal bestowed a dazzling smile on Dolphius, who frowned and gestured in irritation.

  “My proposal is this: Since the impending mission is, for once, directed against a part of the realm that is, by our marshal’s own admission, water-bound and isolated from the rest of Silvanesti, we suggest that the campaign function with the use of but ten companies of the Wildrunners, instead of the twenty that have generally formed the backbone of Porthios Solostaran’s army. The savings in steel coin will be significant, not to mention that it will begin to allow many of our brave warriors, those who have given so much over the last three decades, to commence a return to the routines of normal life.”

  Inevitably there were murmurs of protest and several outright shouts of derision. Porthios himself kept his expression bland. He was grateful for the support of so many of these elves, and he knew that it was politic for him to allow them to make his objections for him. Not surprisingly, it was Dolphius who rose, waited for Porthios to acknowledge him, and then turned to address the council in stentorian tones.

  “The esteemed general, scion of an ancient house, proud bearer of Silvanesti standards handed down through long generations, has, as usual, failed to grasp the necessary prerequisites of modern day operations. His logic, where it is not utterly flawed, is so misguided as to represent a significant departure from rational thought. Perhaps, as is not inconceivable, he spoke without any such cogitation and would even now like to retract his remarks, remove his proposal from the table?”

  Dolphius looked at Konnal, as if certain that the general would indeed take advantage of the lord’s generous offer.

  Konnal smiled and waved good-naturedly. “No! Continue, by all means, honored lord and renowned Defender of Logic.”

  With a bow and a modest shrug, Dolphius did just that, though he turned to address a question to Porthios.

  “Honored Marshal, could you share with us an estimate—your best but most cautious assessment as to how long this campaign in the delta might take?”

  Porthios nodded. “It seems likely that it will require perhaps a month, not very much more, to sweep and clear the island that remains in the grip of nightmare. Naturally the work of the healers and wizards charged with restoring the landscape will continue for many months longer. But for the army, a month.”

  Dolphius turned back to Konnal, and now he spoke in tones of utter astonishment. “Did I hear correctly? Our colleague, the esteemed general, proposes that the army be cut in half so that some warriors who have bravely fought for thirty years can now turn to peacetime pursuits, instead of partaking in a last campaign, a venture that will extend their duties by so long as another whole month?”

  The senator shook his head, doing a fine impression of a man who just couldn’t believe what he was forced to say. “And as to the matter of the treasury … naturally we are all concerned with the future of our realm. And, of course, a sizable fund of currency is a part—a small part—of our planning for the future. We wish to leave our children with the means to fund those necessities that, we all agree, must be taken care of by the nation’s financial reserves.”

  Warming up now, Dolphius raised his voice. “But I ask you, elves of Silvanesti! Have we reached the point where a few steel coins in the treasury mean more to us than the purity of the forests, the sanctity of the waters and the woodland creatures of our homeland? Have we reached the point where a matter of financial bookkeeping shall be rendered more important than the task to which so many of us have devoted our energies, our courage, our blood and tears, and, yes, our very lives over the last three decades?”

  With a sigh, the senator seemed to shrink. Suddenly he looked weary far beyond his relatively youthful years. “I ask you this, in all seriousness, my fellow elves. And I must warn you: If the answer is yes, then the future of Silvanesti is already lost, and no mountain of silver or steel in the treasure chamber is going to change that fact!”

  “No!” The cry came first from General Cantal-Silaster, a female leader of noble descent who had fought in all of Porthios’s campaigns. Lately she had commanded one of his two divisions of troops. Her objection was quickly echoed by a score, then a hundred, voices.

  “Send the full army! Finish the campaign! Only then will we turn to the future!” The shouts and whistles came from all over the chamber but quickly died down as Porthios raised a hand.

  The marshal looked at the general, who stood calmly by his stool on the martial side of the chamber. “I ask you, General Konnal, do you wish to put your motion to a vote?”

  “The will of the people is made clear,” Konnal said graciously. “I withdraw the motion. But I would ask just one question, if I may.”

  Porthios watched him warily but gestured that he should continue.

  “Have you made a decision that you can share with us, honored marshal, as to when you plan to launch this next campaign? It would only be fitting for the people to turn out and send you off in style.”

  Though he wondered what the general was getting at, Porthios couldn’t see any harm in sharing the decision he had made just that morning. “This is the Day of First Gateway, in the month of Summer End. My expedition shall embark onto the river in twelve days, at dawn on the Day of Second Dream Dance.”

  “Very well,” Konnal replied with a bow. “And you will have the entire army with you. I am certain that we can look forward to nothing but another unqualified success.”

  “Why did he make that motion?” Samar asked Porthios later as the elves dined in the Palace of Quinari.

  Also present was Aleaha Takmarin, the scout who had reported about the state of the delta, and the two generals of the Wildrunners. These were Lady Cantal-Silaster, the elegant patrician, and her counterpart, the one-eyed Karst Bandial, veteran of every Silvanesti campaign fought over the last two hundred years. Crystal windows spilled bright moonlight onto a linen-draped table spread with pyramidical loaves of bread, cheese, jars
of honey, a variety of fresh fruit, and a small haunch of venison.

  The five veterans had been discussing plans for the upcoming assault in the delta, but naturally enough their conversation had come around to the debate that had gone on in the Sinthal-Elish that day.

  “I’m curious,” admitted the marshal. “It’s not like Konnal to speak out for something that he knows has no chance of passing.”

  Porthios felt at ease, knowing that these were his four closest allies among the Silvanesti. Samar, of course, was relentlessly loyal to Queen Alhana, and, by connection, to her husband. Aleaha had been an invaluable ally as she and her Kirath scouts mapped out the realms of nightmare and gave him solid information on the necessities of each campaign. Bandial and Cantal-Silaster had proven themselves capable subcommanders, and Porthios couldn’t imagine embarking on a campaign without their able assistance.

  “At least he went down to defeat graciously,” suggested the scout.

  “And that, too, is not like him.” Porthios’s droll remark drew smiles all around. Still, the thought darkened his own mood. “The only reason that popinjay talks from two different points of view is that his mouth has only two sides,” the marshal declared sourly. “Imagine, suggesting that the Sinthal-Elish is doing us a favor by allowing us to extend our campaign through the summer!”

  “I don’t think he speaks for most of Silvanesti,” Samar noted with an easy smile. “The people know what you’ve done for them.”

  “What we’ve done,” Porthios corrected. “I tried to make it clear that these campaigns have been joint efforts between Qualinesti and Silvanesti companies.”

  “You did.” Lady Cantal-Silaster voiced her approval. “And then Konnal somehow made it sound as though the Silvanesti have been treated with disrespect by your own guards.”

  “Bah! He’s a fool!” snapped Porthios, wishing it were true. In fact, however, he was concerned because he knew that Konnal was not a fool. He had given his inflammatory speech to the elven council for a reason, and so far Porthios had not been able to figure out what that reason was.