The Puppet King

by Doug Niles

  The dragon smashed to the ground, and once again green gases spumed upward. This time the cloud was far behind Stallyar’s tail, and without any urging from Porthios, the griffon sped toward the battle raging on the riverbank. The great dragon was left below and behind them, roaring in frustration and splintering trees to right and left as it fought to free itself from the tangle.

  Two or more miles away, the battlefield was nevertheless easy to mark, since Tarqualan’s Qualinesti still wheeled on their griffons over the site of the elven landing. But as Porthios drew closer and looked down into the clearing on the riverbank, he groaned under an onslaught of disbelief and despair.

  The elven line was a shambles. The draconians had broken through in the center, and though the arrows from the flying archers had slowed the ogre onslaught on the left, they had done nothing to check the hammer blow against the right flank. Now scattered parties of Silvanesti fought to reach the boats, or at least to give a good account of themselves in their last fight. Draconians swarmed over the hulls of two or three riverboats, while a fourth was already smoking. More sooty plumes marked the progress of torches as the attackers raced from boat to boat, obviously intending to put the whole fleet to the torch.

  Even worse, Porthios saw that two more green dragons—not as huge as his pursuer, but formidable monsters nonetheless—had slithered from the woods to join in the slaughter. Disdaining to use their lethal breath weapons against this disorganized and scattering foe, the wyrms pounced on individual elves and tore them to pieces with their jaws and talons. Each of the dragons left a trail of blood and gore in its wake and was given a wide berth by the ogres and draconians that also continued the slaughter.

  The sight of the serpentine killers was too much for Porthios’s already frayed emotions. In the midst of all the horror, of the knowledge that this expedition had already turned into a disaster, he saw a young green dragon bite a fleeing elf in two. His self-control and sense of reason snapped, and he put his heels hard into Stallyar’s flank, pushing the griffon’s head down toward the hateful lizard.

  Nothing loath, the bold flier sensed his master’s intentions and willingly obeyed, even to the point of biting back the shrill cry of challenge that would have automatically accompanied such a swooping attack. Instead, as silent as a wisp of wind, the griffon and the elf plunged toward the back of the rampaging dragon. Porthios had his slender long sword in his hand, the blade of purest elven steel gleaming like cold fire in the late afternoon sun. It was a hallowed weapon, blessed by the gods of goodness and borne by three generations of elven heroes. Stallyar’s talons were extended, as if the creature were eager to reach the dragon, to wring the life out of that hateful, scaly shape.

  They dropped like a missile, wind rushing through Porthios’ hair and pulling tears from his eyes, though he never lost sight of the dragon, which was now coiling for another pounce. At the last minute, the griffon’s feathered wings spread wide, slowing the dive just enough to spare them injury from the crash. The rush of air became audible, and the dragon lifted its head fractionally, undoubtedly sensing the presence overhead.

  But it was too late for any other reaction. Stallyar’s talons seized both sides of the wyrm’s head, the force of the griffon’s weight smashing downward to drive the monster against the ground. The lion’s paws of the griffon’s rear legs tore at the green dragon’s shoulders while the serpent lay stunned and writhing on the ground. Swiftly the eagle’s beak jabbed down and tore a great gash in the top of the wyrm’s broad, flat skull.

  Still, it was the silver sword that did the real damage. As soon as they struck the creature, Porthios drove the blade deep into the snakelike neck. Withdrawing the weapon with a wrenching twist, he slid from the saddle to land on the ground next to the dragon. While the beast squirmed in the grip of the powerful and enraged griffon, Porthios looked for the spot where the hard skull merged into the supple neck. In one powerful, unerring thrust, he jabbed the keen steel deep and severed the monster’s spinal cord.

  Shuddering reflexively, the dragon died, oozing blood from its wounds and puffing a small gout of greenish gas from its wide nostrils. Porthios was already scrambling back into his saddle, barely straddling the griffon’s broad back before Stallyar launched themselves into the air again. He saw the second young serpent lift its head above the chaos of the battlefield, yellow eyes flashing with hatred as it saw the fate of its clan dragon. More menacing by far, the elf also saw the massive green monster that had pursued him so relentlessly. Having broken free of the trees, it was once again winging toward the fight, head twisting back and forth as it looked for the elven marshal.

  Wicked jaws curled into a mockery of a grin as the beast picked out the lone griffon struggling for altitude. But now many of the other Qualinesti, heartened by their leader’s heroics, were spiraling down to fly with Porthios and Stallyar. A glance showed the marshal that their quivers were nearly empty, but that each still had enough arrows left for a few shots.

  “Archers—we need a volley!” he shouted, his voice powerful enough to easily carry through the air above the fight. “On my mark!”

  Nearly a hundred griffons were soaring along with him, and as he pointed his sword into the southern sky the target was obvious to them all. Porthios would have liked to launch the barrage from a little more altitude, but there was nothing to be done about that. They would have to shoot well, these brave Qualinesti who were inevitably shaken by the rising nausea of dragonawe.

  No single arrow was going to kill a monster like that, of course, but the marshal hoped that the concentration of scores of painful hits would be enough to drive the dragon away, if not seriously injure it. The elves nocked their arrows, the griffons shifting in flight instinctively to make sure that no flier blocked another’s shot.

  If the dragon perceived the danger, it gave no sign. Instead, it bored in closer with each beat of its massive wings. Porthios knew he had to shoot at the last possible minute, but he also understood the need to give the order before the beast was close enough to exhale a gout of that lethal gas.

  “Archers, now! Shoot!”

  Ninety-four arrows arced outward on his command, and more than half of them struck the target. Many drove deep into that hateful head, pricking the sensitive nostrils, a couple even stinging the yellow eyes. Others scored gouges into the monster’s neck or tore through the soft membrane of the dragon’s wings.

  The flying elves instantly dispersed in all four directions, insuring that the dragon had no concentration of enemies upon which to spew its killing breath. But it became immediately apparent that the monster had lost all interest in pursuing the attack. Instead, with a howl of elemental anguish, it curled its wings and dived away from the fight, gingerly coming to rest at the fringe of the forest while the flying elves jeered and insulted the proud monster.

  That danger temporarily alleviated, Porthios turned his attention to the battle raging on the ground, and with a heartbreaking ache of dismay, he knew the tragic fight was all but over. Every one of the large riverboats had been seized by attacking draconians, and the few surviving elves of the First Division were being hacked down and cut to pieces before his eyes.

  General Cantal-Silaster organized a last stand, shouting orders frantically, her own blade red with blood. Porthios dived to help, but could only watch in horror as her plumed helm vanished beneath a press of draconians.

  The ambush was a disaster unprecedented during his career as a marshal of Silvanesti, and the loss of life was all the more appalling because those elves, like himself, had fancied this war so close to its end. He had sent these warriors ashore into the very teeth of a powerful enemy, a force that had somehow been perfectly positioned for an ambush.

  But there was no time for grief nor self-recriminations right now, not while the Second Division was still ashore on this nightmarish piece of land. Later Porthios would try to decipher how he could have been so wrong about this place, and how this normally disorganized and chaotic enemy
could have been so well prepared for the arrival of his legion. Now, however, he had to see to the survival of the rest of his men.

  Mounted on their griffons, the Qualinesti archers circled around their leader, exchanging grim looks or staring in horror at the carnage below. With the exceptions of a few riders who had been felled by boulders or spears cast by ogres, these western elves had survived the fight, but they shared the universal knowledge that the battle had been an utter, catastrophic defeat. Still, Porthios wondered if perhaps he and his Qualinesti could exact some measure of vengeance before they departed this bloody field.

  The large green dragon was some distance away, enlisting the aid of many draconians who gingerly plucked arrows from the monster’s head and wings. Every so often one of these unwilling nurses would tug too roughly, and the enraged serpent would cuff the offending creature so hard that it tumbled across the ground. Sometimes these battered draconians got up again, and sometimes they didn’t. It obviously made no difference to the wounded wyrm.

  The third dragon, the youngster who had continued to fight on the ground, was now busy worrying elven corpses, pulling apart pouches and packs in its relentless pursuit of shiny coins. Already a small mound of the precious metal glittered in the mud beneath the protective, whiplike lash of the dragon’s tail.

  “Kill it,” Porthios declared, pointing his sword at the avaricious wyrm.

  Instantly a volley of arrows showered downward, razor-sharp heads plunging deep, drawing shrill screams of pain from the dragon. The creature, whose scaly hide was nowhere near as tough as its elder’s, writhed around in pain, its tail and neck lashing as it reflexively fought against the sudden attack.

  A dozen griffons swooped low, while other elves shot arrows at any ogres and draconians who ventured too close. Fortunately, these other creatures had already been inclined to stay back because of the dragon’s possessiveness about its plunder, and they showed no eagerness to help it now as elven swords sliced in and quickly finished the work that the volley of arrows had begun. Unscathed, the twelve elves remounted, and the fliers spread across the sky, leaving the bloody remains behind and winging toward the encampment of the Second Division.

  “You were driven off by a volley of arrows, then?” asked the young elf, all but sneering in contempt.

  “You have the story in my words,” the dragon replied, with a shrug of his great wings.

  “Are you not ashamed of your cowardice?”

  The serpent growled and shifted his posture, an elaborate gesture that rippled along the full extent of his scaly shape. He remained pressed against the wall by the dragonlance but managed to turn a disdainful glare on the two elves. “I do not like pain. But at the same time, I lived through that fight—and you should know that the battle was not over, not by any means.”

  The Second Division

  Chapter Five

  The marshal assigned a score of griffon-mounted elves to observe the monsters that were busily plundering the wreckage of the First Division’s landing.

  “Keep an eye on that dragon,” he warned them. “Get out of here in a hurry if it shows any signs of coming after you.”

  “Aye, Lord Marshal,” pledged a Qualinesti captain, an archer who had put one of the arrows into the serpent’s eye. “But may I beg permission to give it another stinging before we go?”

  “Granted,” Porthios agreed. Then he led the rest of the fliers across the island, toward the surviving elves of his once mighty army. He thought fleetingly of Samar, missing the warrior-mage’s steady courage, not to mention his skill with the lance. Perhaps the ever alert Samar would have even discerned the ambush before it was too late. He could only hope that same alertness and competence were being employed to protect and serve his wife.

  As the formation of griffons came into sight of the second landing zone, Porthios saw that the construction of the fortifications was progressing well. Already the elves had cleared a large swath of ground at the riverbank, and the spiked palisade that would surround the camp was more than half completed. Frameworks of towers had been made, marking the sites of the four battle platforms that would soon rise thirty feet into the air. Everywhere General Bandial’s Silvanesti were working hard, certainly worried about their comrades, but not allowing themselves to be distracted from their task.

  In obedience to his orders, the other half of the griffon-mounted Qualinesti had remained with the Second Division, flying circular patrols overhead and scouting the environs of the camp. Now these fliers pulled into formation besides their brethren from the west, shouting for news.

  Porthios let Tarqualan’s elves mingle with their fellow Qualinesti. While all the fliers continued to circle over the camp, the marshal guided Stallyar to a landing in the midst of the Second Division’s camp. He was vaguely pleased to note that, despite the added distraction of his arrival, the elves remained busily working at their assigned tasks. Sadly he suspected that the fortifications here would be tested, and very soon.

  General Bandial met him as he landed, and the one-eyed veteran listened grimly as Porthios quietly told him of the First Division’s fate.

  “They were waiting in ambush?” Bandial asked in disbelief.

  “As certainly as if they’d known the time and location of our landing,” the marshal replied. Once again that circumstance rankled at the back of his mind, but he knew he had to attend to more urgent matters. “As soon as you get the fence up, get your men working on a ditch on the outside of the walls. And we’ll want double the usual number of towers. Also, you had two of the dragonlances in your boats, right? Get them out and place them in the hands of a couple of your biggest, steadiest warriors.”

  “And Lady Cantal-Silaster?” asked Bandial, his eye narrowing.

  “She fell leading the defense, overwhelmed by draconians.

  The one-eyed general blinked, silently grieving at the news even as the tough commander’s thoughts turned to the next matter. “What about news of the First? Do you want to try to keep their fate a secret?” asked Bandial, shrewdly eyeing his commander.

  Porthios shook his head. “You know as well as I do that won’t work. No, it’s best to give them an announcement, let the troops know where we stand. You can spread the word that I’ll talk to them as soon as the wall’s done.”

  “All right, Marshal. I think you know that these are good warriors, men and women as steady as you could want in a fight.”

  “I know that, General,” Porthios said with a sigh. “But we both could have said the same thing about the First Division.”

  Five minutes later the marshal got his next dose of bad news. He and Bandial were looking into the case that held—was supposed to hold—two dragonlances. Instead, they saw only bare shafts of wood. The barbed, razor-sharp heads of the enchanted weapons, the lethal metallic killers forged by Theros Ironfeld and the Hammer of Kharas, were missing. Scuffs showed where they had been pried off the hafts.

  “Stolen?” asked the general, gaping in disbelief. “I can’t believe any elf would do such a thing!”

  “They would be worth a lot, but even so, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Porthios said. “They were obviously taken off the shafts, but I doubt—I can’t believe—that the motive was personal profit.”

  Again suspicions whirled in his brain, but like his questions about the ambush, none of these thoughts would do them any good in their current predicament. Still, he resolved that they would be addressed in the future.

  “We’ll have to stop the green dragon with arrows,” Porthios declared. “At least, we already gave him a stinging to remember.”

  Despite his bold words, he was remembering the dragon’s single-minded pursuit of him. That was yet another suspicious thing about this campaign, a question that would eventually demand some answers. But for now, the dragon’s motivation, like everything else, must simply be accepted as a fact of the battle.

  Perhaps an hour of daylight remained as the last stakes of the palisade were driven into the soft groun
d. Now the Second Division was protected by a semicircular wall of stout posts, with the river—and the landed boats—at their backs. Towers rose every fifty paces, each a squat, sturdy platform for a score of archers.

  At about the same time, one of the Qualinesti scouts landed to report that the horde of draconians and ogres had marched into the woods, bearing on a line toward this camp. The green dragon had taken to the air, and the other scouts were giving it a wide berth. The wyrm, for its part, seemed content to remain well beyond the range of the elven archers.

  Knowing it would take several hours, at least, for the file of creatures to make its way through the tangled undergrowth of the island, Porthios had Bandial gather his division around the center of the camp, though he didn’t neglect to have plenty of pickets posted on the wall tops and towers. The white-robed wizards among the elven force cast spells of detection and alarm through the woods for a quarter mile in every direction, so the warriors were fairly confident of notice prior to the enemy’s approach.

  The marshal stood upon a broad stump in the middle of the camp, high enough that he could see across all the elves ranked before him, but close enough that he could project his voice across the entire gathering.

  “Elves of the Second Division,” Porthios began, “you have already heard rumors of the disaster that has befallen our comrades in the First. It grieves me to tell you that those rumors are true. Their camp was overrun before the palisade was built. The boats were taken, and casualties were many.”

  He paused to let that sink in, pleased to note that the faces before him remained stoic. The changes, where he did note them, were not expressions of fear or resentment. Rather, these elves were getting angry, becoming grimly determined to exact revenge.

  “We now know that a force of denizens, including ogres and draconians and one dragon, is on its way to try to repeat that victory over us. But you should know that your comrades did not yield their ground without a bloody fight. Nor did they turn and run, even when disaster was certain. Two green dragons lie dead there, fodder for maggots and worms, and more draconians than you can easily count spilled into acid, burst into fire, or froze into stone as they gave up their lives on the swords of the First Division.