The Puppet King

by Doug Niles

  “Very well,” Porthios agreed. “For now, we’ll move out first thing in the morning, and as soon as we make a new camp, I’ll see if I can enlist the aid of Stallyar’s clan.”

  Later in the evening, with pickets posted on all sides of the camp, the tribe settled down to a night of rest. Sometime before dawn, Porthios awakened with an uneasy sense that something was amiss. He listened for the normal sounds of the nighttime forest and immediately realized that he could hear nothing except the rippling of the nearby stream and the soft breathing of Alhana who, with Silvanoshei wrapped in her arms, lay beside him. The stifling, muggy heat made it feel more like a midsummer day than the middle of the night.

  But there should be soft birdcalls whistling through the woods, heralding the imminent arrival of dawn. Tiny mammals should be scurrying through the brush, looking for a last morsel of food before daylight once again sent them cowering into dens and burrows. Bats, too, were common in these forests, and their shrill, almost inaudible cries had been an accompaniment on every night spent out in the open.

  Now there was none of that.

  Instantly tense, though not yet alarmed, Porthios rose to his feet and silently made his way among the slumbering elves. He was holding his sword, only because the weapon gave him a sense of security, and he probed into the undergrowth beyond the clearing.

  “Guards? Are you there?” he whispered, quietly approaching a sentry post. Odd … he had personally appointed all the pickets, but now he had no memory of the elf he had sent to watch this quadrant. The lapse in recollection was deeply disturbing, uncharacteristic of him and very unsettling in this strange, still night.

  He stumbled over something. He looked down with a gasp to see a helmet and an empty shirt of leather armor. There was a sword, a longbow—This was the guard’s equipment! But where was the man? He stared into the underbrush, trying to see through the thick swaths of darkness that gathered so closely beneath the trees.

  And then, with a chill of icy horror, he realized that the shadows around him were alive.

  Gilthas couldn’t help but be pleased with the results of his second effort at recruiting. For some reason, now that they had already been conquered by the Knights of Takhisis, the elves seemed more inclined to realize that their kingdom could actually be facing an additional threat. Rumors and tales about the “Storms of Chaos” had spread through all strata of city society. In addition, the hot weather, the unnatural stillness of the air, and the thickening miasma that seemed to plague each breath all contributed to the feeling of impending disaster.

  In any event, young elves, males and females both, came forth in the hundreds to join the ranks of the “Qualinost Legion,” as the Speaker was calling his new command. They joined him on the hillcrest where the Hall of Audience spread under the open sky, and Gilthas found all his skills taxed as he tried to organize them into ranks, companies, and platoons.

  In these efforts, he had the assistance of a burly Dark Knight sergeant named Fennalt, a man assigned by Lord Salladac as the elven commander’s aide. Curling mustaches framed a square face with a stern, rocklike chin, making the veteran soldier a picture of strength and competence. Fennalt took charge of the actual organization and training, a fact that relieved Gilthas as soon as he heard the man’s voice boom across the makeshift parade ground.

  Still, the Speaker was kept busy with matters of procuring supply, continuing to gather recruits, and maintaining accurate records of the legion’s formation and training. In fact, he was glad for the distractions created by this mountain of work, for it kept him from worrying about the thing that would otherwise have been at the forefront of his consciousness.

  Kerianseray had yet to return from the camp of Porthios. Two days after his own arrival, the young elf had seen no sign of her, nor did any of his other servants admit to any knowledge of her whereabouts. Even when the workload was filling his head with facts and figures, he found his mind drifting away, occupied by concern for the beautiful wild elf slave who had risked so much for him.

  Until he awakened in his house, the third day after his return from the forest, and was delighted to see Kerian enter his sleeping chamber to bring him his day’s garments.

  “I–I’m glad to see you!” he blurted. “I was afraid for you. I didn’t know if you were safe.”

  “I stayed with my father and his tribe for a day. Last night I flew on the back of a griffon to the city. The elves are preparing to move again, for they feared that Guilderhand might have revealed their position—and I feared that you might have met difficulties when you got back here.”

  Gilthas quickly described the events following his return. “Thank you for taking me to Porthios … and for coming back to me.”

  “As you can see,” she replied in a level tone, “I have willingly returned to slavery.”

  He flushed and shook his head. “No … you have your freedom. You shall do what you want with your life.” His heart pounded, and he watched her carefully, wondering if she would immediately start for the door.

  “Then I will stay here,” she said simply. “Where I am needed, and where I can do some good.”

  She came to him and he reached out to her. This time their lovemaking was a slow process. Exploring and touching and teasing each other, they merged into a singleness that seemed to represent utter perfection. It was a long time before the Speaker of the Sun got out of bed.

  Finally, refreshed and more invigorated than he had ever been in his life, he went to the Hall of Audience for the day’s exercises. He was pleased to see that the elven recruits were learning to follow simple commands, to march, to wheel in response to an order. Gilthas, too, found himself feeling more and more comfortable with a blade in his hand. As he had previously, he joined in the drills and began to learn the rudiments of handling his weapon, the long sword he had removed from the wall in his house on the night when he had gone to seek Guilderhand.

  Fennalt, for his part, had expressed appreciation bordering upon awe for the ancient long sword and had willingly showed the Speaker the proper techniques for wielding the light, supple blade for defense and attack. Like Gilthas, many of the recruits were armed with swords and often shields, while others bore spears, and of course many were skilled with the longbow that was such a staple of the elven armory. A few trained on horseback, though the vast majority worked as infantry.

  Lord Salladac had gone back to his camp outside the city, where he was organizing the remnant of his army—the troops that were left after so many had been called away to campaigns in Silvanesti or Palanthas—into light companies. The blue dragons were gone from the city, and though the Dark Knights occasionally raised a cheer or clashed in a loud combat drill, they remained outside of Qualinost. At times, Gilthas even began to convince himself that he was the ruler here, the true master of the city.

  Rashas came to the practice grounds late that morning, watching the drills for a while and then gesturing to Gilthas. Leaving his troops under the care of the knight, Fennalt, the Speaker walked over to the senator.

  “There has been a message from your mother,” Rashas said curtly. “The famous Lauralanthalasa of House Solostaran is on her way to Qualinesti.”

  “Good,” Gilthas replied. “We must do everything in our power to make her feel welcome.” Perhaps it was the new confidence he was feeling, or else he was relishing the feel of the sword in his hand. In any event, the young ruler spoke boldly to the senator who had placed him on his throne.

  “This is the city of her ancestry. Undoubtedly her return will be greeted with joy. I want you to remember that I’m bringing her here for her protection.”

  “Of course. She no longer has authority over these elves, but she will be welcomed as a heroine.”

  Gilthas stared into the eyes of the elven senator. “I know you think to trap my mother when she comes here. Know this, Rashas: Should you make any move to harm her, I will fight you and all you represent. You will never more have your pliable youngster sitting on th
e throne.”

  “As you wish,” declared the senator in a tone that lacked any sense of irony, at least so far as the younger elf could hear. “She will be treated as befits a former princess and a true heroine of Krynn.”

  It was shortly after the senator’s departure that the practice was disrupted by shouts of alarm, screams bordering on hysteria. Neatly trimmed ranks broke in confusion, and horses whinnied, bucking and rearing wildly. Casting weapons to the ground, many of the young elves fled, screaming, from a threat that Gilthas couldn’t see. The Speaker raced across the Hall of Audience to see Fennalt cursing, elves running in all directions.

  And then a figure strode into view, swinging rock-hard fists, crushing those few elves too slow to get out of his way. Some swung their swords or stabbed with spears, but these weapons broke or bounced against the creature’s skin. With a horrid laugh, the monster came onward, and Gilthas finally got a good look.

  The attacker was cloaked in the body of a tall elf, but it was distorted by burning coals of fire where his eyes should have been. His mouth stretched wide to reveal sharp fangs, and his voice was a howl that seemed to rise from the darkest depths of the Abyss. No one could stand against him, and as he stalked through the parade grounds, the Qualinost Legion could only dissolve into panic.

  “Only later did we learn that the Storms of Chaos broke everywhere upon Krynn, not just in Qualinesti, but across the entire world.” Samar shook his head, grim with the memory of that horrible summer.

  “Just like that?” Silvanoshei said, his voice hushed. “Creatures such as these came from the sea and the land and attacked?”

  “All was under the threat of destruction,” the dragon declared seriously. “The harbingers of chaos were like nothing we had ever faced before—the dragons of pure fire, whose flesh would burn your own should the creature even fly close—”

  “Or the shadow wights,” Samar agreed. “Their chill touch sucked not only the life of the victim, but all memories, all lingering effects that the slain one had left during the course of what might have been a very long life.”

  “And they were led by daemon warriors,” the dragon added. “These were monsters made from the stuff of nightmares, and they appeared in the guise that would cause the most horror in their enemies.”

  “All were immune to weapons?” Silvanoshei asked, confirming what he already knew.

  “To all weapons except those that had been blessed by the gods,” Samar agreed, “and on this dark day, their attack was just getting started.…”

  Fall of the Thalas-Enthia

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Rally to me! Stand and fight, you blackguards!” shouted Sergeant Fennalt. The knight’s face was purple, his voice hoarse as he shouted at the fleeing elves. He swatted at his recruits with the flat of his broad blade, but the terrified warriors just broke around him and ran in panic away from the Hall of Audience.

  Gilthas, too, shouted, cursed, and railed, but he was caught up in the wave of panic, running elves knocking into him, pushing, shouting, clawing at each other in mindless desperation to escape. Though he tried to push his way through the terrified recruits, the best he could do was hold his ground, watching as the human warrior faced the apparition from … from where?

  The creature had the physical appearance and size of an elf, yet somehow it seemed much larger. Eyes of pure, bright fire glowed in its face, easily dissolving any suggestion of mortality. It stalked across the ground without pause or hesitation, reaching out and attacking on the move, striking at any elf too slow to get out of its way.

  Like a demon from the Abyss, the monster bashed and howled, clearly enjoying the slaughter it was wreaking on these pathetic mortals. Abruptly it turned to the side, striding across the field, ignoring the horses, now riderless, that bolted past. With a lightning lunge, it reached out to grab a fallen elf by the foot, twirling the hapless fellow over its head and then casting him like a rag doll far across the ground.

  The Dark Knight sergeant, apoplectic with rage, roared at his recruits, but even the fury of his loud voice couldn’t control the panic. Indeed, headlong flight seemed like the only proper response, and the companies of Qualinesti recruits raced from the hilltop in all directions. One or two bold elves tried to slash at the creature with their weapons, but the being of chaos merely laughed as the blades snapped against his flesh, or bounced back with no visible effect. A few archers shot, and though their aim was accurate, the arrows merely sizzled into ash as they struck the monster’s impervious skin.

  “Who are you? How dare you come here!” demanded Sergeant Major Fennalt. “Now you’ll taste a knight’s steel!”

  “Fennalt! Fall back—we can’t fight that thing!” Gilthas clearly saw the futility of attack, realized that their weapons were useless against this horrible apparition. He shouted at the knight, urging him to flee.

  But the burly sergeant would have none of it.

  Instead, the knight raised his huge, two-handed sword and stalked forward, ready to face the fire-eyed horror that now stood atop the hill, in the center of the Hall of Audience. The elven figure paused, and then twisted and grew. Gilthas gaped, horror-stricken, as he saw an image of a leering giant, the bearded face distorted by the rot of death—and still marred by those hellish eyes. Then the monster changed again, growing into the visage of a draconic face and hulking, scale-covered body.

  Fennalt paused for a moment, staring upward with his sword raised. Then he drew a deep breath, shouted a battle cry, and charged. He stabbed, but his sword bounced back from the scaly flesh.

  And that monstrous being reached out with hands that had suddenly sprouted cruel claws. It reached for the human, tore his arms from his torso, then gored him with a single sweep of those horrible claws.

  The sergeant of the Dark Knights perished in an instant, and by then the rest of Gilthas’s elves had raced for the streets of their city. Appalled, sickened, and horrified, the Speaker could only turn away and join in the flight.

  Gilthas made his way to the Tower of the Sun. Everywhere he passed through streets filled with panicked elves, some crying out in fear, others angrily demanding explanations of the inexplicable events of which, finally, they were beginning to learn. But those who had seen the onslaught were too frightened to stop, too terrified and stunned to articulate what they had seen. Instead, they merely shrieked sounds of mindless terror, and fear swept through the city like an irresistible tide.

  The sun remained high, baking the hapless metropolis, and in places Gilthas came upon truly bizarre scenes. He saw an elderly elven matron, utterly naked, run screaming from her house, crying that her nightmares had come to life. A few steps later, he saw a burly warrior, a large sword clutched in his hands, frantically dashing around his garden, slashing at the trees and bushes, wood chips and branches flying as he wailed aloud about the end of the world.

  Finally the Speaker reached the base of the lofty tower, where he found a large crowd surging outside the doors to the great council chamber. He forced his way through the throng and saw that the golden doors were actually standing ajar. The chamber within was even more crowded than the street, but through sheer will and the considerable use of his elbows and fists, Gilthas managed to push his way farther and farther into the great, circular room.

  “The world itself is aflame!” shouted one senator, his voice shrill with panic. “The knights have abandoned us. We have to flee!”

  “Silence!” roared Rashas, his own visage pale, his mouth white-lipped and tense. He whirled to confront Gilthas, who was making his way toward the rostrum. “What have you seen? What’s going on out there?” he demanded harshly.

  The Speaker climbed the steps and shook his head in a mute admission of ignorance. “I wish I could tell you,” he declared. “We’re attacked by forces unlike anything ever seen in this realm or, I suspect, any other.”

  “It’s the Storms of Chaos—they break upon us!” shouted the agitated senator who had previously, and hysterically, g
iven voice to his panic.

  “Please try to be calm!” Gilthas pleaded. “Such fears accomplish nothing save to fan the fires of their own making!”

  He still wore the ancient sword that he had first taken off the wall in his house a week before. Now the young elf drew and raised the weapon, brandishing silver steel over his head.

  “Listen to me!” he cried. “We can’t let ourselves panic. We must try to understand what’s happening!”

  The crowd grew silent as Gilthas tried to make sense of the chaotic attack that had ripped through his legion, killed his sergeant, and sent the elven troops fleeing in panic through the streets of their city. And though he had, for the most part, kept his wits about him, he couldn’t decide what had happened, nor could he make any guess as to the nature or homeland of the horrible attacker.

  “What happened in the Hall of Audience?” Rashas asked. “We’ve heard reports of a fire-eyed warrior, a giant of unparalleled cruelty!”

  The Speaker sighed and nodded grimly. “I saw the thing with my own eyes. It seemed to come from the city streets, walked right up the hill—though how it could have passed among us for long, I don’t know. But when the bravest man of my legion turned to fight the thing, it tore him apart as though he was a child’s toy.”

  “And the knights and their dragons?” demanded another elf. “Where are our conquerors now?”

  “Lord Salladac is still outside the city,” Gilthas snapped. “He told me his dragons had been summoned to Lord Ariakan, in preparation to face the threat that has now so savagely come upon us.”

  “We need him here!” shouted an ashen-faced senator.

  “I agree,” Gilthas said, the urgency of the situation overcoming his shame at seeking the human general’s help. “I need volunteers, swift runners to race to his camp and let him know what’s happening here!”

  Six elves quickly offered to make the journey, and the crowd parted enough to allow them to leave the tower.