The Forest of Peldain

Chapter Five

“It will be dark soon,” said Octrago. “Make camp here. I don’t see any dart-thorns and it’s as good a place as any.”

Since the shock of the attack by the massed shoot tubes, the invading army had fought its way through the forest for another three hours. The men were exhausted, numbed by seeing their comrades being continually picked off, though the assaults lately had come singly rather than in droves.

Vorduthe’s mind held a catalogue of ways to die, one or another of which he seemed to have witnessed every few minutes: danglecup, fallpit, mangrab, trip-root, stranglevine, shoot tubes, cage tiger….

Then there were the dart-thorns. There seemed to be several species of these bush-like plants, which shot out their thorns at random whenever anyone passed within range. Sometimes the thorns merely lodged in the skin and caused death by poisoning, quickly and almost painlessly. Some, however, were able to enter the body of their target, leaving only a puncture hole behind. The victim would complain of a stinging sensation as the thorn burrowed inward. Then, minutes later, he exploded, fragments of his innards and raiment flying in all directions.

For some moments afterward the spot would be enveloped in a cloud of steam. Suddenly generated super-hot steam was the means, Octrago had said, whereby the thorn effected its dreadful result.

Wearily Vorduthe nodded, and called a halt. They stood in a large clearing of the type which they had been coming across occasionally since the terrain began to mount once more. A few trees, not very large, with yellowish bark dotted it. After Octrago pronounced them harmless men with axes proceeded to cut them down. They were stripped and dragged to the perimeter as part of the barricade.

Few words were exchanged while the baggage wagons were unloaded. From them came building materials: strong flexible laths, staves, poles, and coils of wicker. With these a framework began to take shape within which the battered army could rest.

Vorduthe helped to supervise the work. The barricade itself was twice the height of a man, and marked out the perimeter. Above it was stretched a net, supported on poles and reinforced with a webwork of slats.

Though the forest seemed quiet at present, Octrago had warned that it was liable to become more active after sunset, and to produce new means of assault. When relieved of the daytime task of soaking up energy-giving light, its vegetable denizens became restless.

As soon as the preparations were complete, he ordered Lord Korbar to make an assessment of losses of men and equipment. Then he went among his men as they settled down to light fires and prepare food.

He found them somber, sometimes almost sullen, though generally there was a dogged determination to continue. Night was coming quickly under the forest’s rankness. The clearing was now like a huge tent, lit by the glowing campfires. Outside, a soughing and swishing could be heard.

Vorduthe made no attempt to cheer his men with false heartiness. They knew they had taken a drubbing. Instead, he tersely commended their courage. The Hundred Islands would long extoll their exploit, he reminded them. They were already heroes.

For this he received the wry nods one could expect from toughened seaborne warriors. Only one was temeritous enough to give him the muttered and obvious reply, “If any of us get back to tell about it, my lord.”

And it was an ordinary serpent harrier, not even a troop leader, who said to him bluntly: “Do you trust the Peldainian, my lord?”

“Why do you say that?” Vorduthe retorted sharply.

“When we came under the shoot tubes he was down on his belly like a snake, hiding under a wagon.”

“And how many weren’t under the wagons, if they could get there?” grunted another who was skewering a piece of dried fish to place over the fire. “He knew how to save himself, that was all.”

The first man persisted. “I can’t see that this forest is any less ferocious than we have always believed. The Peldainian tells us it’s a relatively safe route. My lord, will we come through? And if we do, can we get back again?”

Despite that the warrior was voicing his own doubts, Vorduthe glared at him. “I’ll hear no more of that talk. The king trusts the Peldainian, and that is enough.”

Slowly he walked back to the commander’s camp. A blaze had been got going. A stew of sea streamer and decapod tentacle slices was cooking. The smell of the food was incongruous, he thought; cheerful and homely in the midst of the most bizarre peril.

He seated himself next to the silent Askon Octrago on one of the cane stools that had been unloaded. Shortly Lord Orthane joined them. And then Lord Korbar returned. He stood over the seated party, glowering down at Octrago.

“A third of our force gone!” he hissed in a low, accusing tone, so that any underlings near should not hear what he said. “Nearly six hundred men!”

Octrago shrugged. “Say, rather, that we have two thirds left,” he said in a tone of weary negligence. “Still more than enough to take Peldain.”

“Except that we are only halfway through—and that by your own account! One more march, you say, but we have only your word for it. The forest may be endless for all I know.”

“Once again you disparage my word,” Octrago said slowly, his tone becoming firmer. “Previously I was a stranger in your country. But this time you stand upon the soil of Peldain, where I am king. Do you hear, my lord? I am king of this land—monarch and law!”

Korbar turned to Vorduthe. “Is this man even a Peldainian? There is trouble brewing on Orwane, and talk of a secret conspiracy involving the Mandekweans. I have been open in my suspicions from the start: that we have been lured away while a revolt is sprung at home. Better that we turn back now and try to make it to the coast, before the fleet sails away.”

Octrago guffawed. “There is bravery indeed! Anyway, your proposal is useless. You are in the middle of the forest. I admit the going has been harder than I had hoped—harder than on the outward journey—but it is still the best route, I assure you. Turn back and you suffer the same losses all over again. Your safest course is to continue.”

Outside the confines of the camp a rustling could be heard. The barrier creaked with the pressure of something upon it. Throughout the cleared area conversation ceased while men listened anxiously.

Shortly the murmur of talk began again. Vorduthe recalled that he too had urged the king to caution. The idea that a dual rebellion by the island of Mandekwe and the brown-skinned people of Orwane was even now taking place was most disquieting.

But he did not think Octrago could have anything to do with it. Finally he had agreed with King Krassos that the stranger from the sea was a genuine Peldainian.

That did not mean he trusted him in everything. To all doubts Octrago had smooth answers. But perhaps he did not really intend to remain King Krassos’s vassal once his kingdom was regained for him. He had promised that a permanent pathway through the forest could be created for regular intercourse between the interior of Peldain and the Hundred Islands. But bearing in mind the strength of the forest even at its presumed weakest point, how was this to be done?

Vorduthe thought of a roadway driven through the terrifying jungle and protected by a high wall. It seemed hardly feasible… an underground tunnel might be a more practicable proposition… but Vorduthe still did not know how so huge a project could be accomplished.

He put the question to Octrago. The putative king of Peldain looked thoughtful.

“I have discussed this matter with King Krassos,” he said. “At present the people of Peldain have no means of effecting such a safe route. It is you yourselves who have the key—fire engines. You know how to make the special combustible oil you squirt from the engines: We shall distill it in huge quantities and lay it down in a carpet on the fringe of the forest. Then we shall enclose the burned patch in a brick tunnel and repeat the procedure from its mouth. In this way we shall slowly force our way through the forest.”

“It could take a long time.”

“Probably about a year. It is not so long. We may even be finished in time to greet the fleet when it returns. King Krassos will be able to sail here and visit his new dominion.”

Once again Octrago had shown a flexibility of mind equal to all probings. Even Lord Korbar could think of no retort.

“And what of our losses?” Vorduthe persisted. “They are grievous. The discipline of my men is sorely taxed. How many more can we lose, and still hope to conquer Peldain?”

“We shall have enough,” Octrago said after a pause. He smiled. “The King of Peldain tells you so. But for the moment, I shall not insist that you address me as is my due.”

With that Octrago rose and strolled through the net-covered camp.

Vorduthe followed him. They walked between small fires and knots of men.

“Do you expect tomorrow to be as bad as today was?” he asked. “Tell me truthfully.”

“It is difficult to say. It may be that the earlier passage of my party roused the forest to new depredations. We triggered new growth, as it were. But as we near the mountains it should thin out a little, on the high ground. I am confident.”

Vorduthe nodded. A range of mountains, called by Octrago the Clear Peaks, separated the forest from the inhabited part of Peldain. That, at least, was Octrago’s story. He had promised to show them a pass through this range, though he had warned there would be something of a climb.

“I am deeply puzzled,” Vorduthe said. “I have seen no animals in the forest, except for insects. Yet the trees are predatory. They are meant to trap animals, are they not? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, that’s right, there are no animals,” Octrago said, almost wistfully. “There were animals in the forest once, but it has killed them all. It still retains its killing power, of course. The forest never forgets anything.”

“How does it live? What does it eat…?”

“It doesn’t really need meat. These trees can subsist like any common tree, on soil, air and sunlight. Nineteen out of twenty are common trees, as I have said.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Vorduthe repeated. “Why should any creature, whether animal or plant, develop an ability it doesn’t need? That isn’t the way of nature.”

“You have hit on a mystery,” Octrago agreed.

Vorduthe pondered, brooded. Above and around them, the forest swayed. “And you say there were animals here once… it is as though the forest has changed in some way, if that is so. Yet as far as anyone remembers, it has always been the same.”

“I speak of a time long before anyone remembers,” Octrago murmured. “Long before.”

They paused as a serpent harrier at a nearby campfire suddenly dropped his mess-bowl, sprang to his feet and began pacing to and fro in agitation, eyed by his puzzled comrades.

“What ails you, harrier?” Vorduthe asked, stopping the man with a gesture of his hand. A look of suppressed agony crossed the warrior’s face. He clutched at his abdomen.

“Just a stomach pain, my lord,” he said in a strained voice. “It will pass.”

Octrago stirred, looked withdrawn. “Were you struck by any dart-thorns, serpent harrier?” he inquired.

“Why, yes, my lord,” the warrior said gruffly. “But that was hours ago, and they did me no harm. They must have fallen off as they struck—see, they left hardly a mark.”

He pointed through the strips of body-armor he still wore. On his tanned bare skin were three or four pinpricks. Octrago nodded.

“Well, you were lucky, then.” He glanced at Vorduthe, then made as if to stroll on. But in reality he merely stepped behind the harrier while noiselessly releasing the clasp of his sword, letting the blade fall quietly from its scabbard into his hand.

Abruptly the harrier screamed and clawed raggedly at the air. From his torso, from his face, from any place where skin was showing, tendrils sprouted and grew with the rapidity of crawling worms.

Then a sword tip flickered from his chest, withdrawing in the same moment. Octrago had dealt a death blow from behind.

The light of life left the harrier’s eyes. Yet, bizarrely, the dead man failed to fall. He rocked to and fro, as if fastened to the ground. His body and limbs remained stiff, hands still clawed, arms crookedly stretched like tree branches. And meantime the tendrils continued to grow, obscuring his face, blurring the outlines of body and limbs.

Octrago rejoined Vorduthe, wiping his sword on the hem of his short skirt. Those at the nearby campfires had risen, and advanced to view the spectacle, dumbfounded.

Quietly Octrago addressed the gathering. “This man fell foul of the worst kind of all the dart-thorns,” he said. “These thorns appear harmless at first. They leave only small marks and one is generally unaware that they have entered the body and burrowed inward. In fact, the thorns are seeds. After a few hours they germinate and feed on the victim’s flesh. You can see for yourselves that they grow with astonishing swiftness.”

“He is not dead!” a warrior rasped. “He still stands!”

“He is dead,” Octrago assured him. “He does not fall because already he is rooted to the soil, and the plant supports him internally as his body is converted into a bush. Yes, he is dead—but only by the mercy of the sword.” He paused, looking from man to man. “Spread the word—any man who has been struck by these thorns and thinks himself safe had best kill himself while he may.”

With one last glance at the still-transforming bush-harrier he turned and spoke to Vorduthe. “Burn this plant, my lord, before it begins to spit darts of its own.”

Lord Vorduthe fought his feeling of loathing as he issued the instructions.

The army spent a restless night. The surrounding forest seemed to become manic as darkness wore on. It thrashed, it writhed, and intermittently there were loud creaking sounds, almost like croaking shrieks, as though the trees were attempting to uproot themselves or to march upon the intruders. The netting shook constantly; hasty repairs were called for as ragged holes appeared in it. The perimeter barrier came under constant pressure; more than one wagon was knocked on its side.

At intervals blood-curdling screams signaled that another harrier had discovered himself host to dart-thorn seeds, screams which were abruptly cut short as the hapless victim was rescued from his agony by his comrades. Then the camp would flare with firelight as combustible oil was poured on the growing bush and ignited. The stench of burning half-men made sleep almost impossible.

Toward the end of the night panic gripped the resting men. Beneath them the ground had begun to heave and tremble. Octrago, roused from his slumber, barely muttered an explanation.

“I expect it’s the forest’s root system,” he yawned. “It’s detected us and is trying to get to us. Don’t worry, it won’t keep this up for long.”

In several places roots broke the surface and waved in the air like tentacles. But Octrago was proved right. In minutes the unnatural disturbance subsided. The roots had exhausted their energy in unaccustomed motion.

Shortly before dawn a rattling noise came from the upper reaches of the trees, followed by a rushing sound and then a prolonged crashing like that of waves during a violent storm at sea. After the initial fright the encamped warriors realized it was nothing more than a rainstorm blown in from the ocean. But only a few drops fell through the netting; the forest absorbed the entire downpour.

The storm finished abruptly, and the air began to lighten with the approach of dawn. Vorduthe made sure the sun was clear of the horizon (though its globe never actually became visible through the foliage) before preparations for the day’s march began. There was a hasty breakfast. Then the protective netting was carefully examined. It was found to be filled with dart-thorns of various sizes, some up to a hand’s span in length. These were all gingerly removed before the netting was rolled up and the perimeter barrier dismantled.

Not a man had slept except in snatches. Inspecting his haggard warriors, lords Korbar and Orthane by his side, Vorduthe found it easy to read the fear in their faces. But determination was still there, too—if only a grim determination to live.

“One more day’s march, my lord?” questioned a serpent harrier, almost pleadingly.

“We march till we are through,” Vorduthe told him bluntly.

Once he had checked the fuel wagons the column set out in good order, adopting the same formation that had been used the previous day once they were through the terror-hedge. Probers and cutters led each group. Behind them, where possible, came a firewagon, while other wagons were placed on the flanks.

The experiences of the day before had led to improvisation. Wagons emptied of supplies—mostly drained fuel wagons—had been broken up and the pieces lashed together to give makeshift cover. As many as could walked beneath these mobile roofs which were held aloft on staves, while others huddled close to the wagons.

The constant presence of the forest was preying on Vorduthe’s mind. It was as though some great beast, fastened to the ground by roots, were watching them as they crept through its fur.

He asked Octrago about this feeling. The Peldainian shook his head. “No, the forest is not a single creature. It is the same as any other forest, except that its plants prey upon animals and men.”

Korbar was walking with them. “The trees seem to act in concert sometimes,” he commented doubtfully. “Such as last night while we camped.”

“That is not hard to understand. If one member of a herd of leaping deer takes flight, the others will take flight. If one in a pack of legged snakes spots prey and courses after it, the others will follow. The trees sense when others around them are aroused.”

They continued with few words, except when Octrago was obliged to act in his role of guide. Sometimes he merely seemed to prefer high ground, as Vorduthe had noticed earlier, except when he steered the groping army clear of some grove or thicket he deemed particularly hazardous. But sometimes he would peer through the forest canopy to try to locate the position of the sun before choosing a direction. For all his seeming negligence, he clearly had a destination in mind.

Slowly but steadily the forest began to build up its savagery. The first few tree-lances hit the improvised shields with shocks and thuds and sent their carriers staggering, grateful for the protection. Then, with increasing frequency, there came trip-root, stranglevine, shoot tube, fallpit, man-grab, cage tiger, dart-thorn… all morning the column ground its way slowly through the jungle, suffering an enemy it could rarely fight, for the attacks came singly and to have used the fire engines constantly would soon have expended the available fuel. Even Vorduthe began to feel the weariness and despair of being constantly surrounded by sudden death. It was as though there never would be an end to this horrid forest.

And he could not avoid noticing that Octrago’s face, too, became increasingly drawn, though whenever he became aware of Vorduthe’s gaze he put on an air of confidence.

Then, without preliminary warning, a dreadful combined assault was let loose. The ground opened up beneath the trudging army as fallpits by the hundred revealed their terrible maws. Thick clusters of tree-lances and shoot tubes descended, knocking aside timber shields from tired arms before withdrawing aloft with a grisly harvest. Almost as swiftly, a swarm of danglecups followed, hauling up its own crop of screaming men who as they rose wriggled like dancing dolls.

At the same time was added the slam and bang of mangrabs, whose boles had been hidden by camouflaging bush.

A cry broke simultaneously from the throats of both Octrago and Vorduthe. “Scatter! Get away from here!”

But there was no one who needed prompting. Men were running, fleeing to either side of the broad, vague trail laid down by the column. Some became victim as they ran, plopping into acid-filled fallpit roots or lofted writhing upward by clutching green caps. Vorduthe discovered that Octrago was no longer by his side. He had bolted into the forest.

In moments Vorduthe, too, was seeking cover in unknown dangers, scything his sword over his head to slice danglecups that dropped on uncoiling threads, while all around him men went crashing through the undergrowth in heedless fear.

From many came shrieks as they met fresh terrors. But eventually the forest became comparatively quiet. Vorduthe found himself in a small glade. He poked the moss with the edge of his sword, turning it to try to find the smooth dark-green surface he had learned from experience meant fallpit.

He heard a rustling. A troop leader entered the glade. Like Vorduthe, he grasped his sword in his hand. Vorduthe could see that he was near the limit of his endurance, and perhaps was unhinged by his experience. His sword point wavered unsteadily as he caught sight of Vorduthe, as if seeking out his throat. For a moment Vorduthe feared he was about to attack him in his frustration.

He clenched the hilt of his own weapon in readiness. Then more men entered the clearing. The pent-up expression on the troop-leader’s face broke; he sagged, and the point of his blade dropped.

Looking around the glade, concluding that here at least they were safe for the moment, the troopers sank to the ground without even acknowledging their commander. Their spirit, it seemed, had finally been knocked out of them.

Scabbarding his sword, Vorduthe strode to the group. “On your feet,” he ordered. “There’s work to do.”

The men glanced up but at first did not move, until the troop leader, in somewhat sullen voice, joined in.

“You heard what the lord commander said. No lounging!”

He turned to Vorduthe, obviously trying to fight off both weariness and fright. “What is to be done, my lord?”

“We have to regroup and recover our equipment,” Vorduthe said. He looked chidingly at the seaborne warriors who were forcing themselves erect. “You won’t survive by giving up. Keep your wits about you, and don’t let your strength flag.”

He ventured to the edge of the glade, peering between the trees which hereabouts were fairly close together. He saw men stumbling about aimlessly, and called to them.

He heard the voice of Lord Korbar, also calling through the jungle. Slowly the survivors began to collect together. At first Vorduthe couldn’t believe how few of them there were, and he sent troop leaders forth to seek out more.

After a time a white-faced Askon Octrago appeared. “That was a bad patch,” he muttered to Vorduthe. “Sorry I didn’t spot it in time.”

By now they had approached to within sight of the place where the small army had been so nearly destroyed. The wagons stood abandoned, some turned on their sides or bristling with tree-lances which could not dislodge themselves. Far above, if one dared lift one’s eyes to a spectacle so horrid, the trees bore human fruit, transfixed by living spears or hanging limply.

“How can we move our equipment out?” Vorduthe asked Octrago.

“With great care,” the other replied with irony. “But it will be less dangerous now. The forest is mindless—it works by reflex. Once a plant has been triggered it usually does not react again for a while. So do not delay further.”

It was far from easy. So bad had morale became that the men were afraid to return to the scene of the carnage. But when they saw Vorduthe and Korbar put their backs to the nearest overturned vehicle, the tougher troop leaders stepped forward to help. Serpent harriers followed cautiously, in twos and threes, until finally the whole army—what was left of it—was at work.

Shortly they were once again making slow but steady progress, pushing forward while the forest continued its mindless and savage war of attrition.

The disaster at the fallpit patch proved to be a watershed for the expedition, a screen that blotted out the world beyond Peldain, and the day took on the quality of a nightmare. While Vorduthe resumed the march wondering how much more punishment his followers could take, the thought began to be replaced by an eerie feeling that none of this was happening; that he had died, perhaps, or was asleep and dreaming. From the glazed faces and nervous actions of those around him, he realized that the same flight from reality was affecting everybody—except, perhaps, Octrago.

He struggled to take a grip on himself; it would be a disgrace for the warriors of King Krassos to succumb to psychological breakdown.

But it was hard to avoid feeling helpless as the hours wore on and his force was steadily, mercilessly depleted by all the horrid means the forest had at its disposal. Then, sometime after midday, Octrago gave brief warning of a second major attack.

They had been hacking through thick bush, when he was alerted by a curious motion ahead.

“Call a halt,” he advised urgently. “Ready the fire engines.”

Vorduthe immediately did so, and studied the object of Octrago’s alarm. In their path lay numerous trees of a type he had not seen before, dwarfs in comparison with the tall trunks that gave the forest its ever-present canopy. Their olive-colored branches were long and whip-like, and thrashed constantly about as if tossed by a strong wind.

Many of the branches bore on their tips fluffy white spheres, resembling large puffballs. Octrago was shouting to Vorduthe to have the fire engines wheeled forward when, as if by command, the whip-branches drew themselves back and flung several dozen spheres at the advancing army.

They flew swiftly at first, until slowed by the resistance of the air, then sailed, then drifted, over the ragged column.

Petrified with dread, most men cowered or dived under wagons. Only one fire engine operator had the presence of mind to swivel his nozzle, swing his match-cord, and send a swath of fire through the setting spheres.

In that moment, the puffballs burst. It was as if a cloud of gnats came into existence and dispersed, all in the space of seconds.

Again the trees threshed, flinging more puffballs.

“Fire engines forward!” Vorduthe bellowed, galvanized into action. “Burn those trees! Burn them!”

But even as the crews moved to obey, the puff-balls showed their deadly purpose. Each seed-like particle expelled by them floated on the air by a parachute of silken threads; now it in turn burst to release a puff of violet spores.

If the colorful little clouds encountered nothing, they sifted harmlessly to the ground. Yet where they settled on human skin, a horrible transformation took place. In less than a minute a patch of discoloration could be seen spreading fast over the helpless victim. This quickly thickened to become a slimy carpet. His flesh had become food for a quick-growing fungus. If touched, fungus and tissue fell away together in rotting gobs, revealing bone that, too, was rapidly disintegrating.

“The mould! The mould!”

The disbelieving moans came from those stricken, who staggered about in horror and despair while their comrades fled from them, refusing to deliver the mercy of their swords lest they should receive contagion from the blades. Vorduthe forced himself to ignore the gruesome sight. Like everyone else, he could do no more than hope to escape infection and to keep his mind on the task in hand. For now, at least, was a peril that could be dealt with after the manner of a military engagement. It was indeed fortunate that the fire engines could frizzle the puffballs in midair, or else the fungus-rot might well have consumed the entire army. As it was, only a dozen or so of the second volley won through the criss-crossing firestreams to airburst their spores, and in seconds the trees themselves were writhing, massed with flame, even while letting loose the last of their delicate artillery.

It was then that the forest sent in its second wave: a hail of lances and a rain of danglecups from the taller trees all around. To these, too, Vorduthe responded with his only effective weapon: fire. He realized he would have to forsake all restraint, all thought of conserving the precious fuel. He created a conflagration. Tree trunks roared with leaping flame. From above, there came a snowstorm of burning leaves.

A fuel wagon was pierced by a tree-lance that had been converted to a spear of flame, and exploded. Yet somehow Vorduthe kept his ravaged force together, leading it between burning stumps that had been a grove of whiplash trees. Behind them the fires flourished but briefly before the forest, in its usual manner, magically damped them down. Behind them, too, lay numerous corpses, including those that had fallen with the fungus-rot. These were almost visibly decomposing. They would add their substance to the soil and furnish fast food for the root system—in its own way, the forest was fiercely logical. Perhaps, Vorduthe thought, they would even be the means of regenerating the whiplash trees he had just burned.

While still on the move he took stock of the supplies. By the gods, there was not much left! Yet, at the same time, he noticed a lifting of spirits among his men. They had won a kind of victory.

And as if to concede that victory the forest became quiet. Vorduthe decided to streamline his resources. He called a brief halt and had the fire engines’ fuel casks refilled. This left but one full fuel wagon and two perhaps a quarter full.

He ordered the contents of one pumped into the other. He also sacrificed three partly laden provisions wagons, abandoning what supplies could not be accommodated elsewhere. The empty wagons were then hurriedly broken up to provide makeshift shields.

Thus unburdened, a more compact party made faster progress, winding between the tall boles. The forest was becoming spacious again, and again Octrago led them upward. One hour, then two hours passed, and blessedly there were no more than occasional single attacks—a lone lance or danglecup, a fallpit which opened up and not always caught its prey. There were no more cage tigers, no more mangrabs. The warriors of the Hundred Islands began to experience a feeling of euphoria, and to hope that the time of dread was now over.

“The forest’s fury seems abated,” Vorduthe said to Octrago. “Are we nearly through?”

But the Peldainian merely grunted in reply. Eventually they were forced to take a downward path again, following a gentle and almost meadow-like slope.

Vorduthe knew that exhaustion played a large part in the mood of relaxation that was being felt. It was now late afternoon, and he was tempted to call a halt and camp for the night, in what seemed a safe spot. But remembering Octrago’s promise, he was eager to be out of the forest before nightfall.

He allowed a short pause for each man to refill his water bag. On resuming, the head of the column encountered what looked like nothing else but an extensive fruit orchard.

The trees, like the whiplash trees, grew in the shade of the great overhang, whose supporting trunks sprang from among them. But unlike the whiplash trees they were enchanting to look on, smothered in pink blossoms. The column sauntered to a halt, more to view the spectacle than anything.

The contrast with everything they had been through so far was startling and refreshing. Was this, then, the end of the nightmare? A smiling serpent harrier walked slowly forward, breathing deeply. “Hey!” he shouted. “It’s pretty!”

Vorduthe could smell a powerful sweet perfume the orchard wafted. Askon Octrago came loping from where he had been loitering at the rear of the column.

“Beware!” he called to Vorduthe in a low tone. “Call that man back!”

Vorduthe felt a prickling in his spine. Already the harrier had reached the nearest tree. He was reaching out to pluck a flower.

And then it happened. The tree shook. It seemed to become a cascade: liquid was pouring down it, squirting out from it. An acrid odor blanketed out the pleasant-smelling scent.

Uttering a high-pitched scream, the serpent harrier staggered back. The tree had doused him from head to toe in its colorless fluid. He flopped to the ground where he writhed in agony, white vapor drifting from his corroding flesh.

“Drench blossom,” Octrago muttered. “So innocent-looking. At close quarters the scent can overpower one’s judgment like a drug. Then it squirts digestive juice.”

Mercifully, the acid did its work quickly. The screams became a gurgle, and stopped. The body ceased its writhing. Bone was already showing.

Vorduthe sighed. “What is your advice?”

“It looks like a large plantation. Send scouts to right and left. If they find no way round use fire again.”

“Send men alone through the forest?” Vorduthe said incredulously. “Will you be one of them?”

Octrago shrugged. “I was thinking of your fuel supply. Very well, burn your way through without delay. It will come to the same, I suppose.”

“First tell me one thing. You spoke of two days’ march, and we are now near the end of the second day. Are we, then, near the landward fringe of the forest?”

Octrago did not hesitate. He looked Vorduthe directly in the eye. “I think not,” he said bleakly. “I think there is some distance to go yet.”

“Then you lied to us.”

“No. I gave my assessment, that is all. As a military commander, you know yourself that everything is subject to changing circumstances.”

“Indeed. I am wondering if in fact you know this route at all.”

Octrago gave a wintry smile. “Are you then coming round to Lord Korbar’s view? That I am an agent of insurgents in the Hundred Islands? In that case perhaps you can explain how I know so much about the Forest of Peldain.”

“Even I know that it contains cage tigers and mangrab trees.”

“And drench blossom? Shoot tubes? Dart-thorns? So far I have managed to guide us clear of any slime carpets, which are the most to be feared. They are next to invisible, but prefer the moister pastures. But how would you tell which are the moister beds, beneath the moss? I tell you, without my help you would all have perished long before yesterday’s nightfall.”

Vorduthe’s reply was openly cynical. “So is this the comparatively easy path you promised us?”

“It is.”

“My army is all but wiped out.”

“It is not wiped out. It still survives as a fighting force, and that is all that is needed. Waste no more time. Use your fire.”

Vorduthe could think of no further retort, or see any other course of action. The now-familiar billowing heat of the fire spouts played on the deceptively pretty orchard. Soon the wagons were rolling over ash, then pausing and extending the path of flame.

Beyond reach of the gushes of liquid fire, the whole orchard was discharging its acid in an orgasmic frenzy. The mind-deluding perfume, the acrid vapors, the smell of oil and smoke, all mingled to concoct a nauseating stench.

After burning a path nearly a leever long, they broke through to more open ground. Vorduthe proceeded another leever, then consulted Octrago again.

“Is there any point in continuing farther today? The light is fading, and the men need rest.”

Even the Peldainian looked tired. “Probably not,” he said. “This spot will do. Make camp here.”

As the barrier went up, and the covering net was fitted, it became pitifully obvious how much Vorduthe’s army had shrunk. Few trees needed felling: the camp area was far smaller than the previous night’s.

Neither would the coming hours be plagued by the intermittent explosions of men into whose bodies dart-thorns had entered. All such men had been slain, frequently in the face of their frantic protests.

Most of the force, after devouring a hastily prepared meal, fell into an exhausted sleep, oblivious even of the pressings of the forest against the barriers. Vorduthe ordered the guard shifts to be changed every hour; any longer, he feared, and the sentinels might not be able to stay awake.

As before, he sent Lord Korbar to tour the camp and make a count of losses. When he returned with his report he was glowering. He cast an accusing finger at Octrago.

“This man has deceived us, misled us—guided us into our own destruction!” he fumed. “Five hundred men, my lord—that is about what we have now!”

Octrago returned to Vorduthe. “This man’s loyalty to King Krassos is touching, my lord,” he said, “but I grow tired of his calumnies. You must tell him to forebear.”

“He has lied to us!” Korbar insisted. “His tale falls to pieces in the light of what we have suffered! If he truly came to sea by this route, then he must have set out with a body of men and equipment at least as large as ours. Why, then, did he have to come at all? He already had the army he claims he needs!”

Korbar was in a fury. Vorduthe could see that only the iron discipline of an Arelian nobleman was preventing him from falling on Octrago’s throat, so convinced was he of his treachery.

“Well, what do you say to that?” Vorduthe asked Octrago.

Octrago rose. Vorduthe was suddenly struck by his regal appearance. It was easy to imagine him wearing the pearled shoulder-plates that were the insignia of the kings of the Hundred Islands.

“Believe what you will,” Octrago said superciliously. “What difference does it make? I undertook to guide you through the most deadly place in the whole world, and that is what I am doing. Kill me if you think it will improve your situation. None of us can tell if he will live through another day in any case.”

He strode from the campfire, spurning the bowl of food that was about to be handed to him. Korbar fell silent. For all his anger, he saw the logic of Octrago’s words as well as anyone.

As for Vorduthe, he suddenly realized that he had, to some extent at least, fallen under the spell of this putative king of Peldain. The ground of reality had been cut from under him. Only this peculiar foreigner sustained him, with promises that mostly, it seemed, were lies.