The Forest of Peldain

Chapter Six

Next morning Vorduthe assembled a force that, if still haggard, was less bleary-eyed than before. Yet when he came to deliver his exhortation, and demanded the same courage in the day’s march that had been shown already, few eyes met his.

There would be mutiny, he suspected, but for the knowledge that there could be no turning back.

He took Octrago and Korbar to one side as the wagons were being lined up, and spoke bluntly. “You have not been honest with us,” he said to Octrago. “That is evident to me as well as to Lord Korbar. You claimed the forest was little more than twenty leevers deep at this point, yet by my estimate we have traveled thirty leevers already. Tell me now, without prevarication, how much farther we have to go.”

“We may have marched thirty leevers, but not in a straight line,” Octrago responded smoothly. “To avoid various dangers I was obliged to divert us hither and thither. In this forest you would not be able to keep track of every change in direction, or know where we were headed. As the seabird flies, we have not progressed more than fifteen leevers.”

“Then you still say no more than five leevers separates us from safety?”

“Perhaps.”

“Nothing but deceit and prevarication!” Lord Korbar burst out, exasperated. “How can you listen to this man, my lord? For all he may know, the forest covers the whole of Peldain, as our forefathers have always believed! I for one have no hope in a kingdom of Peldain—or that he is any kind of king, either.”

“That is only your assumption, Korbar.”

“Think, my lord. Could a party only fifty strong, without fire engines, have made the journey we have made? It is preposterous. Yet that is what Octrago’s story requires.”

“I told you only five survived,” Octrago murmured, unperturbed as ever.

“None could have survived. We have been duped, my lord. It grieves me to imagine what may be taking place in the Hundred Islands.”

Vorduthe stared hard at Octrago. “There is something in what you say, Korbar. Yet I do not think our friend is merely an agent of rebels, as you suppose. I will tell you why. If it were the case, he would not merely be leading us to our deaths, he would be sacrificing himself as well. Such self-sacrifice in the service of King Krassos might be believable, but not in the cause of treasonous scum. Askon Octrago, I have noticed, does not particularly want to die. Besides, he does have some knowledge of the forest, even if not as much as he pretends, and how would some rebel in the Islands gain that?”

He continued speaking, but addressed Octrago now. “I do not know what your motive is, but we have no choice except to follow you, King Askon, if such is what you are. But if by today’s end we have not emerged from this forest, I shall have you put to death.”

The condescending half-smile still did not leave Octrago’s lips. “You hold my life in your hands, commander,” he said.

The wagons were poised, the army—if five hundred men could be called an army—was formed up. Vorduthe bellowed the order to march.

They traveled several leevers through a region where trip-root was scattered, hidden in knee-high grass. Often, too, stranglevine made its appearance, hanging in masses which would either have to be burned, cut away or simply gone through. Vorduthe could not afford to waste fuel by now and usually it was harmless. But occasionally it would suddenly spring to life, claiming a trooper or two or even those who were attempting to clear it with the long-handled cutters.

Vorduthe became sickened by the regular amputations and stranglings. More and more he was haunted by the image that Lord Korbar had summoned up: namely, that the forest extended over the whole island and they were merely pushing their way deeper and deeper into it.

Either by luck or because Octrago was guiding them well, they were meeting none of the dreadful mass traps encountered previously, and shoot-tubes, danglecups, fallpits and the rest struck only now and then. Yet, by degrees, nerves were breaking, so much so that toward midday Vorduthe found himself having to spring to the defense of Octrago, the cause of all their troubles.

A fallpit had opened just as a harrier was about to step off its lid. As near as Vorduthe could judge through the coarse grass, he had but a toehold on solid ground, while his other foot plunged into the pit.

Only a few paces away, Vorduthe instantly leaped to help the toppling warrior, but he was too late. Caught off-balance, the harrier flailed, howled, tried to rescue himself, but slid down the slippery tap-root. By the time Vorduthe reached the spot he was bubbling in the underground acid bath. All that could be done was to watch helplessly while the lid closed up again.

He became aware of someone standing by him. It was another harrier who had come running. From the stricken look on his face, from the way he stared at the smooth, nearly invisible cover of the fallpit root, Vorduthe realized that this was a friend—a close friend, perhaps—of the man who had just died… or was still dying.

The harrier lifted his eyes. His sword was in his hand as he scanned the area until spotting what he was looking for—Askon Octrago, walking behind a fire engine.

“That’s the dung-worm who’s to blame!” he growled between gritted teeth. Before Vorduthe could stop him he was darting towards the Peldainian, blade at his side with the point held forward.

It was an attack posture the seaborne warriors were trained to use when attacking on land, particularly when mounting an assault up a beach. In such a position the weapon was carried easily and did not impede the rush of the advance. On reaching the enemy the point was thrust forward and twisted in a disemboweling movement, or the blade slashed left or right, or wielded in whatever manner was called for.

Vorduthe shouted a warning, at which Octrago turned and saw all in a flash. He clicked his own blade from its scabbard. He met the forward rush stock still, then in the last moment stepped smartly to his left, a move which would have forced the harrier to strike from the most awkward angle, with his sword-arm at its weakest.

The harrier did not fall into this trap. He circled, seeking an opening.

Octrago brought his own blade into play. Once again Vorduthe noted his unorthodox swordsmanship as he forced the point of the harrier’s weapon down and aside, with a practiced flick. Then he promptly stamped his foot on the flat of the blade, tearing it from the harrier’s grasp.

In the next instant he had pierced the disarmed warrior through the heart.

The procession came to a halt and a roar of protest arose as the harrier stretched out his length in the grass. Swords fell from scabbards, and first one or two and then a score of enraged harriers sprang toward Octrago.

They were incensed beyond their discipline; they had been driven too far. Vorduthe ran to place himself between them and Octrago, calling on Korbar and nearby troop leaders to assist him. He collided with one running harrier, knocking him bodily to the ground with his bulk. The man lay gasping like a fish, as if confused and not knowing what to do next.

Korbar, two troop leaders and three harriers had answered his call. They formed a ragged line which fended off the first of the attackers with a brief clash of metal. To his surprise Vorduthe found Octrago by his side, breathing heavily and seemingly eager to dip his reddened blade yet again. None too gently, he pushed him to the rear.

The assailants were not quite yet ready to cut down their own commander. Having been stopped in their rush they drew back and hesitated, glaring past Vorduthe at the hated Peldainian.

“Get back to your positions,” Vorduthe ordered brusquely. “I shall deal with this business when next we camp. And don’t imagine you’ll escape punishment.”

“Isn’t it enough for the forest to kill us?” a harrier cried out agonizedly. “Now we have to put up with this so-called guide killing us, too!”

“King Askon defended himself against an assassin, no more. If any of you have a like intention, you must first deal with me.”

“He slew an unarmed man!”

“Enough! We continue the march.”

“All we are doing is lining up to be killed!” another shouted. “This forest has no end.”

Octrago pressed himself forward once more, his head raised haughtily. Vorduthe could not help but admire his courage. Any of the archers standing within range could have felled him in a moment.

“The forest does have an end,” he proclaimed in his dry voice. “Neither are we far from it. I give you this promise: we shall leave the thickness of this forest before nightfall, provided we tolerate no more undue delays. Keep your minds on the prize to come, and do not falter.”

He turned his face partly to Vorduthe, as if to address both him and the troops. “Surely you do not think I aim to lead you to destruction? I need you on the other side of this forest as a fighting force if I am to achieve my aim. Everything is as I have stated… our losses have been higher than I hoped, I admit, but that cannot be helped.”

With slow, mesmerizing deliberateness, Octrago bent to tear up a handful of grass, using it to wipe the blood from his blade, which he then sheathed. With a further glance at Vorduthe, he turned and retired.

Sullenly, with more grumbling, the column got moving. Vorduthe spoke to Octrago as they walked.

“I could not express my attitude openly. I had to support you. But privately I agree with my men. You had disarmed the harrier—you did not have to kill him as well.”

“So you think I should have spared him, so he might kill me next time it enters his head? That is not my style of doing things.”

“He had been driven beyond endurance.”

“Then he was eliminated by the rigors of the journey. Don’t blame me.”

Vorduthe found it hard to be content with such a reply, but it was all the reply he got.

For a further quarter-day the march continued with losses, which though still frequent, were decreasing in severity. They were entering, Vorduthe hoped, the forest’s inner fringe. He fancied that the trees were more sparsely grouped, and the covering dense umbrella of trees not so high. It was some time since he had seen a cage tiger, even a harmless one. Occasionally Octrago cautioned the use of fire, which was applied judiciously—Vorduthe did not want to find himself without any fuel at all, with possible dangers still ahead.

The calf-high grass gradually disappeared; they trod soft moss. It was while they were negotiating a level stretch of ground bordered with bush on either side, and dotted with awkwardly placed boles which forced the column to break up and wind between them, that Vorduthe became aware of a hindrance taking place somewhere in the rear.

“Heave! Heave! Put some muscle into it!”

The voice was that of a troop leader whose men were trying to rock loose a provisions wagon that had sunk nearly to its axles. Like Vorduthe, Octrago turned to see what was happening. When he located the cause of the disturbance, his jaw dropped.

Suddenly Vorduthe noticed that the moss under his sandals seemed to be loosening, becoming like the flat sea-weed that formed a surface on certain bays and which one could almost walk upon. More wagons were becoming stalled. He saw men treading gingerly.

Octrago screamed.

After what seemed like a timeless age, Vorduthe realized that what he was screaming were words—harsh, urgent, desperate words that tore through his consciousness.

“Slime carpet! Run! Run! No, not that way—through the bushes! For the sake of the gods, get out of here! Forget the wagons—leave them!”

The screamed words hung like tangible things in the air, usurping any authority Vorduthe might have exerted. He had not expected ever to see Octrago panic, yet he seemed close to panic now. Everywhere the moss was breaking up in tatters, like a skin of mold on a stirred jelly. And jelly was how best to describe what was revealed beneath—a light green goo through which men found themselves wading, and in which all the wagons were now sinking gently, as if into a bog.

As the jelly touched the skin of his ankles Vorduthe felt a stinging sensation, and quickly guessed that the stuff was capable of digesting flesh, like so much else in this accursed forest. But now he saw that the slime carpet was not merely a passive devourer. It was becoming active. It was aroused. It developed whirls which sucked men down into it. It extruded tongues which crept up men’s legs, seized and held them, inexorably dragging them into its embrace.

It rippled like a pond in a breeze. Then, at the far end, it reared up in a wave like the waves that traveled over the sea in a strong wind, nearly as tall as a man. This wave swept down the whole area defined by the ragged lines of bushes, surging round the tree trunks and standing wagons. It knocked men down like stalks, and where it had passed they lay stuck in the slime like insects in honey, struggling feebly and vainly to free themselves.

Octrago was running through the gelid muck with a peculiar prancing gait. Vorduthe was about to try the same when a tentacle of surprisingly firm, fast-thickening slime wrapped itself round his left knee.

At that moment Octrago turned back. He saw Vorduthe about to be pulled off-balance. He pranced back to him, seized him by the arm and yanked, pulling him free of the slippery tongue.

Already Vorduthe’s knee was numb; his left leg would not support him properly. Cursing, Octrago half-dragged him toward the bushes. Though he seemed unaware of it, he was gabbling manically.

“What a fool I was! Missed the signs! Damned carelessness—quick! Quick!”

They were not the first to escape the slime carpet and crash into the bushes. All about them were the grunts of men and the breaking of stems. Then they broke suddenly into a tiny clearing, where Octrago looked about him wildly.

“Dart-thorns!” he yelled. “This way, my lord!”

Abruptly the air was thick with the zipping thorns, shot from shrubs and bushes screened by the more innocent varieties they had burst through. Flinging his arm in front of his face—a useless gesture, Vorduthe thought—Octrago pulled him through an opening to clear ground beyond. But it was too late. Vorduthe had been struck by perhaps a dozen penetrating points. Vaguely he became aware that the Peldainian was frantically brushing the thorns from his skin. His senses swimming, he felt a presentiment of death. Then consciousness slipped from him.