The Forest of Peldain

Chapter Nine

The pale light from Thelessa’s sky of massed stars threw the craggy stronghold in sharp relief. The men from the Hundred Islands crept down the slope, the hunger that gnawed at their bellies sharpening the tension they felt, while they hoped that with the mountain at their backs they would be no more noticeable than shadows.

Vorduthe had spoken to each man personally, asking him his name. As he answered each man had smiled with pride—pride at having come so far, at being able to grapple with the enemy at last. The fortress jutted out ahead; now Vorduthe could see where the slope fell steeply away to become a virtual precipice.

The starlight picked out silvery traceries in the roughly cut stone. Deftly Vorduthe stepped onto a walkway that was, in fact, no more than a path cut between the mountainside and a blockhouse. Octrago accompanied him; about half the force followed close behind. Korbar, leading the remainder, had descended on the far side.

Sandals falling noiselessly on stone, they sidled to a lumpish corner and edged around. The ground fell away here and the walkway projected out into the air, protected by a parapet. Peering over, Vorduthe saw an abyss, with starlight falling on an indistinct landscape.

Octrago nudged him, and they passed on. In the wall to the left was a broad timber door. Octrago lifted a latch and gently pushed it open.

Within was darkness. A faint murmur of voices came from somewhere below. Octrago moved past Vorduthe; he could be heard moving about, then there was the click of another latch as he found a second door, and a chink of faint light appeared. Vorduthe’s eyes made out the shape of the room they were in: it was a storeroom, containing stacks of barrels.

Octrago closed the inner door again and returned, ushering Vorduthe outside.

“First we deal with the sentinels,” he whispered.

The walkway widened as they approached the square fortress’s forward corner. Letting his head slide slowly around it, Vorduthe met an unexpected scene.

In the front of the stronghold, the walkway became a spacious terrace, on which defensive engines made of timber and metal were mounted. The frontage of the blockhouse was peculiar: it was shaped like a funnel, in which was caught a mass of boulders. The arrangement suggested that they could either be avalanched directly down the precipice or hurled some distance by the engines. Similar catapults had sometimes been used in the Hundred Islands.

In addition, a series of pipes ran across the courtyard and projected through the parapet. Their beginnings were in squat vat-like vessels fitted with lids. Octrago had spoken of the fortress being able to deploy poisonous vapors. The pipes, Vorduthe thought, were probably the means.

He counted those men on watch he could see. There were no more than half a dozen of them, spaced out along the parapet, and their eyes were fixed on the night terrain below. Constantly to survey the pass at the foot of the mountain was, of course, the most essential duty in the life of the stronghold.

The Peldainians wore thick clothing to protect them against the cold. They carried swords in what was known in the Hundred Islands as the barbaric fashion—slung from belts around the waist, the sword-points trailing, as had once been the habit in some of the more primitive islands. Vorduthe smiled. An Arelian warrior could not help but feel superior to any swordsman who wore his weapon that way.

He looked to the far end of the terrace, and was rewarded by a slight movement. Korbar was there. He signaled to him, then beckoned to those behind him.

Pale ghosts, a dozen seaborne warriors spread across the terrace, picking their targets. The first Peldainians to die did so silently, scarcely knowing it. The next gave a muffled yell. Alerted, the remainder turned, looked startled, gasped, drew their swords—Vorduthe was surprised to see it took them little longer than if they had worn shoulder-scabbards—and made shift to defend themselves.

One did not even get his blade free before he was cut down. The others got barely any better chance to show their worth. In seconds no watchman was left alive.

Vorduthe moved to the parapet. These were the first Peldainians he had seen apart from Octrago, and one after the other he studied the dead faces intently. The racial resemblance was clear for the most part: skin white as limestone, high cheekbones. He pulled back a cowl and saw pale hair which in sunlight might well have been as yellow as Octrago’s own.

Grinning in triumph, a trooper pawed at the jerkin of the man he had just killed. “I could do with some of this warm clothing!” he announced. “Hm. It’s not cloth. Some animal’s skin, I’ll be bound.”

Vorduthe touched the material worn by the man he was examining and rubbed it between his fingers. It had a velvety feel, but somehow it was unlike either cloth or any animal pelt he knew of. It was hard to say what it was.

The Peldainian’s unblooded sword lay nearby. Picking it up, he ran his eye along its edge. The workmanship was fair, but not impressive by Arelian standards.

The hilt, though… it fitted his hand snugly, but had a grained feel, like tree bark. He inspected it, and could have sworn its surface was tree bark, had it not been so perfectly formed….

Laying it down, he cuffed the trooper who was now in the act of pulling the jerkin from his victim. “Later. You can’t loot and fight at the same time.”

Lord Korbar reported seeing a timber door on his side of the stronghold too. “Good,” Vorduthe said. “Most likely it also gives access to the interior. Take your contingent and attack from that quarter, Korbar—if you find no way through then return to aid us. King Askon, perhaps you would be good enough to accompany Lord Korbar.” If they should fail to meet up within the fortress he would worry less about the stolid Korbar with Octrago along to advise him.

Stealthily Vorduthe led his own party through the timber door, then groped his way to the inner door and opened it a chink. Through the crack he saw only what appeared to be a stone-walled passage lit by a guttering bracket torch. But voices and subdued laughter floated up from somewhere.

For a few moments he waited, to allow Korbar and his group to get into position should the room opposite have a different layout. Behind him the warriors were stumbling, cursing and jostling in the darkness; he opened the door a trifle wider to give them light.

At his elbow was one of the four surviving troop leaders, a man named Wirro Kana-Kem. “Be ready, Kana-Kem,” Vorduthe whispered. “We go through now.”

The troop leader hissed instructions to those behind him. Vorduthe pushed the door open and stepped through.

To his left the stone passage proceeded to what he guessed was the rear of the blockhouse, where it turned through a right angle. To the right, one wall ended a few paces along and the corridor became a gallery.

Striding cautiously to the start of this gallery, Vorduthe saw what it overlooked: a large common room. At a broad but curiously gnarled table, laden with platters of food and jugs of drink, some fifty men were seated, eating and talking. They all wore garments of the same design: hip-length white surplices on the chests of which were stitched an emblem he could not make out from this distance, and sleek green knee-britches. Piled against the farther wall of the common room, nearest the front of the fortress, were weapons, helmets, and other fighting garb.

The air was stale and smelled strongly of the smoky torches used for lighting. Vorduthe tried to estimate what the chances might be of cutting off the weapons stack before the Peldainians could get to it—it would save a lot of bloodshed and he could not afford to lose many men. Only one stairway connected the gallery with the floor and that was at the nearer end. Men might run the gallery’s length and lower themselves or even leap to the floor, but it was a fair drop.

Then Korbar appeared on the parallel gallery that overlooked the other side of the hall, and almost at the same instant someone down below glanced up and spotted the intruders. The Peldainian looked incredulous, then gave a shout of alarm.

Vorduthe grabbed Troop Leader Kana-Kem and thrust him forward. “Four men to the far end, down onto the floor and stop them getting those weapons—quick!”

Kana-Kem in turn grabbed behind him, snapping orders. As he and the men he had detailed raced along the gallery Vorduthe flourished to Korbar and rushed with a howl down the stairs.

From both sides the Arelians poured into the common-room, drawing shrieks of fright and hoarse, confused cries from the diners. But the Peldainians were not long in recovering their wits. They leaped to their feet and fled the table, making for their arms.

Kana-Kem and his warriors had only just reached the far end of the gallery. A serpent harrier leaped, aiming to land on the tabletop. A Peldainian had already snatched up a lance, however. It caught the unfortunate Arelian in midair, its barbed point transfixing him in the chest. For a moment he swayed on the end of the lance, screaming. Then it and he dropped together, and he died.

Undeterred, Kana-Kem and the others came hurtling down from the gallery. Vorduthe vaulted onto the table, loped its length, then jumped down to swathe his way through the press of Peldainians, on whom the entire force of seaborne warriors was now falling.

But the Peldainians fought—by the gods, how they fought! Even when armed with nothing but eating knives they fought, and Vorduthe saw one of his men go down gurgling with such a blade in his throat, thrown from a fair distance.

He reached the far wall to find Kana-Kem by his side. For the first time he was having to deal with Peldainian swordsmanship, and it was disconcerting—but so, he imagined, was his to them. Two and three at a time they came at him, but in a sudden flash of insight he saw how to deal with their characteristic parries, lunges and twists.

One he took through the heart, another fell clutching his midriff. All was bloody confusion. Only a few of the Peldainians had managed to reach their weapons. For others the slaughter was terrible—the Arelians were in blood-lust now, after seeing their comrades slain, and waded savagely, even gleefully, through their new foe.

The unarmed Peldainians still alive panicked, tried to run for the stairways, were blocked by the guards stationed there, and then cowered quailing under the galleries. Suddenly Vorduthe realized it was over. He bellowed an order to stop.

About half the Peldainians had been struck down, for only two Arelians lost. The smell of blood was in the air, mingling with the oily smell of the torch-smoke. The prisoners were herded together and searched swiftly for hidden weapons. There was a movement on the floor. A young Peldainian, chest smeared with blood, raised himself on one elbow. He stared at Askon Octrago, whom he seemed to recognize, and pointed at him with shaking fingers.

“Octrago! You have spilled the blood of the Lake! A curse on you, Octrago!”

At this a thin, bitter smile came to Octrago’s lips. He turned away, as his accuser slumped and was still.

Now Vorduthe found a moment to look closely at the emblem all the Peldainians wore on their surplices. It was a stylized representation of a green tree overhanging what appeared to be a pool. Or lake?

“Yes, they are all acolytes of the cult,” Octrago said, noticing his interest. “All the garrison are.”

Vorduthe frowned at him. “Am I to believe that the High Priest is a prisoner of his own followers?”

“No time for discussion,” Octrago replied. “We are not in possession of the stronghold yet—we may still have half the garrison to deal with, and we had best move quickly.”

He stepped to the huddle of prisoners. “Where is Mistirea, your master?” he demanded of them.

There was no answer. They only glared at him.

Octrago pointed a jabbing finger and picked out an acolyte at random. He gestured to Kana-Kem. “Troop Leader, kill that man.”

Sword in hand, Kana-Kem looked dubiously to Vorduthe for guidance. Vorduthe shook his head grimly and strode forward.

“We are warriors, not murderers,” he said.

Octrago flushed slightly—the first time Vorduthe had ever seen him do so.

Then he shrugged and nodded to a door set in the rear of the common-room between the two stairways. “No doubt that is the way below and deeper into the keep. Well, I have no further information. So lead on, my lord.”

Behind the door, stone steps led down into darkness. Taking torches from the wall brackets, and leaving the prisoners under guard, they descended.

Vorduthe was trying to guess what they would find: an armory, no doubt; dormitories where he hoped most of the remaining garrison was sleeping at this moment; rest rooms, ablutions, a kitchen—perhaps an exercise and arms practice room; though the roof of the fortress was more likely used for that. Somewhere there would be comfortable quarters for the higher ranks—and for Mistirea, if he was not kept in a dungeon. And there would have to be ample storerooms to enable the stronghold to stand alone for lengthy periods.

The place smelled dank. At first the torches revealed only a forest of squat pillars supporting a low ceiling. Then Vorduthe saw rows of barrels, and realized that this was a storage area. He lifted a lid. The barrel contained water.

Someone appeared at the limit of the flickering torchlight. It was a large Peldainian, clad not in a white surplice but a hastily donned heavy cuirass, laces dangling untied, a helmet in his hand.

“What means this noise?” he called. “What’s amiss?”

Vorduthe motioned to Lord Korbar, who swept forward. “Nothing to concern you anymore,” the noble answered. He thrust quickly with his sword, and the Peldainian toppled.

But others were behind him, having emerged, probably, from their quarters. Vorduthe snapped an order, and joined in the rush on the strangers. There were cries of anger and disbelief, and a clash of metal.

The encounter was brief. Several Peldainians were killed within seconds by the ferocious serpent harriers. Others fled into the darkness and some, all avenues of escape cut off, threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.

“Hold!” called Vorduthe, aware that in their present mood his men might massacre the entire garrison if not restrained. “Troop Leader Kana-Kem, see that these prisoners are added to those above, then return to help in the search. Winkling out every Peldainian in this warren might take some time.”

He did not wait to see this done. The Arelians fanned out in small groups. Detailing one serpent harrier to accompany him, he first examined a nearby cramped dormitory, the place from which the Peldainians they had just confronted must have come. He could almost feel pity for men who had been roused from their sleep to have to face the fiercest warriors on Thelessa.

There was no stealth now, but noise from every direction. The stronghold was being cleared out with enthusiasm. Neither was it so dark: the men had lit wall-cressets as they went. Vorduthe found a stairwell which took him down one more level. Here the wall-cressets were already lit, and the air was fresher, probably ventilated.

The foot of the stair was in the corner of two corridors. Vorduthe looked up one branch, saw no one, then turned his attention to the other—and froze.

Lord Korbar was approaching, presumably having preceded him or else having found another way down. Some paces behind him, Octrago followed. But in the instant that Vorduthe saw them, a Peldainian sprang on Korbar from ambush.

Octrago saw this too, but did not shout a warning; instead, an unmistakable look of calculation came to his eyes, and, it seemed to Vorduthe, he held back while the assailant plunged home a dagger.

Too late Vorduthe yelled and started forward. Octrago too now acted, seemingly spurred on by the realization of Vorduthe’s presence. Running a few quick steps, he brushed aside the dagger which the assassin had yanked from Korbar’s side, and ran his sword-point expertly through his heart.

Uttering scarcely a groan, the ambusher flopped across the body of his victim. Vorduthe knelt, pushed him away, then gently turned Korbar on his back. The Arelian noble’s eyes flickered. He looked dully at Vorduthe.

“I scarcely knew where the thrust came from, my lord,” he whispered.

His eyes became empty. He was dead.

Vorduthe stood. He stared with open hostility at Octrago.

“You could have saved him,” he accused harshly.

“Not so, my lord Vorduthe,” Octrago murmured apologetically. “The attack took me by surprise… I confess my mind was elsewhere.”

Vorduthe hesitated. It was difficult to prove or even to know for certain. Yet Octrago could have seen a decided advantage in getting rid of Korbar, his severest critic and even enemy.

“I am sincerely sorry for the death of your fellow nobleman, and, I am sure, personal friend,” Octrago said in a conciliatory tone. “Many have died in this enterprise. And who knows that we may not be next?”

Vorduthe bit his lip. He would have to let his doubts override his anger, he realized… it was possible that Octrago was telling the truth.

But he would not forget this moment.

Korbar’s killer had emerged from behind a hanging screen which covered a short section of wall, and which Octrago now slid aside. It hid a recess, and in the recess was a narrow door.

“I’ll warrant that man was a guard…” Octrago suggested. He tried the latch of the door. If there were bolts on the inside, they were not fastened, for the door swung open.

Sword before him, Vorduthe entered, his gaze flicking first to his left, then, seeing no ambush from that quarter, he stepped smartly to one side and swung the door partly to.

No one was behind it. The chamber was well furnished. Its only occupant was an elderly man seated at a desk facing the door. He held raised in both hands a dagger, which he pointed at his own heart.

The old man was lean, vigorous-looking for his age, and had lank white hair. He wore a long robe, with the same image of tree and pool as was worn by the others stitched on the chest.

The glint of determination in his eyes turned to perplexity when he saw Vorduthe. He was puzzled by his foreign appearance, Vorduthe thought.

But his expression changed to one of recognition when Octrago entered, and his grasp on the knife handle firmed. Vorduthe ordered the serpent harrier to stand guard outside, then looked questioningly at the Peldainian by whose guidance he had come so far.

Octrago nodded in confirmation. “It is he. Mistirea, High Priest of the Lake.” He raised his voice, addressing the old man. “Why do you not bid me welcome, Mistirea?”

The priest’s gaze flicked from one man to the other. His hold on the knife did not waver. “I shall destroy myself instantly if forced against my will. Who is this peculiar stranger you bring, and how did you enter the castle?”

“Why, we came by the back way, High Priest. Over the sea, and through the forest. And this is Lord Vorduthe, who helped bring me here. He is from a land beyond the ocean. If you do not believe me, ask him yourself. And now you must come with us.”

It gave Vorduthe an eerie sensation to hear Mistirea speak in the same sharp, mangled accent that Octrago himself used. “What he says is true,” he told the old man. “We have brought you back your rightful monarch, King Askon.”

Mistirea gazed at Octrago with an expression it was impossible to read.

Octrago answered with his familiar wry smile. “Much has happened, and there is much that I shall have to explain to you. I beseech you to put down your knife, old man. You are to return with us to the lake.”

“There is much, perhaps, that should be explained to me,” Vorduthe said in a low tone. “I had thought Mistirea a prisoner in this place. But perhaps he is now your prisoner, instead.”

“The High Priest has duties to perform,” Octrago said, his voice acid. “Duties essential to the well-being of the realm, but which he has neglected for some time. Was that by your own choice, Mistirea? It is a question that torments us.”

It seemed that Mistirea’s eyes also became tormented as Octrago said this. But he put down the knife and rose to his feet.

Moving round the desk, he turned his attention to Vorduthe, who noticed now, as the loose robe flowed over his shoulders, how unusually well-muscled those shoulders were for a man of his age. He looked Vorduthe directly in the eye, the misery Vorduthe had briefly thought to see gone from his gaze. Instead his stare was penetrating and sharp.

In fact, Vorduthe found the pale blue eyes frightening. “You have done well, King Askon,” Mistirea said in a suddenly strong voice. “Doubly well, to bring this stranger to our land.”

Intently he studied Vorduthe’s face, then let his gaze travel over his body. “I have dreamed of such a man,” he murmured. “Now, perhaps, my dream is answered.”

There was silence. Octrago, Vorduthe noticed, was frowning in discomfiture or mystification. He did not seem to know what Mistirea was talking about, any more than Vorduthe himself did.

“In truth I am not my lord Vorduthe’s monarch,” Octrago said smoothly at last. “He has a monarch in his own land, to whom a reward is due greater than anything you may expect, Mistirea. But enough of that for the moment. There is only one issue to be settled. Do you return home with us and resume your duties, or must we force you to it, by whatever means are necessary?”

Mistirea’s broad shoulders sagged a little. Then he raised his head defiantly.

“I have laid down the dagger, have I not? By that I signified that I will accompany you. What happens at the lake… well, we shall see….”

“Yes, we shall see that what must be done is done,” Octrago said tightly. Stepping forward, he picked up the dagger. “One of my lord Vorduthe’s men will stay by you till morning, to see you do not change your mind. A dead High Priest is no use to Peldain.”

“Wait!” Vorduthe said. “You have not settled with me.”

He faced Mistirea and spoke coolly. “We have come a long way, High Priest, at your king’s behest, and I require information. The men in this place are acolytes of your cult and wear the same badge as yourself. Furthermore, King Askon seems prepared to take you as his prisoner rather than a rescued friend. So what were you up until now—this stronghold’s prisoner, or its master?”

“Both,” Mistirea replied somberly.

Octrago uttered a caustic laugh. “To that question I too would like a sensible answer, friend Vorduthe,” he said. “As you have seen, I cannot obtain one. It is a secret Mistirea will not divulge. No matter. We are halfway to our purpose.”

He sighed. “Now with your permission, my lord, let us see if all the crannies in this heap of stone have been cleared.”