The Forest of Peldain

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.”