The Forest of Peldain

“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Octrago stirred, looked withdrawn.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.