The Forest of Peldain

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.