The Forest of Peldain

“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.