The Forest of Peldain

The procession came to a halt and a roar of protest arose as the harrier stretched out his length in the grass. Swords fell from scabbards, and first one or two and then a score of enraged harriers sprang toward Octrago.

They were incensed beyond their discipline; they had been driven too far. Vorduthe ran to place himself between them and Octrago, calling on Korbar and nearby troop leaders to assist him. He collided with one running harrier, knocking him bodily to the ground with his bulk. The man lay gasping like a fish, as if confused and not knowing what to do next.

Korbar, two troop leaders and three harriers had answered his call. They formed a ragged line which fended off the first of the attackers with a brief clash of metal. To his surprise Vorduthe found Octrago by his side, breathing heavily and seemingly eager to dip his reddened blade yet again. None too gently, he pushed him to the rear.

The assailants were not quite yet ready to cut down their own commander. Having been stopped in their rush they drew back and hesitated, glaring past Vorduthe at the hated Peldainian.

“Get back to your positions,” Vorduthe ordered brusquely. “I shall deal with this business when next we camp. And don’t imagine you’ll escape punishment.”

“Isn’t it enough for the forest to kill us?” a harrier cried out agonizedly. “Now we have to put up with this so-called guide killing us, too!”

“King Askon defended himself against an assassin, no more. If any of you have a like intention, you must first deal with me.”

“He slew an unarmed man!”

“Enough! We continue the march.”

“All we are doing is lining up to be killed!” another shouted. “This forest has no end.”

Octrago pressed himself forward once more, his head raised haughtily. Vorduthe could not help but admire his courage. Any of the archers standing within range could have felled him in a moment.

“The forest does have an end,” he proclaimed in his dry voice. “Neither are we far from it. I give you this promise: we shall leave the thickness of this forest before nightfall, provided we tolerate no more undue delays. Keep your minds on the prize to come, and do not falter.”

He turned his face partly to Vorduthe, as if to address both him and the troops. “Surely you do not think I aim to lead you to destruction? I need you on the other side of this forest as a fighting force if I am to achieve my aim. Everything is as I have stated … our losses have been higher than I hoped, I admit, but that cannot be helped.”

With slow, mesmerizing deliberateness, Octrago bent to tear up a handful of grass, using it to wipe the blood from his blade, which he then sheathed. With a further glance at Vorduthe, he turned and retired.

Sullenly, with more grumbling, the column got moving. Vorduthe spoke to Octrago as they walked.

“I could not express my attitude openly. I had to support you. But privately I agree with my men. You had disarmed the harrier—you did not have to kill him as well.”

“So you think I should have spared him, so he might kill me next time it enters his head? That is not my style of doing things.”

“He had been driven beyond endurance.”

“Then he was eliminated by the rigors of the journey. Don’t blame me.”

Vorduthe found it hard to be content with such a reply, but it was all the reply he got.

For a further quarter-day the march continued with losses, which though still frequent, were decreasing in severity. They were entering, Vorduthe hoped, the forest’s inner fringe. He fancied that the trees were more sparsely grouped, and the covering dense umbrella of trees not so high. It was some time since he had seen a cage tiger, even a harmless one. Occasionally Octrago cautioned the use of fire, which was applied judiciously—Vorduthe did not want to find himself without any fuel at all, with possible dangers still ahead.

The calf-high grass gradually disappeared; they trod soft moss. It was while they were negotiating a level stretch of ground bordered with bush on either side, and dotted with awkwardly placed boles which forced the column to break up and wind between them, that Vorduthe became aware of a hindrance taking place somewhere in the rear.

“Heave! Heave! Put some muscle into it!”

The voice was that of a troop leader whose men were trying to rock loose a provisions wagon that had sunk nearly to its axles. Like Vorduthe, Octrago turned to see what was happening. When he located the cause of the disturbance, his jaw dropped.

Suddenly Vorduthe noticed that the moss under his sandals seemed to be loosening, becoming like the flat sea-weed that formed a surface on certain bays and which one could almost walk upon. More wagons were becoming stalled. He saw men treading gingerly.

Octrago screamed.

After what seemed like a timeless age, Vorduthe realized that what he was screaming were words—harsh, urgent, desperate words that tore through his consciousness.