The Forest of Peldain

As the night wore on it grew cold. This was an unaccustomed experience. To the men of the Hundred Islands the world was always a warm, balmy place, even at nighttime. They had no coverings for themselves, and nothing with which to make fire, and they wore only their traditional scant raiment. Chilled by the thin air and the biting breeze, they huddled in the lee of a granite outcrop, and first shivered and then cursed with pain as the cold did its work.

At long last the sky lightened and the stars diminished in number. The sun rose glowing from the horizon, slowly dispelling the last of the stars as it spread its ceiling of dazzling azure.

But as yet it did not cast much heat. The warriors jigged about and clapped their arms to their sides, trying to force some warmth into their frozen bodies.

After a brief breakfast they set forth, Octrago leading the way. This time there was no ancient trail. They walked, then clambered toward the peak, aiming for its north face. Eventually the slope became precipitous; roped together, they crept step by step along it, each depending on the others.

Once, the warrior on the end of the line lost his footing, and as he fell the rope slipped from around his waist where he had tied it insecurely with numbed fingers. They both watched and heard him tumble and plunge, roaring with rage. Then, when he was gone from sight and his cries were no longer heard, they continued without comment.

Another problem was the onset of a wind that threatened to blow them off the mountain. A distant observer would have seen them clinging to the mountainside like flies, scarcely moving at all.

By mind-afternoon they had passed around the bulk of the mountain and were on another saddleback, more broken and at a higher altitude than the one they had set out from. Here they rested, and ate and drank the last of their rations, while Octrago scouted ahead to pick out a route, taking Vorduthe with him.

It was evident he had no knowledge of this part of the range, only some idea of the ultimate destination. They returned having chosen a way up a ramp-like incline choked with boulders. It ended in a natural hollow, and here they elected to camp for their second night in the mountains. They were even higher now and the air was thinner and colder, but at least they were sheltered from the winds and breezes that sucked every atom of warmth from flesh and bone, and despite hunger, thirst and agonizing cold, they were fatigued enough to be able to sleep in snatches. Next morning it took some time to coax life into their stiffened and complaining limbs. Vorduthe insisted that a lengthy spell be spent on physical exercises before, on empty stomachs, they resumed the journey, for now came the most difficult climb of all. From here on it was not possible to traverse the side of the mountain, which presented a precipitous north face, almost a sheer cliff as if it had been sliced off by some giant’s axe. Instead they were obliged to toil up crags and scars, always searching for some route by which they might clumsily find their way. The wind whistled about them and once a shower of finely powdered snow blew down on them—a unique experience, for few had ever seen or touched snow before. Eventually, after what seemed an age of slow effort, they came over the mountain’s shoulder and descended on the other side until Octrago called a halt on a convenient shelf.

He looked around, scanning the nearer peaks as though satisfying himself as to his whereabouts. Requesting that the two commanders follow him, he then walked to a granite outcropping, crouched down behind its cover and motioned to them to do the same. He peered over the rough granite, keeping his head low.

“Don’t show any more of yourselves than you have to,” he murmured. “Well, there it is. Now you have a human enemy to deal with. It should make a pleasant change.”

He was gazing at an out-jutting crag farther down the mountain. So haphazard was its outline that it was some moments before the Arelians recognized it as an artificial structure.

It was a mountain stronghold, a moderately sized castle of rough stone that had been cut, probably, from the granite of the mountain itself. Studying it, Vorduthe realized that from his present vantage point it was vulnerable. The rampart faced north, to ward off attack from below. In the rear it simply merged with the mountainside; one had but to clamber down and step on it.