The Forest of Peldain

“We proceed into the heartland of Peldain, to claim our own.”

Lord Korbar turned to Vorduthe. “My lord, have you considered what our own position may be? I remind you of our purpose in coming here—to gain this land for the crown of King Krassos. Is this still to be done? We shall be pitifully small in number. Why should King Askon here honor his vow? The men of Peldain are not totally without fighting skills, that is evident. Perhaps we shall become King Askon’s prisoners—or slain at the earliest opportunity.”

Octrago, unperturbed by Korbar’s impudence, answered for Vorduthe. “A possibility, from your point of view. But I ask you to remember that you will have Mistirea, High Priest of the Lake, in your possession. You do not as yet realize what an asset that is.”

Vorduthe grunted. “Having let King Askon lead us this far, it would be foolish not to trust him now. He is a sworn vassal of King Krassos and knows, I am sure, how we would view treachery. Now let us rest—until nightfall.…”

With sore and weary limbs, they edged away from the cover of the rock, to give the news to the curiously watching, waiting men.

Chapter Nine

The pale light from Thelessa’s sky of massed stars threw the craggy stronghold in sharp relief. The men from the Hundred Islands crept down the slope, the hunger that gnawed at their bellies sharpening the tension they felt, while they hoped that with the mountain at their backs they would be no more noticeable than shadows.

Vorduthe had spoken to each man personally, asking him his name. As he answered each man had smiled with pride—pride at having come so far, at being able to grapple with the enemy at last. The fortress jutted out ahead; now Vorduthe could see where the slope fell steeply away to become a virtual precipice.

The starlight picked out silvery traceries in the roughly cut stone. Deftly Vorduthe stepped onto a walkway that was, in fact, no more than a path cut between the mountainside and a blockhouse. Octrago accompanied him; about half the force followed close behind. Korbar, leading the remainder, had descended on the far side.

Sandals falling noiselessly on stone, they sidled to a lumpish corner and edged around. The ground fell away here and the walkway projected out into the air, protected by a parapet. Peering over, Vorduthe saw an abyss, with starlight falling on an indistinct landscape.

Octrago nudged him, and they passed on. In the wall to the left was a broad timber door. Octrago lifted a latch and gently pushed it open.

Within was darkness. A faint murmur of voices came from somewhere below. Octrago moved past Vorduthe; he could be heard moving about, then there was the click of another latch as he found a second door, and a chink of faint light appeared. Vorduthe’s eyes made out the shape of the room they were in: it was a storeroom, containing stacks of barrels.

Octrago closed the inner door again and returned, ushering Vorduthe outside.

“First we deal with the sentinels,” he whispered.

The walkway widened as they approached the square fortress’s forward corner. Letting his head slide slowly around it, Vorduthe met an unexpected scene.

In the front of the stronghold, the walkway became a spacious terrace, on which defensive engines made of timber and metal were mounted. The frontage of the blockhouse was peculiar: it was shaped like a funnel, in which was caught a mass of boulders. The arrangement suggested that they could either be avalanched directly down the precipice or hurled some distance by the engines. Similar catapults had sometimes been used in the Hundred Islands.

In addition, a series of pipes ran across the courtyard and projected through the parapet. Their beginnings were in squat vat-like vessels fitted with lids. Octrago had spoken of the fortress being able to deploy poisonous vapors. The pipes, Vorduthe thought, were probably the means.

He counted those men on watch he could see. There were no more than half a dozen of them, spaced out along the parapet, and their eyes were fixed on the night terrain below. Constantly to survey the pass at the foot of the mountain was, of course, the most essential duty in the life of the stronghold.

The Peldainians wore thick clothing to protect them against the cold. They carried swords in what was known in the Hundred Islands as the barbaric fashion—slung from belts around the waist, the sword-points trailing, as had once been the habit in some of the more primitive islands. Vorduthe smiled. An Arelian warrior could not help but feel superior to any swordsman who wore his weapon that way.

He looked to the far end of the terrace, and was rewarded by a slight movement. Korbar was there. He signaled to him, then beckoned to those behind him.