The Forest of Peldain

From both sides the Arelians poured into the common-room, drawing shrieks of fright and hoarse, confused cries from the diners. But the Peldainians were not long in recovering their wits. They leaped to their feet and fled the table, making for their arms.

Kana-Kem and his warriors had only just reached the far end of the gallery. A serpent harrier leaped, aiming to land on the tabletop. A Peldainian had already snatched up a lance, however. It caught the unfortunate Arelian in midair, its barbed point transfixing him in the chest. For a moment he swayed on the end of the lance, screaming. Then it and he dropped together, and he died.

Undeterred, Kana-Kem and the others came hurtling down from the gallery. Vorduthe vaulted onto the table, loped its length, then jumped down to swathe his way through the press of Peldainians, on whom the entire force of seaborne warriors was now falling.

But the Peldainians fought—by the gods, how they fought! Even when armed with nothing but eating knives they fought, and Vorduthe saw one of his men go down gurgling with such a blade in his throat, thrown from a fair distance.

He reached the far wall to find Kana-Kem by his side. For the first time he was having to deal with Peldainian swordsmanship, and it was disconcerting—but so, he imagined, was his to them. Two and three at a time they came at him, but in a sudden flash of insight he saw how to deal with their characteristic parries, lunges and twists.

One he took through the heart, another fell clutching his midriff. All was bloody confusion. Only a few of the Peldainians had managed to reach their weapons. For others the slaughter was terrible—the Arelians were in blood-lust now, after seeing their comrades slain, and waded savagely, even gleefully, through their new foe.

The unarmed Peldainians still alive panicked, tried to run for the stairways, were blocked by the guards stationed there, and then cowered quailing under the galleries. Suddenly Vorduthe realized it was over. He bellowed an order to stop.

About half the Peldainians had been struck down, for only two Arelians lost. The smell of blood was in the air, mingling with the oily smell of the torch-smoke. The prisoners were herded together and searched swiftly for hidden weapons. There was a movement on the floor. A young Peldainian, chest smeared with blood, raised himself on one elbow. He stared at Askon Octrago, whom he seemed to recognize, and pointed at him with shaking fingers.

“Octrago! You have spilled the blood of the Lake! A curse on you, Octrago!”

At this a thin, bitter smile came to Octrago’s lips. He turned away, as his accuser slumped and was still.

Now Vorduthe found a moment to look closely at the emblem all the Peldainians wore on their surplices. It was a stylized representation of a green tree overhanging what appeared to be a pool. Or lake?

“Yes, they are all acolytes of the cult,” Octrago said, noticing his interest. “All the garrison are.”

Vorduthe frowned at him. “Am I to believe that the High Priest is a prisoner of his own followers?”

“No time for discussion,” Octrago replied. “We are not in possession of the stronghold yet—we may still have half the garrison to deal with, and we had best move quickly.”

He stepped to the huddle of prisoners. “Where is Mistirea, your master?” he demanded of them.

There was no answer. They only glared at him.

Octrago pointed a jabbing finger and picked out an acolyte at random. He gestured to Kana-Kem. “Troop Leader, kill that man.”

Sword in hand, Kana-Kem looked dubiously to Vorduthe for guidance. Vorduthe shook his head grimly and strode forward.

“We are warriors, not murderers,” he said.

Octrago flushed slightly—the first time Vorduthe had ever seen him do so.

Then he shrugged and nodded to a door set in the rear of the common-room between the two stairways. “No doubt that is the way below and deeper into the keep. Well, I have no further information. So lead on, my lord.”

Behind the door, stone steps led down into darkness. Taking torches from the wall brackets, and leaving the prisoners under guard, they descended.

Vorduthe was trying to guess what they would find: an armory, no doubt; dormitories where he hoped most of the remaining garrison was sleeping at this moment; rest rooms, ablutions, a kitchen—perhaps an exercise and arms practice room; though the roof of the fortress was more likely used for that. Somewhere there would be comfortable quarters for the higher ranks—and for Mistirea, if he was not kept in a dungeon. And there would have to be ample storerooms to enable the stronghold to stand alone for lengthy periods.

The place smelled dank. At first the torches revealed only a forest of squat pillars supporting a low ceiling. Then Vorduthe saw rows of barrels, and realized that this was a storage area. He lifted a lid. The barrel contained water.