The Forest of Peldain

Someone appeared at the limit of the flickering torchlight. It was a large Peldainian, clad not in a white surplice but a hastily donned heavy cuirass, laces dangling untied, a helmet in his hand.

“What means this noise?” he called. “What’s amiss?”

Vorduthe motioned to Lord Korbar, who swept forward. “Nothing to concern you anymore,” the noble answered. He thrust quickly with his sword, and the Peldainian toppled.

But others were behind him, having emerged, probably, from their quarters. Vorduthe snapped an order, and joined in the rush on the strangers. There were cries of anger and disbelief, and a clash of metal.

The encounter was brief. Several Peldainians were killed within seconds by the ferocious serpent harriers. Others fled into the darkness and some, all avenues of escape cut off, threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.

“Hold!” called Vorduthe, aware that in their present mood his men might massacre the entire garrison if not restrained. “Troop Leader Kana-Kem, see that these prisoners are added to those above, then return to help in the search. Winkling out every Peldainian in this warren might take some time.”

He did not wait to see this done. The Arelians fanned out in small groups. Detailing one serpent harrier to accompany him, he first examined a nearby cramped dormitory, the place from which the Peldainians they had just confronted must have come. He could almost feel pity for men who had been roused from their sleep to have to face the fiercest warriors on Thelessa.

There was no stealth now, but noise from every direction. The stronghold was being cleared out with enthusiasm. Neither was it so dark: the men had lit wall-cressets as they went. Vorduthe found a stairwell which took him down one more level. Here the wall-cressets were already lit, and the air was fresher, probably ventilated.

The foot of the stair was in the corner of two corridors. Vorduthe looked up one branch, saw no one, then turned his attention to the other—and froze.

Lord Korbar was approaching, presumably having preceded him or else having found another way down. Some paces behind him, Octrago followed. But in the instant that Vorduthe saw them, a Peldainian sprang on Korbar from ambush.

Octrago saw this too, but did not shout a warning; instead, an unmistakable look of calculation came to his eyes, and, it seemed to Vorduthe, he held back while the assailant plunged home a dagger.

Too late Vorduthe yelled and started forward. Octrago too now acted, seemingly spurred on by the realization of Vorduthe’s presence. Running a few quick steps, he brushed aside the dagger which the assassin had yanked from Korbar’s side, and ran his sword-point expertly through his heart.

Uttering scarcely a groan, the ambusher flopped across the body of his victim. Vorduthe knelt, pushed him away, then gently turned Korbar on his back. The Arelian noble’s eyes flickered. He looked dully at Vorduthe.

“I scarcely knew where the thrust came from, my lord,” he whispered.

His eyes became empty. He was dead.

Vorduthe stood. He stared with open hostility at Octrago.

“You could have saved him,” he accused harshly.

“Not so, my lord Vorduthe,” Octrago murmured apologetically. “The attack took me by surprise… I confess my mind was elsewhere.”

Vorduthe hesitated. It was difficult to prove or even to know for certain. Yet Octrago could have seen a decided advantage in getting rid of Korbar, his severest critic and even enemy.

“I am sincerely sorry for the death of your fellow nobleman, and, I am sure, personal friend,” Octrago said in a conciliatory tone. “Many have died in this enterprise. And who knows that we may not be next?”

Vorduthe bit his lip. He would have to let his doubts override his anger, he realized… it was possible that Octrago was telling the truth.

But he would not forget this moment.

Korbar’s killer had emerged from behind a hanging screen which covered a short section of wall, and which Octrago now slid aside. It hid a recess, and in the recess was a narrow door.

“I’ll warrant that man was a guard…” Octrago suggested. He tried the latch of the door. If there were bolts on the inside, they were not fastened, for the door swung open.

Sword before him, Vorduthe entered, his gaze flicking first to his left, then, seeing no ambush from that quarter, he stepped smartly to one side and swung the door partly to.

No one was behind it. The chamber was well furnished. Its only occupant was an elderly man seated at a desk facing the door. He held raised in both hands a dagger, which he pointed at his own heart.

The old man was lean, vigorous-looking for his age, and had lank white hair. He wore a long robe, with the same image of tree and pool as was worn by the others stitched on the chest.

The glint of determination in his eyes turned to perplexity when he saw Vorduthe. He was puzzled by his foreign appearance, Vorduthe thought.