The Forest of Peldain

“The eye of Peldain watches the stars,” Octrago said at Vorduthe’s elbow, after the manner of one quoting a familiar saying.

“And what does the soul of Peldain do?” Vorduthe replied ironically.

“Broods, perhaps.”

The men had been briefed and each was aware of what he had to do. The party swarmed down the slope, spreading out so as to move through the town in twos and threes. No street lamps burned on stone pedestals as would have been the case in Arcaiss—the Peldainians retired early. In fact there were no proper streets, only foot-worn paths between the houses, from whose resined windows came soft light and the sound of voices.

They met no one on their way to the big building that was the palace. Inspecting it at closer quarters, Vorduthe paused to wonder if such an elaborate structure really could have been jigsawed together from individually grown units, as the larger Peldainian dwellings usually were. It seemed barely possible. Perhaps, he thought, it had been grown in situ as the conjoined product of a grove of trees—or perhaps it even resulted from a single gargantuan tree.

Octrago whispered nervously. “Mistirea should wait out here. We cannot risk the life of the High Priest.”

“We are all at risk,” Vorduthe retorted. “He comes with us.”

Theirs was the largest group, numbering eight, the reason being that they had also surreptitiously to guard Mistirea and Octrago. Around the palace, metal glinted in the starlight. The others were moving into position.

So far there had been no challenge and no guards stood at the foliage’s entrance, though the many windows glowed with light. Vorduthe advanced into the open and raised his arm as a signal. Seaborne warriors flitted to the large ground windows.

A double-paneled door on thick leather-like hinges, patterned like a gnarled tree, blocked the entrance. It creaked open easily when Vorduthe pushed it, and he slipped inside, motioning to the others to follow.

The broad hallway in, which they stood could almost have been the interior of a spacious building in Arcaiss, were it not for the alienness of the designs on the walls. Vorduthe was used to carved wood and bright, simple colors. The soft, full light came from numerous cressets. Opposite the door a staircase, organically grown like everything else, led to a balcony or gallery.

The place was empty of Peldainians. Cracking sounds came from nearby. The seaborne warriors were breaking the windows, as quietly as they could, and filtering into the palace. Finding no resistance, they gathered together, looking to Vorduthe for guidance.

Suddenly a serpent harrier uttered a warning exclamation, pointing with his sword. Vorduthe whirled in time to see Octrago and Mistirea disappearing through a small door to the right of the stairway. Three of the men who were to have watched them charged in pursuit, but the door slammed and held as they tried to force it.

“Sorry, my lord,” another said. “They caught us unawares.”

“Too late now—don’t waste time on them.” Vorduthe raised his voice. “Spread through the palace, put down any and all resistance as you find it.” He picked out a group of men. “You come with me. The rest—that way, and that.”

He was about to mount the stairway, when men appeared on the gallery.

They were Peldainians, their bony white faces peering down curiously but without fear at the invaders. They were garbed for combat, carrying swords and timber shields, and wearing breastplates and helmets of honey-colored metal. All this Vorduthe perceived in a moment, for in that instant what he had taken to be a ceiling decoration detached itself from the ceiling and fell on the whole gathering of Arelians.

It was a net. Like the others, Vorduthe tried to cut his way through it with his sword, but this was no ordinary net. It was not made of rope. Its flexions reminded him of triproot or stranglevine, except that it acted not to strangle or to amputate but only to immobilize. And this it did by progressive squeezing. Swords fell from nerveless hands; arms quivered with the effort to break free as the net wrapped itself tighter, embracing each man individually.

The net was a living thing that reacted to movement, even the movement of breathing. Vorduthe realized this belatedly. He held his breath in an attempt to fool the net, but it remembered its victim, and whenever he breathed out a little it contracted around his thorax, preventing him from drawing breath again.

Suffocation overwhelmed him, vision faded. With a faint croak of frustration, Vorduthe lost consciousness.

With hands hauling him to his feet, he knew he had not been out for long. The net had been drawn back and was rolled up against the wall. The bony-faced men in honey armor were everywhere, dragging and herding the disarmed Arelians to one side with cuffs, blows and pricks with swordpoints.

The voice of Troop Leader Kana-Kem cried out hoarsely. “Remember our pledge, Commander! Remember!”