The Forest of Peldain

“What!” Octrago’s face showed that he was genuinely incredulous. “The forest is our protection against the rest of the world! Our ancient hedge—against such as he!” He gestured violently at Vorduthe, glaring. “Your duty is to keep it within bounds, not to strip us of it!”

“It cannot be kept within bounds any longer. We are the lake’s prisoners, under sentence of death!” Mistirea puffed out his chest and his voice strengthened. “Listen to me! All I have done, I have done for the sake of Peldain—”

“Your brain has been addled by this lying foreigner,” Octrago growled, interrupting. “All this is for the sake of Arelia!”

He made a signal to a man behind him. A lance was hurled, catching Mistirea in the chest. He staggered, clutched at himself, then fell to the ground.

With a great shout on both sides, the two forces rushed at one another. The shock of their meeting sounded out a clash of metal and the thudding of lance and sword on timber shields, followed by the grunts, growls and groans of men in mortal combat.

To the Arelians, this was the revenge they had been itching for. They fought like demons, like maddened tentacle-fish, wanting only to hack, stab and kill. The acolytes on both sides had less enthusiasm; they did not like to cross swords with their former intimates and more than one fled the field.

The palace guards, shaken at first by the extent of Arelian ferocity, proved a stiffer foe. Skilled by long practice in the use of shield, sword and lance, they added Arelian as well as Peldainian blood to the stained moss, and the encounter turned into a confused melee.

Octrago, however, neatly dodged the fray. He came on straight for Vorduthe, and the unarmed acolyte standing by the commander’s side turned and ran, terrified at the sight of the advancing prince, who shouted a challenge.

“Now we shall have a reckoning, Lord Vorduthe!”

Having longed to meet Octrago on final terms, Vorduthe was almost glad to see the prince so oblivious of his country’s best interests. His sword dropped into his hand and he stood firm to meet the attack.

Neither man carried a shield, but Octrago was quick to take advantage of the fact that he was wearing armor and Vorduthe was not. In the growing daylight his blade shimmered and flickered faster than the eye could follow in feint after feint and, though wise to most tricks of Arelian swordsmanship, Vorduthe found himself forced back by the wild and reckless onslaught.

The rush ended in a straight thrust to the heart which Vorduthe barely deflected in time and Octrago’s point gouged his shoulder. With renewed rage he went on the attack. They came to close quarters. For some moments the two men swayed together, then they sprang apart, weighing one another up warily.

“The lake! Look at the lake! The lake!”

All fighting stopped as, in silence, those on both sides obeyed the hysterical shout that had come from among them. The rim of the sun was visible on the western horizon now. By its light the surface of the lake shimmered, rippled, swirled.

Taking care to keep Octrago visible out of the corner of his eye, Vorduthe half-turned to look behind him. A flood of green liquid was pouring down the sloping terrain from the tunnel that had been dug in it. The diggers, having been carried by the onrush, were picking themselves up, staggering and sloshing to safety.

The same voice as before let out a despairing wail.

“They are draining the lake!”

“You have murdered the soul of Peldain!”

This last came from Octrago. Face contorted, he came at Vorduthe with such berserk fury that the Arelian commander was forced into the lake. Octrago followed him and seemed to have abandoned all thought for his own life. Soon the two were up to their waists and slashed wildly at one another, floundering.

Vorduthe felt an undertow tug at his legs. Then, as he shifted his footing, the bottom fell away beneath him and he toppled.

A strong current caught him. He went under, dragged down and toward the far side of the lake where the tunnel had broken through. His sword snagged on the bottom and was torn from his grasp, then something seized his leg and began clawing its way toward his throat.

It was Octrago; the Peldainian prince had lost his sword too but now was intent on killing him with his bare hands. In utter darkness, swept along by the increasingly swift current, they struggled.

At last Vorduthe felt the other grow weaker. He pushed him away and sought to strike for the surface, but the current was now far too strong. Down he went, and there, in the surging dark, he became aware of an emotion.

It seemed to be all around him in the moving liquid: stark fear, disbelief, a terrible desire not to succumb to death.