The Forest of Peldain

But the next ten minutes were terrifying. As Octrago had intimated, the forest seemed to have alerted itself to their presence. Every half minute or so spears came thwacking into the procession three or four at a time. The two serpent harriers placed in the van to probe the ground both disappeared into the same fallpit, which had resisted their rods like solid earth until it was actually stepped upon. Trip root caught many by the ankles, but this was the least of the dangers since a sword could sever it.

From above, there began to rain on the column brambletangles, as Octrago called them—loose clumps of thorny stems which detached themselves from the treetops. If a thorn or a serrated edge touched skin, death followed in seconds from fast-acting poison. The troops, whose bodies were mostly protected against accidental contact, soon learned to ward off the slow-falling masses with the flat of their swords.

Octrago seemed to grow more nervous and advised the almost constant use of the forward fire wagon, so that they marched through a sort of charred, smoking tunnel seared into the deadly jungle. While this made it possible to progress in relative safety, Vorduthe wondered how long his stock of fuel would last at this rate. At length, however, the spaces between the trees began to enlarge, the green gloom to lighten to a viridescent twilight that was almost pleasant. The column filled into a large glade, where Vorduthe paused gratefully. At least one of Octrago’s promises had been fulfilled, he told himself.

“Will the going now be easier?” he asked him.

Octrago’s reply was a wry quirk of his mouth, and to point to a tall line of bush that barred their path and was almost artificial in its regularity. No end to it was visible, either to left or to right.

“Yonder is a terror-hedge. We must burn our way through it.”

“We cannot burn our way through the whole of the forest. Might there be a way around?”

A short, explosive laugh escaped Octrago’s lips. “Perhaps, if you care to walk a hundred leevers down into the vales. The terror-hedges criss-cross the forest like a maze. The route we are taking encounters only a few of them.”

“Then how thick are these hedges?”

“A few yards, usually. But don’t think to hack our way through. The terror-hedge is not named for nothing. If interfered with it writhes and surges like a mad thing so that no one could ever evade its touch. Its thorns do not kill. Instead their poison instills uncontrollable fear into a man, so that he loses his mind and destroys himself.”

“Very well.” Vorduthe stepped forward and spoke to the fire engine operator, who told him his tank was running low. He summoned a fuel wagon and watched while the viscous liquid was transferred through a waxed fiber pipe.

The column was spreading out as it filled the spacious glade. From now on they would be able to move in a more compact mass, less vulnerable to the forest’s vegetable attacks.

Vorduthe mused on what he had learned from Octrago of the geography of Peldain. Their route kept to high ground, once they had climbed up from the beachhead. According to Octrago a bird’s eye view would show a forest roof that was more or less even, except where it swept down to the sea at the coastal fringe. Beneath it the landscape consisted of hills and valleys, hidden because, for some reason that was not understood, the forest grew everywhere to the same height. In consequence the valleys were like deep dark pits. In them there would be not the smallest chance of survival, even for a force as large and well-equipped as this.

Out of earshot of Octrago, Mendayo Korbar approached Vorduthe. “The Peldainian says two marches will take us to the mountains,” he muttered. “I hope he is telling the truth. I have a sense of foreboding.”

“This place would fill anyone with fears,” Vorduthe agreed. “But his word has been borne out so far.”

He turned as a strangled cry interrupted him. One of the trees that dotted the large glade had undergone some kind of convulsion. It was large-boled, monstrously bulbous near the root, and this bulging trunk had somehow opened up, splitting into stretching segments. Already it was contracting again, but caught in the closing cracks was a serpent harrier who was being crushed like an insect.

The branches of the tree trembled ecstatically. The warrior’s comrades ran to attack the bole with axes and swords. The tree responded in a flash, opening and closing once more with a motion the eye could scarcely follow. And in it was now trapped a second man, whose shriek became a creaking groan as he was squeezed like the first.

Men fell back in dismay as the fissures joined and hands-and legs fell off to drop to the moss. Only lines of fresh blood showed where the cracks had been.

Octrago sauntered over. “Now you have seen what a mangrab tree can do,” he said casually. “With a reach of twelve feet it is difficult to avoid in some quarters. Here in the clearing, however… it is hard to avoid saying that your men are being careless.”