The Forest of Peldain

by Barrington J. Bayley

  Octrago guffawed. “There is bravery indeed! Anyway, your proposal is useless. You are in the middle of the forest. I admit the going has been harder than I had hoped—harder than on the outward journey—but it is still the best route, I assure you. Turn back and you suffer the same losses all over again. Your safest course is to continue.”

  Outside the confines of the camp a rustling could be heard. The barrier creaked with the pressure of something upon it. Throughout the cleared area conversation ceased while men listened anxiously.

  Shortly the murmur of talk began again. Vorduthe recalled that he too had urged the king to caution. The idea that a dual rebellion by the island of Mandekwe and the brown-skinned people of Orwane was even now taking place was most disquieting.

  But he did not think Octrago could have anything to do with it. Finally he had agreed with King Krassos that the stranger from the sea was a genuine Peldainian.

  That did not mean he trusted him in everything. To all doubts Octrago had smooth answers. But perhaps he did not really intend to remain King Krassos’s vassal once his kingdom was regained for him. He had promised that a permanent pathway through the forest could be created for regular intercourse between the interior of Peldain and the Hundred Islands. But bearing in mind the strength of the forest even at its presumed weakest point, how was this to be done?

  Vorduthe thought of a roadway driven through the terrifying jungle and protected by a high wall. It seemed hardly feasible … an underground tunnel might be a more practicable proposition … but Vorduthe still did not know how so huge a project could be accomplished.

  He put the question to Octrago. The putative king of Peldain looked thoughtful.

  “I have discussed this matter with King Krassos,” he said. “At present the people of Peldain have no means of effecting such a safe route. It is you yourselves who have the key—fire engines. You know how to make the special combustible oil you squirt from the engines: We shall distill it in huge quantities and lay it down in a carpet on the fringe of the forest. Then we shall enclose the burned patch in a brick tunnel and repeat the procedure from its mouth. In this way we shall slowly force our way through the forest.”

  “It could take a long time.”

  “Probably about a year. It is not so long. We may even be finished in time to greet the fleet when it returns. King Krassos will be able to sail here and visit his new dominion.”

  Once again Octrago had shown a flexibility of mind equal to all probings. Even Lord Korbar could think of no retort.

  “And what of our losses?” Vorduthe persisted. “They are grievous. The discipline of my men is sorely taxed. How many more can we lose, and still hope to conquer Peldain?”

  “We shall have enough,” Octrago said after a pause. He smiled. “The King of Peldain tells you so. But for the moment, I shall not insist that you address me as is my due.”

  With that Octrago rose and strolled through the net-covered camp.

  Vorduthe followed him. They walked between small fires and knots of men.

  “Do you expect tomorrow to be as bad as today was?” he asked. “Tell me truthfully.”

  “It is difficult to say. It may be that the earlier passage of my party roused the forest to new depredations. We triggered new growth, as it were. But as we near the mountains it should thin out a little, on the high ground. I am confident.”

  Vorduthe nodded. A range of mountains, called by Octrago the Clear Peaks, separated the forest from the inhabited part of Peldain. That, at least, was Octrago’s story. He had promised to show them a pass through this range, though he had warned there would be something of a climb.

  “I am deeply puzzled,” Vorduthe said. “I have seen no animals in the forest, except for insects. Yet the trees are predatory. They are meant to trap animals, are they not? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, that’s right, there are no animals,” Octrago said, almost wistfully. “There were animals in the forest once, but it has killed them all. It still retains its killing power, of course. The forest never forgets anything.”

  “How does it live? What does it eat…?”

  “It doesn’t really need meat. These trees can subsist like any common tree, on soil, air and sunlight. Nineteen out of twenty are common trees, as I have said.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Vorduthe repeated. “Why should any creature, whether animal or plant, develop an ability it doesn’t need? That isn’t the way of nature.”

  “You have hit on a mystery,” Octrago agreed.

  Vorduthe pondered, brooded. Above and around them, the forest swayed. “And you say there were animals here once… it is as though the forest has changed in some way, if that is so. Yet as far as anyone remembers, it has always been the same.”

  “I speak of a time long before anyone remembers,” Octrago murmured. “Long before.”

  They paused as a serpent harrier at a nearby campfire suddenly dropped his mess-bowl, sprang to his feet and began pacing to and fro in agitation, eyed by his puzzled comrades.

  “What ails you, harrier?” Vorduthe asked, stopping the man with a gesture of his hand. A look of suppressed agony crossed the warrior’s face. He clutched at his abdomen.

  “Just a stomach pain, my lord,” he said in a strained voice. “It will pass.”

  Octrago stirred, looked withdrawn. “Were you struck by any dart-thorns, serpent harrier?” he inquired.

  “Why, yes, my lord,” the warrior said gruffly. “But that was hours ago, and they did me no harm. They must have fallen off as they struck—see, they left hardly a mark.”

  He pointed through the strips of body-armor he still wore. On his tanned bare skin were three or four pinpricks. Octrago nodded.

  “Well, you were lucky, then.” He glanced at Vorduthe, then made as if to stroll on. But in reality he merely stepped behind the harrier while noiselessly releasing the clasp of his sword, letting the blade fall quietly from its scabbard into his hand.

  Abruptly the harrier screamed and clawed raggedly at the air. From his torso, from his face, from any place where skin was showing, tendrils sprouted and grew with the rapidity of crawling worms.

  Then a sword tip flickered from his chest, withdrawing in the same moment. Octrago had dealt a death blow from behind.

  The light of life left the harrier’s eyes. Yet, bizarrely, the dead man failed to fall. He rocked to and fro, as if fastened to the ground. His body and limbs remained stiff, hands still clawed, arms crookedly stretched like tree branches. And meantime the tendrils continued to grow, obscuring his face, blurring the outlines of body and limbs.

  Octrago rejoined Vorduthe, wiping his sword on the hem of his short skirt. Those at the nearby campfires had risen, and advanced to view the spectacle, dumbfounded.

  Quietly Octrago addressed the gathering. “This man fell foul of the worst kind of all the dart-thorns,” he said. “These thorns appear harmless at first. They leave only small marks and one is generally unaware that they have entered the body and burrowed inward. In fact, the thorns are seeds. After a few hours they germinate and feed on the victim’s flesh. You can see for yourselves that they grow with astonishing swiftness.”

  “He is not dead!” a warrior rasped. “He still stands!”

  “He is dead,” Octrago assured him. “He does not fall because already he is rooted to the soil, and the plant supports him internally as his body is converted into a bush. Yes, he is dead—but only by the mercy of the sword.” He paused, looking from man to man. “Spread the word—any man who has been struck by these thorns and thinks himself safe had best kill himself while he may.”

  With one last glance at the still-transforming bush-harrier he turned and spoke to Vorduthe. “Burn this plant, my lord, before it begins to spit darts of its own.”

  Lord Vorduthe fought his feeling of loathing as he issued the instructions.

  The army spent a restless night. The surrounding forest seemed to become manic as darkness wore on. It thrashed, it writ
hed, and intermittently there were loud creaking sounds, almost like croaking shrieks, as though the trees were attempting to uproot themselves or to march upon the intruders. The netting shook constantly; hasty repairs were called for as ragged holes appeared in it. The perimeter barrier came under constant pressure; more than one wagon was knocked on its side.

  At intervals blood-curdling screams signaled that another harrier had discovered himself host to dart-thorn seeds, screams which were abruptly cut short as the hapless victim was rescued from his agony by his comrades. Then the camp would flare with firelight as combustible oil was poured on the growing bush and ignited. The stench of burning half-men made sleep almost impossible.

  Toward the end of the night panic gripped the resting men. Beneath them the ground had begun to heave and tremble. Octrago, roused from his slumber, barely muttered an explanation.

  “I expect it’s the forest’s root system,” he yawned. “It’s detected us and is trying to get to us. Don’t worry, it won’t keep this up for long.”

  In several places roots broke the surface and waved in the air like tentacles. But Octrago was proved right. In minutes the unnatural disturbance subsided. The roots had exhausted their energy in unaccustomed motion.

  Shortly before dawn a rattling noise came from the upper reaches of the trees, followed by a rushing sound and then a prolonged crashing like that of waves during a violent storm at sea. After the initial fright the encamped warriors realized it was nothing more than a rainstorm blown in from the ocean. But only a few drops fell through the netting; the forest absorbed the entire downpour.

  The storm finished abruptly, and the air began to lighten with the approach of dawn. Vorduthe made sure the sun was clear of the horizon (though its globe never actually became visible through the foliage) before preparations for the day’s march began. There was a hasty breakfast. Then the protective netting was carefully examined. It was found to be filled with dart-thorns of various sizes, some up to a hand’s span in length. These were all gingerly removed before the netting was rolled up and the perimeter barrier dismantled.

  Not a man had slept except in snatches. Inspecting his haggard warriors, lords Korbar and Orthane by his side, Vorduthe found it easy to read the fear in their faces. But determination was still there, too—if only a grim determination to live.

  “One more day’s march, my lord?” questioned a serpent harrier, almost pleadingly.

  “We march till we are through,” Vorduthe told him bluntly.

  Once he had checked the fuel wagons the column set out in good order, adopting the same formation that had been used the previous day once they were through the terror-hedge. Probers and cutters led each group. Behind them, where possible, came a firewagon, while other wagons were placed on the flanks.

  The experiences of the day before had led to improvisation. Wagons emptied of supplies—mostly drained fuel wagons—had been broken up and the pieces lashed together to give makeshift cover. As many as could walked beneath these mobile roofs which were held aloft on staves, while others huddled close to the wagons.

  The constant presence of the forest was preying on Vorduthe’s mind. It was as though some great beast, fastened to the ground by roots, were watching them as they crept through its fur.

  He asked Octrago about this feeling. The Peldainian shook his head. “No, the forest is not a single creature. It is the same as any other forest, except that its plants prey upon animals and men.”

  Korbar was walking with them. “The trees seem to act in concert sometimes,” he commented doubtfully. “Such as last night while we camped.”

  “That is not hard to understand. If one member of a herd of leaping deer takes flight, the others will take flight. If one in a pack of legged snakes spots prey and courses after it, the others will follow. The trees sense when others around them are aroused.”

  They continued with few words, except when Octrago was obliged to act in his role of guide. Sometimes he merely seemed to prefer high ground, as Vorduthe had noticed earlier, except when he steered the groping army clear of some grove or thicket he deemed particularly hazardous. But sometimes he would peer through the forest canopy to try to locate the position of the sun before choosing a direction. For all his seeming negligence, he clearly had a destination in mind.

  Slowly but steadily the forest began to build up its savagery. The first few tree-lances hit the improvised shields with shocks and thuds and sent their carriers staggering, grateful for the protection. Then, with increasing frequency, there came trip-root, stranglevine, shoot tube, fallpit, man-grab, cage tiger, dart-thorn… all morning the column ground its way slowly through the jungle, suffering an enemy it could rarely fight, for the attacks came singly and to have used the fire engines constantly would soon have expended the available fuel. Even Vorduthe began to feel the weariness and despair of being constantly surrounded by sudden death. It was as though there never would be an end to this horrid forest.

  And he could not avoid noticing that Octrago’s face, too, became increasingly drawn, though whenever he became aware of Vorduthe’s gaze he put on an air of confidence.

  Then, without preliminary warning, a dreadful combined assault was let loose. The ground opened up beneath the trudging army as fallpits by the hundred revealed their terrible maws. Thick clusters of tree-lances and shoot tubes descended, knocking aside timber shields from tired arms before withdrawing aloft with a grisly harvest. Almost as swiftly, a swarm of danglecups followed, hauling up its own crop of screaming men who as they rose wriggled like dancing dolls.

  At the same time was added the slam and bang of mangrabs, whose boles had been hidden by camouflaging bush.

  A cry broke simultaneously from the throats of both Octrago and Vorduthe. “Scatter! Get away from here!”

  But there was no one who needed prompting. Men were running, fleeing to either side of the broad, vague trail laid down by the column. Some became victim as they ran, plopping into acid-filled fallpit roots or lofted writhing upward by clutching green caps. Vorduthe discovered that Octrago was no longer by his side. He had bolted into the forest.

  In moments Vorduthe, too, was seeking cover in unknown dangers, scything his sword over his head to slice danglecups that dropped on uncoiling threads, while all around him men went crashing through the undergrowth in heedless fear.

  From many came shrieks as they met fresh terrors. But eventually the forest became comparatively quiet. Vorduthe found himself in a small glade. He poked the moss with the edge of his sword, turning it to try to find the smooth dark-green surface he had learned from experience meant fallpit.

  He heard a rustling. A troop leader entered the glade. Like Vorduthe, he grasped his sword in his hand. Vorduthe could see that he was near the limit of his endurance, and perhaps was unhinged by his experience. His sword point wavered unsteadily as he caught sight of Vorduthe, as if seeking out his throat. For a moment Vorduthe feared he was about to attack him in his frustration.

  He clenched the hilt of his own weapon in readiness. Then more men entered the clearing. The pent-up expression on the troop-leader’s face broke; he sagged, and the point of his blade dropped.

  Looking around the glade, concluding that here at least they were safe for the moment, the troopers sank to the ground without even acknowledging their commander. Their spirit, it seemed, had finally been knocked out of them.

  Scabbarding his sword, Vorduthe strode to the group. “On your feet,” he ordered. “There’s work to do.”

  The men glanced up but at first did not move, until the troop leader, in somewhat sullen voice, joined in.

  “You heard what the lord commander said. No lounging!”

  He turned to Vorduthe, obviously trying to fight off both weariness and fright. “What is to be done, my lord?”

  “We have to regroup and recover our equipment,” Vorduthe said. He looked chidingly at the seaborne warriors who were forcing themselves erect. “You won’t survive by giving up. Keep your wit
s about you, and don’t let your strength flag.”

  He ventured to the edge of the glade, peering between the trees which hereabouts were fairly close together. He saw men stumbling about aimlessly, and called to them.

  He heard the voice of Lord Korbar, also calling through the jungle. Slowly the survivors began to collect together. At first Vorduthe couldn’t believe how few of them there were, and he sent troop leaders forth to seek out more.

  After a time a white-faced Askon Octrago appeared. “That was a bad patch,” he muttered to Vorduthe. “Sorry I didn’t spot it in time.”

  By now they had approached to within sight of the place where the small army had been so nearly destroyed. The wagons stood abandoned, some turned on their sides or bristling with tree-lances which could not dislodge themselves. Far above, if one dared lift one’s eyes to a spectacle so horrid, the trees bore human fruit, transfixed by living spears or hanging limply.

  “How can we move our equipment out?” Vorduthe asked Octrago.

  “With great care,” the other replied with irony. “But it will be less dangerous now. The forest is mindless—it works by reflex. Once a plant has been triggered it usually does not react again for a while. So do not delay further.”

  It was far from easy. So bad had morale became that the men were afraid to return to the scene of the carnage. But when they saw Vorduthe and Korbar put their backs to the nearest overturned vehicle, the tougher troop leaders stepped forward to help. Serpent harriers followed cautiously, in twos and threes, until finally the whole army—what was left of it—was at work.

  Shortly they were once again making slow but steady progress, pushing forward while the forest continued its mindless and savage war of attrition.

  The disaster at the fallpit patch proved to be a watershed for the expedition, a screen that blotted out the world beyond Peldain, and the day took on the quality of a nightmare. While Vorduthe resumed the march wondering how much more punishment his followers could take, the thought began to be replaced by an eerie feeling that none of this was happening; that he had died, perhaps, or was asleep and dreaming. From the glazed faces and nervous actions of those around him, he realized that the same flight from reality was affecting everybody—except, perhaps, Octrago.