The Forest of Peldain

by Barrington J. Bayley

  Behind the door, stone steps led down into darkness. Taking torches from the wall brackets, and leaving the prisoners under guard, they descended.

  Vorduthe was trying to guess what they would find: an armory, no doubt; dormitories where he hoped most of the remaining garrison was sleeping at this moment; rest rooms, ablutions, a kitchen—perhaps an exercise and arms practice room; though the roof of the fortress was more likely used for that. Somewhere there would be comfortable quarters for the higher ranks—and for Mistirea, if he was not kept in a dungeon. And there would have to be ample storerooms to enable the stronghold to stand alone for lengthy periods.

  The place smelled dank. At first the torches revealed only a forest of squat pillars supporting a low ceiling. Then Vorduthe saw rows of barrels, and realized that this was a storage area. He lifted a lid. The barrel contained water.

  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.

  But his expression changed to one of recognition when Octrago entered, and his grasp on the knife handle firmed. Vorduthe ordered the serpent harrier to stand guard outside, then looked questioningly at the Peldainian by whose guidance he had come so far.

  Octrago nodded in confirmation. “It is he. Mistirea, High Priest of the Lake.” He raised his voice, addressing the old man. “Why do you not bid me welcome, Mistirea?”

  The priest’s gaze flicked from one man to the other. His hold on the knife did not waver. “I shall destroy myself instantly if forced against my will. Who is this peculiar stranger you bring, and how did you enter the castle?”

  “Why, we came by the back way, High Priest. Over the sea, and through the forest. And this is Lord Vorduthe, who helped bring me here. He is from a land beyond the ocean. If you do not believe me, ask him yourself. And now you must come with us.”

  It gave Vorduthe an eerie sensation to hear Mistirea speak in the same sharp, mangled accent that Octrago himself used. “What he says is true,” he told the old man. “We have brought you back your rightful monarch, King Askon.”

  Mistirea gazed at Octrago with an expression it was impossible to read.

  Octrago answered with his familiar wry smile. “Much has happened, and there is much that I shall have to explain to you. I beseech you to put down your knife, old man. You are to return with us to the lake.”

  “There is much, perhaps, that should be explained to me,” Vorduthe said in a low tone. “I had thought Mistirea a prisoner in this place. But perhaps he is now your prisoner, instead.”

  “The High Priest has duties to perform,” Octrago said, his voice acid. “Duties essential to the well-being of the realm, but which he has neglected for some time. Was that by your own choice, Mistirea? It is a question that torments us.”

  It seemed that Mistirea’s eyes also became tormented as Octrago said this. But he put down the knife and rose to his feet.

  Moving round the desk, he turned his attention to Vorduthe, who noticed now, as the loose robe flowed over his shoulders, how unusually well-muscled those shoulders were for a man of his age. He looked Vorduthe directly in the eye, the misery Vorduthe had briefly thought to see gone from his gaze. Instead his stare was penetrating and
sharp.

  In fact, Vorduthe found the pale blue eyes frightening. “You have done well, King Askon,” Mistirea said in a suddenly strong voice. “Doubly well, to bring this stranger to our land.”

  Intently he studied Vorduthe’s face, then let his gaze travel over his body. “I have dreamed of such a man,” he murmured. “Now, perhaps, my dream is answered.”

  There was silence. Octrago, Vorduthe noticed, was frowning in discomfiture or mystification. He did not seem to know what Mistirea was talking about, any more than Vorduthe himself did.

  “In truth I am not my lord Vorduthe’s monarch,” Octrago said smoothly at last. “He has a monarch in his own land, to whom a reward is due greater than anything you may expect, Mistirea. But enough of that for the moment. There is only one issue to be settled. Do you return home with us and resume your duties, or must we force you to it, by whatever means are necessary?”

  Mistirea’s broad shoulders sagged a little. Then he raised his head defiantly.

  “I have laid down the dagger, have I not? By that I signified that I will accompany you. What happens at the lake… well, we shall see.…”

  “Yes, we shall see that what must be done is done,” Octrago said tightly. Stepping forward, he picked up the dagger. “One of my lord Vorduthe’s men will stay by you till morning, to see you do not change your mind. A dead High Priest is no use to Peldain.”

  “Wait!” Vorduthe said. “You have not settled with me.”

  He faced Mistirea and spoke coolly. “We have come a long way, High Priest, at your king’s behest, and I require information. The men in this place are acolytes of your cult and wear the same badge as yourself. Furthermore, King Askon seems prepared to take you as his prisoner rather than a rescued friend. So what were you up until now—this stronghold’s prisoner, or its master?”

  “Both,” Mistirea replied somberly.

  Octrago uttered a caustic laugh. “To that question I too would like a sensible answer, friend Vorduthe,” he said. “As you have seen, I cannot obtain one. It is a secret Mistirea will not divulge. No matter. We are halfway to our purpose.”

  He sighed. “Now with your permission, my lord, let us see if all the crannies in this heap of stone have been cleared.”

  Chapter Ten

  For all of the following day Vorduthe’s force remained in possession of the stronghold, having slain half its garrison and taken the rest prisoner. The men rested, and chose additional weapons from the captured armory—daggers, lances, bows and quiversful of arrows. Broken-up furniture provided sufficient timber to build a funeral pyre for Lord Korbar and the two dead serpent harriers. The ceremony was held on the fortress roof, and while the smoke rose to the sky the men gathered round, asking anxious questions.

  “What are our prospects, my lord?” Donatwe Mankas, a troop leader, pressed Vorduthe. “Our numbers are negligible and the Peldainians in this castle, at least, were not without fighting skill. We alone could not conquer a whole country.”

  Octrago was elsewhere in the fortress and Vorduthe was expected to speak frankly. Yet it was difficult to be hopeful. A sad vision had come to his mind. He pictured the fleet from the Hundred Islands returning to the landing place, waiting at anchor a few days, then departing with the news that the expedition had failed to appear. No one—not King Krassos, not Vorduthe’s wife, nor any Arelian—would ever know what had become of the costly army that had so bravely set forth.

  He motioned the men closer, and spoke while the flames flickered on his face. “We cannot go back, we can only go forward to whatever the gods have in store for us. But in one respect matters lie in our favor. We have in our possession both the claimant to the throne and the high priest of this country, and that may well be worth a thousand armed men.”

  He paused before continuing. “I sense much underhandedness in the way the Peldainians conduct their affairs—Octrago and Mistirea, at any rate, are hard to pin down. Now we are blunt soldiers and strangers to deviousness. But one thing we can resolve—we serve King Krassos to the last, and if Askon Octrago betrays us he dies, king or no.”

  That was his last word on the subject and he ordered the men back to work, preparatory to their departure next day. It would have been impracticable to take prisoners on the march, so he set about stripping the fortress of its weapons. The catapults were smashed, and the boulders that were stored in the stones-chute sent rattling down the cliff face. It would take some time, he reckoned, to fill it again.

  He also dealt with the poisonous vapor that was contained, it developed, in the barrels stacked in the first storeroom he had entered. It was stored in the form of a horrid jelly which had to be burned in the vats in the forecourt, so as to give off a dense deadly smoke that flowed to the lowest level.

  Octrago offered the information that the jelly was derived from a tree resin. “Nearly everything in Peldain comes from a tree,” he smiled. “Only stones and metal come from anything else.”

  Vorduthe recalled the furniture he had seen, with its grainy, rough-finished quality. He had inspected Mistirea’s desk, for instance. It almost seemed to have grown into shape, for he had not found a single join. He guessed it had been carved from a single piece of wood, carefully chosen by some patient craftsman.

  “You are cut off from the sea here,” he remarked. “Many of our materials come from ocean life.”

  He ordered the barrels rolled farther along the cliff, and their smelly contents poured over the edge.

  Early next morning the war party wound its way down the big newel that was drilled through the interior of the cliff. At the bottom was a short tunnel whose exit was barred by a massive slab of stone. This was raised by means of an ingenious counterbalance, and they walked out into daylight.

  Here it was even more striking how absolutely the fortress dominated the region. The path along the foot of the cliff was no more than a narrow ledge. It bordered a drear swamp stretching as far as the eye could see, plentifully dotted with trees, or possibly they were only bushes, of a squat, splayed appearance. Vorduthe thought them sinister enough to avoid at all cost, even had the swamp not been impossibly marshy.

  Seeing him scan the terrain, Octrago smiled his understanding. “The bog is deep,” he said. “Nothing would get through it, not even a boat. And yes, those bog-trees are death to touch, although they don’t compare in deadliness with the trees of the forest. They are sticky-trees—even a bird that alights on one never gets away. Still, we needn’t worry about that.”

  He pointed to a narrow swath of firm ground that divided the swamp in two, extending from near where they stood to the horizon. It was raised slightly above the general level, and was marked at intervals by rough stone pillars. Vorduthe guessed it was an old causeway.

  But why had it ever been laid? Ultimately the trail led over the mountain pass and to the strip of open land lying between the Clear Peaks and the forest—too small a territory to be worth a major feat of engineering, notwithstanding the sculpted hill. Still less did it seem worth building a mountain fortress to guard the route.

  The arrangement would make more sense if larger territories to the east were the intended destination. But on the map of the island Octrago had drawn back in Arelia, eastern Peldain was entirely given over to the forest, with only the Clear Peaks themselves free.

  They moved away from the tunnel entrance. Suddenly there were startled yells from a number of serpent harriers, who had looked up to view the castle overhead. An avalanche of human bodies was tumbling down the cliff face. They crunched sickeningly on the rock pathway, spattering it with blood and leaving it piled with smashed limbs.

  “They are disposing of their dead,” Vorduthe said grimly. “Expedience is all, apparently.”

  The war party set off in good order along the causeway. Octrago and Mistirea marched side by side, the High Priest wearing a purple cloak. Vorduthe stayed close by them to eavesdrop on any conversation, but either they had nothing to say to one another or they were wary of speaking in
his presence.

  As time went by the rotten, sulfurous smell of the bog became overpowering. Occasionally huge armored beasts, their long snouts crammed with teeth, broke surface and regarded the travelers with beady eyes. But only once did one of the monsters heave itself onto the causeway to confront them, and it was soon driven off using lances.

  Before the sun had reached its height the party had crossed the swamp and the land began to alter in character. The ground was sometimes mossy, sometimes grassy, much as in the forest except that trees grew only in rare clumps and seemed entirely innocuous.

  The sun shone strongly and behind them the tips of the Clear Peaks were still visible, shining whitely. A change of mood had come over Octrago. He smiled often, and became relaxed. Suddenly, to the immense surprise of all the Arelians, he began to sing—a flowing song in an alien scale, with words which, though they were sung in their common tongue, Vorduthe could not fathom.

  At midday they halted to eat and drink of the supplies taken from the castle. Vorduthe sat with the Peldainians, some way apart from the others.

  “It is time we outlined our strategy,” he said.

  “Indeed we have need of very little,” Octrago said good-humoredly. “In two days or less we shall be in Lakeside.”

  He was speaking of the capital of Peldain which lay close to the sacred lake, though as far as Vorduthe could make out it was less of a town than Arcaiss, for instance. Indeed the mode of life of the Peldainians was something still to be clarified.

  “And there you still intend to claim the throne from your cousin Kestrew?”

  “With your assistance, yes,” Octrago answered, with a glance at Mistirea.

  “You are returning with no larger a force than you left with,” Vorduthe reminded him. “How much resistance may we expect between here and Lakeside? And how much support can you rally to your cause?”

  “We shall meet virtually no resistance, but neither shall we receive support,” Octrago informed him. “My face will not be familiar in the villages along the way, and I shall preserve my anonymity. As I have explained, there is no standing army in Peldain, and with luck news of our coming will reach Lakeside no faster than we shall get there.”