He became aware of someone standing by him. It was another harrier who had come running. From the stricken look on his face, from the way he stared at the smooth, nearly invisible cover of the fallpit root, Vorduthe realized that this was a friend—a close friend, perhaps—of the man who had just died … or was still dying.
The harrier lifted his eyes. His sword was in his hand as he scanned the area until spotting what he was looking for—Askon Octrago, walking behind a fire engine.
“That’s the dung-worm who’s to blame!” he growled between gritted teeth. Before Vorduthe could stop him he was darting towards the Peldainian, blade at his side with the point held forward.
It was an attack posture the seaborne warriors were trained to use when attacking on land, particularly when mounting an assault up a beach. In such a position the weapon was carried easily and did not impede the rush of the advance. On reaching the enemy the point was thrust forward and twisted in a disemboweling movement, or the blade slashed left or right, or wielded in whatever manner was called for.
Vorduthe shouted a warning, at which Octrago turned and saw all in a flash. He clicked his own blade from its scabbard. He met the forward rush stock still, then in the last moment stepped smartly to his left, a move which would have forced the harrier to strike from the most awkward angle, with his sword-arm at its weakest.
The harrier did not fall into this trap. He circled, seeking an opening.
Octrago brought his own blade into play. Once again Vorduthe noted his unorthodox swordsmanship as he forced the point of the harrier’s weapon down and aside, with a practiced flick. Then he promptly stamped his foot on the flat of the blade, tearing it from the harrier’s grasp.
In the next instant he had pierced the disarmed warrior through the heart.
The procession came to a halt and a roar of protest arose as the harrier stretched out his length in the grass. Swords fell from scabbards, and first one or two and then a score of enraged harriers sprang toward Octrago.
They were incensed beyond their discipline; they had been driven too far. Vorduthe ran to place himself between them and Octrago, calling on Korbar and nearby troop leaders to assist him. He collided with one running harrier, knocking him bodily to the ground with his bulk. The man lay gasping like a fish, as if confused and not knowing what to do next.
Korbar, two troop leaders and three harriers had answered his call. They formed a ragged line which fended off the first of the attackers with a brief clash of metal. To his surprise Vorduthe found Octrago by his side, breathing heavily and seemingly eager to dip his reddened blade yet again. None too gently, he pushed him to the rear.
The assailants were not quite yet ready to cut down their own commander. Having been stopped in their rush they drew back and hesitated, glaring past Vorduthe at the hated Peldainian.
“Get back to your positions,” Vorduthe ordered brusquely. “I shall deal with this business when next we camp. And don’t imagine you’ll escape punishment.”
“Isn’t it enough for the forest to kill us?” a harrier cried out agonizedly. “Now we have to put up with this so-called guide killing us, too!”
“King Askon defended himself against an assassin, no more. If any of you have a like intention, you must first deal with me.”
“He slew an unarmed man!”
“Enough! We continue the march.”
“All we are doing is lining up to be killed!” another shouted. “This forest has no end.”
Octrago pressed himself forward once more, his head raised haughtily. Vorduthe could not help but admire his courage. Any of the archers standing within range could have felled him in a moment.
“The forest does have an end,” he proclaimed in his dry voice. “Neither are we far from it. I give you this promise: we shall leave the thickness of this forest before nightfall, provided we tolerate no more undue delays. Keep your minds on the prize to come, and do not falter.”
He turned his face partly to Vorduthe, as if to address both him and the troops. “Surely you do not think I aim to lead you to destruction? I need you on the other side of this forest as a fighting force if I am to achieve my aim. Everything is as I have stated … our losses have been higher than I hoped, I admit, but that cannot be helped.”
With slow, mesmerizing deliberateness, Octrago bent to tear up a handful of grass, using it to wipe the blood from his blade, which he then sheathed. With a further glance at Vorduthe, he turned and retired.
Sullenly, with more grumbling, the column got moving. Vorduthe spoke to Octrago as they walked.
“I could not express my attitude openly. I had to support you. But privately I agree with my men. You had disarmed the harrier—you did not have to kill him as well.”
“So you think I should have spared him, so he might kill me next time it enters his head? That is not my style of doing things.”
“He had been driven beyond endurance.”
“Then he was eliminated by the rigors of the journey. Don’t blame me.”
Vorduthe found it hard to be content with such a reply, but it was all the reply he got.
For a further quarter-day the march continued with losses, which though still frequent, were decreasing in severity. They were entering, Vorduthe hoped, the forest’s inner fringe. He fancied that the trees were more sparsely grouped, and the covering dense umbrella of trees not so high. It was some time since he had seen a cage tiger, even a harmless one. Occasionally Octrago cautioned the use of fire, which was applied judiciously—Vorduthe did not want to find himself without any fuel at all, with possible dangers still ahead.
The calf-high grass gradually disappeared; they trod soft moss. It was while they were negotiating a level stretch of ground bordered with bush on either side, and dotted with awkwardly placed boles which forced the column to break up and wind between them, that Vorduthe became aware of a hindrance taking place somewhere in the rear.
“Heave! Heave! Put some muscle into it!”
The voice was that of a troop leader whose men were trying to rock loose a provisions wagon that had sunk nearly to its axles. Like Vorduthe, Octrago turned to see what was happening. When he located the cause of the disturbance, his jaw dropped.
Suddenly Vorduthe noticed that the moss under his sandals seemed to be loosening, becoming like the flat sea-weed that formed a surface on certain bays and which one could almost walk upon. More wagons were becoming stalled. He saw men treading gingerly.
Octrago screamed.
After what seemed like a timeless age, Vorduthe realized that what he was screaming were words—harsh, urgent, desperate words that tore through his consciousness.
“Slime carpet! Run! Run! No, not that way—through the bushes! For the sake of the gods, get out of here! Forget the wagons—leave them!”
The screamed words hung like tangible things in the air, usurping any authority Vorduthe might have exerted. He had not expected ever to see Octrago panic, yet he seemed close to panic now. Everywhere the moss was breaking up in tatters, like a skin of mold on a stirred jelly. And jelly was how best to describe what was revealed beneath—a light green goo through which men found themselves wading, and in which all the wagons were now sinking gently, as if into a bog.
As the jelly touched the skin of his ankles Vorduthe felt a stinging sensation, and quickly guessed that the stuff was capable of digesting flesh, like so much else in this accursed forest. But now he saw that the slime carpet was not merely a passive devourer. It was becoming active. It was aroused. It developed whirls which sucked men down into it. It extruded tongues which crept up men’s legs, seized and held them, inexorably dragging them into its embrace.
It rippled like a pond in a breeze. Then, at the far end, it reared up in a wave like the waves that traveled over the sea in a strong wind, nearly as tall as a man. This wave swept down the whole area defined by the ragged lines of bushes, surging round the tree trunks and standing wagons. It knocked men down like stalks, and where it had passed
they lay stuck in the slime like insects in honey, struggling feebly and vainly to free themselves.
Octrago was running through the gelid muck with a peculiar prancing gait. Vorduthe was about to try the same when a tentacle of surprisingly firm, fast-thickening slime wrapped itself round his left knee.
At that moment Octrago turned back. He saw Vorduthe about to be pulled off-balance. He pranced back to him, seized him by the arm and yanked, pulling him free of the slippery tongue.
Already Vorduthe’s knee was numb; his left leg would not support him properly. Cursing, Octrago half-dragged him toward the bushes. Though he seemed unaware of it, he was gabbling manically.
“What a fool I was! Missed the signs! Damned carelessness—quick! Quick!”
They were not the first to escape the slime carpet and crash into the bushes. All about them were the grunts of men and the breaking of stems. Then they broke suddenly into a tiny clearing, where Octrago looked about him wildly.
“Dart-thorns!” he yelled. “This way, my lord!”
Abruptly the air was thick with the zipping thorns, shot from shrubs and bushes screened by the more innocent varieties they had burst through. Flinging his arm in front of his face—a useless gesture, Vorduthe thought—Octrago pulled him through an opening to clear ground beyond. But it was too late. Vorduthe had been struck by perhaps a dozen penetrating points. Vaguely he became aware that the Peldainian was frantically brushing the thorns from his skin. His senses swimming, he felt a presentiment of death. Then consciousness slipped from him.
Chapter Seven
In his dream Lord Vorduthe found himself drifting, a breeze-driven ghost, through the limpid greenness of the forest. Cage tigers and man-grab trees snapped about him, shoot tubes lunged toward him. But none of them could touch him. He was dead, and insubstantial like sea mist.
So dead that he rose smoke-like through the forest’s roof, temporarily losing himself in a close tangle of leaf, branch, bud and every kind of surprising growth, before gaining the clear air to go drifting over the dazzling ocean. And suddenly he was in the Hundred Islands.
That was when death turned into a nightmare. Happenings at home were just as Lord Korbar had warned and he had secretly feared. An army of cruel primitives rampaged through Arcaiss, a horde of brown-skinned Orwanians, always the least civilized of the peoples of the Hundred Islands, ever half-eager to revert to the savage practices of their forebears. For the Orwanians had been ardent cannibals until restrained by Arelian conquest, and they still worshipped their traditional god Krax, who ate the flesh of men.
Flame and smoke billowed over sundrenched Arcaiss. In the royal palace the dreaming Vorduthe beheld a terrible sight: the Monarch of the Hundred Islands, King Krassos himself, spread-eagled over a brazier, face contorted, his skin crackling. And in the streets were fires and cooking grids, and the buildings echoed to the dreadful cries of men, women and children who were being roasted alive for the pleasure of the brown savages.
Vorduthe looked up to the headland where his own home was situated. Against his will his spirit was drawn there, passing through the cool rooms to the interior courtyard. He saw a band of grinning savages, their teeth filed, carrying the paralyzed form of his wife to the fire they had prepared.
One primitive could not wait to see her flesh cooked. Taking a knife of black flint from the waistband of twisted grass that was all he wore, he cut off her nose and stuffed it into his mouth.
Vorduthe’s ghost fled, recoiling into the sky among the wheeling wide-winged seabirds, calling out in agonized protest to Irkwele, the great sky god who had thrown down clods of earth into Thelessa’s perfect oceans so that man might have islands on which to live. But Irkwele did not reply. Instead a gigantic figure rose cumbersomely out of the ocean. Vast seaweeds draped it. Water streamed down the angles of its face. Sea beasts the size of ships tumbled from its hair.
It was Ukulkele, ruler-god of the ocean who had opposed Irkwele in the beginning. Vorduthe recognized him easily: his image, made of wood and coral and dyed with the inks of various marine creatures, faced Irkwele’s across the sacred grove that lay in the exact center of Arelia. Towering over the island, over Vorduthe, the god glared angrily down at him. The iron-like mouth opened; Ukulkele began to speak, in a voice like the sound of the summer typhoons that beset equatorial regions. He had never forgiven Irkwele, he said, for spoiling his unbroken world ocean. He would create great waves to throw against all these scraps of land, washing them away as if they were mounds of silt.
The roaring voices receded; the face of Ukulkele blurred, framed by the blue sky. When it solidified once more it had altered, was smaller, staring down at him with enigmatic sternness.
“He’s coming round, my lord,” a voice said.
He knew that face. It was troop leader Ankar, a member of Lord Korbar’s group. “Where are your troops?” Vorduthe croaked. “Where are they, troop leader?”
“All gone, my lord. Shoot tubes took the last two.” The words brought Vorduthe completely to his senses. He was alive. And, he realized with wonderment, there was still blue sky framing the face that stared down at him.
He raised his head. He lay on soft bracken. From somewhere nearby came the gentle sound of flowing water, suggesting that they were camped by the bank of a river. Lord Korbar came into his range of vision, walking toward him. More men were farther off.
Were they out of the forest at last? The spot was hemmed in by trees which included types he had become familiar with in the past three days, but no dense canopy blotted out the sky. Overhead, green and blue were mixed.
Lord Korbar knelt by his side, his face grave. “I am glad to see you may be recovering, my lord. Are you able to rise? Do you still feel ill?”
“Korbar, I have had a dream,” Vorduthe muttered. “A dreadful dream. Pray to the gods that is all it was.”
He shook his head to shake off the memory. Best say nothing of it, he thought. Some men believed in dreams.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Why am I still alive?”
“You have the Peldainian to thank, my lord,” Korbar replied. “It was he who brushed the thorns from your body before they became embedded; they were of the burrowing type. Their contact introduced poisons to your body, but not enough to prove fatal.”
“What is this place? How did I get here?”
“We carried you here on a litter, my lord. You have been unconscious for a good part of the day.”
“That was against express orders, Korbar!” Vorduthe was angry. “No injured men are carried!”
“It was at Octrago’s insistence, my lord,” Korbar said apologetically. “He advised us you would likely recover, and that we needed you. I agreed. There were no dissenting voices.”
Vorduthe grunted in displeasure, even shame. He struggled to a sitting position. “Tell me everything that happened.”
The young troop leader dropped his eyes as Korbar told the tale, as if not wanting to be reminded of it. “Most fell either in the slime bed or in the thorn bushes,” Korbar said. “A hideous time! The few of us who were left managed to retrieve a few tools and some of the mountaineering equipment we will need, but all the wagons had to be left behind. So, without the protection of fire, we made the remaining journey here, and of the few who remained fewer still have arrived. Luckily we had not too far to go, though only Octrago knew it. We are not actually out of the forest, my lord. This is a sort of sterile spot in it, known to the Peldainian—yes, I grant he is a Peldainian, though none the better for that.” Korbar made a wry face. “He tells us the main danger is over. We now take to the water.”
“Where is Octrago?”
“Up the river a short way, seeing to the construction of boats.”
“And how many men have we left?”
“Counting the Peldainian, fifty-three, my lord.” Korbar’s tone became one of deep disgust. “Roughly the number he claims to have set out with.”
After resting a while longer Lord Vorduthe was re
covered sufficiently to get to his feet and examine his surroundings more closely. All that was left of the effects of the poison was a slight aching in his joints.
As Korbar had said, this was an infertile spot as far as the forest was concerned, though why this was when water was plentiful nearby he did not know. Perhaps the soil was unsuitable, he thought. Many trees had died and consisted of husks. Others were withered, their foliage yellow.
One type of plant, of somewhat sinister appearance, he had not seen before. This was an expansive tree with soft trailing fronds, almost inviting one to enter its enclosing shade. But among the fronds were what looked like huge seed-pods, gaping wide open, two or three times the size of a man. From the open lips of the pods fringes of slim tentacles reached out, no thicker than a finger but extending well beyond the shade of the trees themselves. Plainly they could sense the presence of men, for they followed their movements yearningly, waving and rippling like strands of seaweed in an underwater current.
“Those are coffin trees,” Korbar informed him. “Stay away from them, needless to say, though they do not seem a particularly effective form of predator by the general standard of the forest. You can guess from their name what kind of a trap those pods are.”
Vorduthe nodded. For the moment he refrained from speaking to the tattered remnant of his army. No more than a score of men were in sight; the remainder, he assumed, were up-river with Octrago.
As the afternoon turned to evening Octrago’s party returned, carrying with difficulty three boats of canoe-like shape. Briefly their iron-like color prevented Vorduthe from realizing that they were, in fact, larger versions of the green pods grown by the coffin-trees. Each looked capable of carrying fifteen to twenty men.
Thankful to be relieved of their exertions, the warriors laid the boats on the ground. An unaccustomed look of pleasure came over Octrago’s face when he spotted Vorduthe on his feet.
He came over immediately. “Congratulations, my lord,” he said in his dry voice. “I am glad to see that you have survived your ordeal.”
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