The Forest of Peldain

by Barrington J. Bayley

  They had come through.

  Chapter Eight

  On its final approach to the exit the formerly circular tunnel narrowed, and the roof rose to elongate itself into a pointed arch. Through this constricted passage, framed at the opening with cut stone, the boats floated gently into morning daylight.

  The slightly quickened water rippled. The travelers had emerged from what Vorduthe saw was a vertical gash in a mound-like hillside shaggy with grass and shrub. The underground stream issued into a peculiar gorge, or valley, bounded by cliffs that resembled long barrows or promontories projecting from the hill-mound on either side of the fissure.

  The cliffs were oddly rounded, bulging, overhanging the valley floor a little, their vaguely undulating outlines twinned. Downstream they parted steadily so that the valley widened, as they tapered to about half their original bulk at their extremity. There, they ended in sudden up-thrusting crags that jutted like weirdly shaped sentinel towers.

  Beyond the stark buttes, at what distance it was hard to estimate, a mountain range filled the horizon, its peaks rising steep and jagged against the early morning sky: the Clear Peaks of which Octrago had spoken.

  As the valley became wider the stream meandered, becoming to all intents and purposes a natural river which eventually carried the boats onto a level plain. Astern, the valley with its diverging barrow walls receded. The Forest of Peldain had vanished; but the new landscape over which the river wandered was not without its vegetation. Dotted about it were trees whose predatory aspect was familiar to anyone who had experienced the terrors of the forest: limber, swaying trees with long whiplashes which they cast constantly about as if searching for food. Octrago regarded them with a glum expression. He seemed, Vorduthe thought, disappointed to find them there. But nothing was said, until one of the trees loomed up rooted to the side of the river, its lashes easily reaching to the opposite bank.

  Then he ordered the pods out of the water to be carried half a leever downstream, giving the whip tree a wide berth.

  The river journey continued. The sun rose higher in the sky and the Clear Peaks became gradually larger. By now everyone was hungry, but Vorduthe refrained from asking Octrago when and how food might be found. Seaborne warriors were traditionally scornful of comfort and there were no complaints.

  The tallest peaks were streaked on their pinnacles with something white that shone in the sun. When asked about this, Octrago stared at him in bemusement.

  “It is snow. Do you not know what snow is?”

  “But that is only found in the far north.”

  “It also forms at high altitudes, where the air is thin. There are no tall mountains, then, in the Hundred Islands?”

  Still mystified, Vorduthe shook his head.

  “Luckily we shall not have to climb so high,” Octrago assured him. “We are less than well equipped to do so, I assure you.”

  When the mountains came near enough to seem oppressive the river swung to the west, seeking lower ground. Vorduthe queried if it was not time to quit the boats and proceed on foot, but Octrago advised that they should wait awhile.

  The reason soon became apparent. A grove of trees came in sight. Not whip trees, or anything resembling the horrors of the forest, but on the other hand they were equally unlike anything the men from the Hundred Islands were used to. Within the lush foliage their branches formed rough grids, somewhat like cooking-grids, and from these hung bulbous fruit.

  “This is it,” Octrago announced. “We disembark here.”

  As soon as the prow of the pod hit the bank he stepped from it and carefully scrutinized the grove, as though to make sure it was safe. Then he moved into its shade and reached up to pluck a yellow fruit.

  It almost fell into his hand. Without hesitation he bit into it, chewed, then gestured to the others.

  “Eat. It’s good.”

  The men moved into the little orchard. The fruit had a thick but soft and edible skin. The pulp within was juicy and tasted delicious.

  They quickly ate their fill and most would have been glad to relax for a while in this pleasant spot, but Octrago was eager to be moving. At his urging their scant equipment was taken from the boats, which he then unceremoniously pushed into the water and allowed to drift downstream.

  “Gather fruit,” he then said. “We shall need provisions.”

  “And how do we carry it?” Mendayo Korbar asked dubiously. They had no satchels; no way to carry except with their hands.

  Octrago had an answer to this. He beckoned to Korbar, and led him deeper into the grove, looking about him in search of something.

  They came to a tree of a different type: slender, with sharply raked down-pointing branches. From them grew unusually large pale green leaves, broad and fat. Octrago plucked one and showed it to Korbar, then peeled open the edge nearest the stem and inserted his arm.

  The leaf was hollow. Opened up, it made a serviceable bag or satchel, large enough and strong enough to hold a dozen or so of the yellow fruit. Octrago then split the stem into a loop by which he hung it over his shoulder.

  “Nature provides,” he said curtly. “The bag can hold water, too, and if the lips are pressed together they seal themselves again. The men can pick whatever they need.”

  Korbar returned to give Vorduthe the news. Shortly the party was trudging toward the mountains.

  The afternoon saw them climbing the foothills, after which the ground rose steeply and they toiled up the lower slopes. Vegetation grew sparse. They entered a wilderness of boulders, cracked cliff-like blocks of rock and patches of scree.

  After they had gained considerable height Octrago paused and bid Vorduthe and Korbar look back. The plain lay below them. But now the large hill from which they had emerged by boat lay revealed in its outline—and it held a surprise.

  It was a massive sculpture: a long hill carved into the recumbent figure of a naked woman. Trails of wheat-colored grass represented her spread tresses as she lay on her back. Pointed hillocks, thrusting up from the main mound, were her breasts. Her arms were smaller side prominences, lying limp.

  Her legs were apart. From the cleft in her crotch the stream issued, to pass between her thighs and go wandering over the landscape.

  Everyone present marveled at the sight. Fascinated, Vorduthe tried to imagine how much labor must have been involved in such a task, how much time it must have taken. And what was its purpose?

  “It was done a long time ago,” Octrago answered when this question was put to him. There seemed to be a note of sadness in his voice. “I do not know why.”

  “Then this region was once inhabited?”

  “Yes, it was once inhabited. Here we are between the Clear Peaks and the forest, whose fringe you can see.”

  Vorduthe looked again. Octrago was right. Beyond the reclining female the horizon was banded with a darker color—a malevolent dark green.

  “It would not have been visible once,” Octrago said lightly.

  “You mean it is spreading…?” An image came to Vorduthe’s mind of the helpless woman being engulfed, eaten, as the forest encroached on her body, burying her in horrors.

  “It was less extensive in times past. But have no fear. Its growth will be curbed.”

  Lord Korbar spoke up. “The route we have taken is essentially the one you followed on the outward journey?” he queried.

  “Correct,” Octrago told him.

  “Then you followed the river from this plain, underground and into the forest. You must have found it most difficult to make such a journey against the current.”

  Korbar had made no attempt to hide the suspicion in his voice. Octrago barely paused before answering. “At intervals the river reverses its direction. Sometimes it flows outward from the groin of the hill-statue, sometimes inward. We followed the inward flow. This is caused,” he added casually, “by the chasm in the cavern. At times water wells up from deep underground, and forces a reversal of current.”

  Blinking, Korbar stared at the riv
er as it meandered over the plain below. “That’s a strange business,” he grumbled. “Wouldn’t it mean the stream had to flow uphill?”

  But this time Octrago did not reply. He turned and led the way up a bank of loose shale, pausing at the top and then finding a way through a crevice in the tortured rock.

  He seemed a more confident guide than ever he had been in the forest. At length they came to a cliff face impossible to ascend on foot, and here it was necessary to climb. At Octrago’s direction the men were roped together in groups of five or six. Octrago led the way; where hand and footholds could not be found he made them by means of the tools that had been made for the purpose, chisel-headed picks that opened cracks in the rock where metal struts could be hammered firmly in place.

  Once the strut he had left came out under a warrior’s foot and the luckless fellow plunged, nearly dragging his companions with him. But the climb was neither long nor difficult, and at the top Octrago found a ragged pathway that wound up the steep mountainside.

  In places the trail, while mostly natural, looked as if it had been cut artificially. From now on the ascent became a simple hard slog, punctuated by occasional climbs or sometimes scrambles over masses of rock which barred the way. The air grew cold and frequently they were obliged to pause for rest.

  By late evening they had reached a saddleback ridge between two peaks and were able to look down on both sides of the mountain range. To the south was the plain, with its naked reclining female—smaller and barely visible in the dusk—and the dark viridescence of the forest.

  Vorduthe looked eagerly down the northern slope, hoping for his first glimpse of inhabited Peldain. The view was swathed in mist, in which it was difficult to make out anything. The trail they had followed continued, becoming a ledge on initially sheer cliffs. After that, the slope was gentler and considerably more negotiable than that they had come by.

  Dusk was quickly enveloping everything below. “To continue after dark would be foolishly dangerous,” Octrago said, “even though the exertion would help keep us warm. We’ll settle ourselves here. It means a cold night for us, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, at least the downward path looks easy enough,” Korbar remarked. “Shall we reach our journey’s end tomorrow? And if we do, what then?”

  “I am afraid we have not yet finished climbing.”

  Octrago pointed to the nearest westward peak, a craggy monolith whose shadow was now falling over them. “We have to make our way farther along the range before it is safe to descend. The route is a bit difficult. But don’t worry, we don’t need to go as high as the snow line.”

  Korbar stared at him in stupefaction. “This is ridiculous!” he exploded. “The way down is clear before us! Furthermore, this is a route that has clearly been used before!”

  “That is only how it appears,” Octrago said, mildly but firmly. “The route I have chosen is in fact the easier.”

  A long pause followed. “That requires explanation,” Vorduthe said edgily.

  “Very well,” Octrago replied, in an equable tone. “The truth is that we have not left the forest behind us yet. It surges round the east limb of this mountain range and though you cannot see it, it lies directly below. The path you think so simple and easy leads directly into a deep forest vale—one of the deepest. You know what that means.”

  “Then we can descend, and make our way along the mountain range at a lower level but still above the tree line,” Korbar insisted.

  Octrago shook his head. “Not possible.”

  Korbar tensed. Around them, the men were opening their leaf-packs, gulping water and biting into the refreshing fruit, and sharing their rations with those who had lost theirs during the climb. Korbar was breaking an unspoken rule by arguing in front of them like this, but Vorduthe could see he was repressing an inner rage.

  At last his feelings broke through. “I know that you have lied to us, misled us, pretended to know what you do not know. Why do you wish to direct us away from what is obviously the better path? Perhaps it is simply that you have not yet killed enough of us. Perhaps you want to arrange for what few of us remain to fall to our deaths—just what is it you do want, King Askon Octrago?”

  “A kingdom,” Octrago replied simply.

  Korbar turned on his heel. He walked to the edge of the northern escarpment and stood there, staring into the gathering darkness.

  He turned his head as Vorduthe joined him, and spoke low but quickly. “In my view we have only one real choice, my lord. We should put Octrago to death and proceed as we ourselves think fit. He will only lead us to fresh disasters.”

  “You are still convinced he doesn’t know what he is doing?”

  “I am.”

  “Then what reason could he have for taking us by the harder route? It makes no sense.”

  “Perhaps he needs no reason. Perhaps he is a madman. In any case he is lying to us. I feel it.”

  “Clearly he has some knowledge of the region, while we have none,” Vorduthe said placatingly. “In our ignorance, we are forced to trust him—though I grant suspicion comes naturally.”

  Korbar merely grunted. Vorduthe walked back to the main group. His warriors had been eyeing the exchange with interest.

  “Which way do we go, my lord?” asked one with a grin.

  “We go the way our guide directs,” answered Vorduthe, and gestured to the mountain.

  No one questioned his word. The men were relaxed, knowing that nothing they faced now could be as bad as what they had already survived.

  As the night wore on it grew cold. This was an unaccustomed experience. To the men of the Hundred Islands the world was always a warm, balmy place, even at nighttime. They had no coverings for themselves, and nothing with which to make fire, and they wore only their traditional scant raiment. Chilled by the thin air and the biting breeze, they huddled in the lee of a granite outcrop, and first shivered and then cursed with pain as the cold did its work.

  At long last the sky lightened and the stars diminished in number. The sun rose glowing from the horizon, slowly dispelling the last of the stars as it spread its ceiling of dazzling azure.

  But as yet it did not cast much heat. The warriors jigged about and clapped their arms to their sides, trying to force some warmth into their frozen bodies.

  After a brief breakfast they set forth, Octrago leading the way. This time there was no ancient trail. They walked, then clambered toward the peak, aiming for its north face. Eventually the slope became precipitous; roped together, they crept step by step along it, each depending on the others.

  Once, the warrior on the end of the line lost his footing, and as he fell the rope slipped from around his waist where he had tied it insecurely with numbed fingers. They both watched and heard him tumble and plunge, roaring with rage. Then, when he was gone from sight and his cries were no longer heard, they continued without comment.

  Another problem was the onset of a wind that threatened to blow them off the mountain. A distant observer would have seen them clinging to the mountainside like flies, scarcely moving at all.

  By mind-afternoon they had passed around the bulk of the mountain and were on another saddleback, more broken and at a higher altitude than the one they had set out from. Here they rested, and ate and drank the last of their rations, while Octrago scouted ahead to pick out a route, taking Vorduthe with him.

  It was evident he had no knowledge of this part of the range, only some idea of the ultimate destination. They returned having chosen a way up a ramp-like incline choked with boulders. It ended in a natural hollow, and here they elected to camp for their second night in the mountains. They were even higher now and the air was thinner and colder, but at least they were sheltered from the winds and breezes that sucked every atom of warmth from flesh and bone, and despite hunger, thirst and agonizing cold, they were fatigued enough to be able to sleep in snatches. Next morning it took some time to coax life into their stiffened and complaining limbs. Vorduthe insisted that a lengthy
spell be spent on physical exercises before, on empty stomachs, they resumed the journey, for now came the most difficult climb of all. From here on it was not possible to traverse the side of the mountain, which presented a precipitous north face, almost a sheer cliff as if it had been sliced off by some giant’s axe. Instead they were obliged to toil up crags and scars, always searching for some route by which they might clumsily find their way. The wind whistled about them and once a shower of finely powdered snow blew down on them—a unique experience, for few had ever seen or touched snow before. Eventually, after what seemed an age of slow effort, they came over the mountain’s shoulder and descended on the other side until Octrago called a halt on a convenient shelf.

  He looked around, scanning the nearer peaks as though satisfying himself as to his whereabouts. Requesting that the two commanders follow him, he then walked to a granite outcropping, crouched down behind its cover and motioned to them to do the same. He peered over the rough granite, keeping his head low.

  “Don’t show any more of yourselves than you have to,” he murmured. “Well, there it is. Now you have a human enemy to deal with. It should make a pleasant change.”

  He was gazing at an out-jutting crag farther down the mountain. So haphazard was its outline that it was some moments before the Arelians recognized it as an artificial structure.

  It was a mountain stronghold, a moderately sized castle of rough stone that had been cut, probably, from the granite of the mountain itself. Studying it, Vorduthe realized that from his present vantage point it was vulnerable. The rampart faced north, to ward off attack from below. In the rear it simply merged with the mountainside; one had but to clamber down and step on it.

  The builders had clearly not reckoned on attack from this quarter. Octrago was speaking, and soon explained why this was so. “The fortress is excellently placed. It is perched atop a precipice and commands the path along the foot of this mountain range. Approached from the north, it is impregnable, and neither may anyone pass below it against the wishes of its guardians. Since there is only one pass over the Clear Peaks, and to reach it one must take that road, there is normally no way the fastness can be attacked from the rear. As military men, you will quickly appreciate the advantage that now lies in our hands, especially if we achieve surprise.”