The Forest of Peldain

by Barrington J. Bayley

  The trees were small, like Arelia’s fruit trees, but were twisted, seeming to writhe, and were bleached in color, seemingly without bark. The tortured, convoluted branches all joined up overhead and seemed a single network, and greenery grew only on the topmost part.

  It was like walking under a low, vaulted ceiling carved by an insane mason. To Vorduthe, the sight resembled nothing so much as an enormous exposed brain.

  Remembering the forest, the men were nervous until they assured themselves that the trees of this wood, however weird in appearance, were as still and passive as any in Arelia. Vorduthe, however, could not avoid an oppressive feeling, and he noticed that the men became subdued and quiet.

  Glancing at him, Octrago paused and leaned with one hand against a tree trunk that was like a column of frozen wriggles. He let his gaze wander over the elaborate canopy.

  “This is called Cog Wood,” he informed in a distant tone. “You feel it, don’t you? I can see it on your face.”

  “Feel what?” Vorduthe asked him.

  “Its presence. I told you before that the trees can hear our thoughts. Now, if you are quiet in your mind, you may hear this wood’s thoughts. Yes, it thinks—after a fashion. These wooden sinews—” he gestured to the overhead twisted branches—“are the cranial channels of a kind of brain. Tree touches tree and branch joins branch so that they become as it were one tree. Do you not hear it thinking?”

  “No,” Vorduthe said, but he was half-lying. There was a feeling of presence, as though the wood were alive and watching, and it was an oppressive feeling.

  Octrago, however, seemed in no hurry to leave the place. He sauntered between the narrow trunks, looking about him as though attempting to attune himself to the vegetable mentality he claimed existed—a claim Vorduthe could not take seriously, especially considering the beliefs of the cult Mistirea represented.

  They came atop the ridge, descended a series of terrace-like depressions, then broke from the tree cover.

  Below them lay Lakeside, spread out on land that sloped very gently to the east. Half wood, half town, the buildings merged with the trees almost without distinction. From Octrago’s rough map Vorduthe recognized the king’s tree, or palace—a large construction, probably of several stories, bedecked with verandahs and, in a gorgeous display, broad-leaved branches.

  To the east of the town was the lake, irregularly shaped, its east shore sustained by raised banks. The oddest thing about it was its color: not blue, or grayish like some muddied waters, but distinctly green, so that it seemed at first like a discoloration on the spread moss.

  For what remained of daylight they remained on the slopes overlooking the town, keeping out of sight. Night came, and the massed stars appeared, making the lake gleam unnaturally.

  “The eye of Peldain watches the stars,” Octrago said at Vorduthe’s elbow, after the manner of one quoting a familiar saying.

  “And what does the soul of Peldain do?” Vorduthe replied ironically.

  “Broods, perhaps.”

  The men had been briefed and each was aware of what he had to do. The party swarmed down the slope, spreading out so as to move through the town in twos and threes. No street lamps burned on stone pedestals as would have been the case in Arcaiss—the Peldainians retired early. In fact there were no proper streets, only foot-worn paths between the houses, from whose resined windows came soft light and the sound of voices.

  They met no one on their way to the big building that was the palace. Inspecting it at closer quarters, Vorduthe paused to wonder if such an elaborate structure really could have been jigsawed together from individually grown units, as the larger Peldainian dwellings usually were. It seemed barely possible. Perhaps, he thought, it had been grown in situ as the conjoined product of a grove of trees—or perhaps it even resulted from a single gargantuan tree.

  Octrago whispered nervously. “Mistirea should wait out here. We cannot risk the life of the High Priest.”

  “We are all at risk,” Vorduthe retorted. “He comes with us.”

  Theirs was the largest group, numbering eight, the reason being that they had also surreptitiously to guard Mistirea and Octrago. Around the palace, metal glinted in the starlight. The others were moving into position.

  So far there had been no challenge and no guards stood at the foliage’s entrance, though the many windows glowed with light. Vorduthe advanced into the open and raised his arm as a signal. Seaborne warriors flitted to the large ground windows.

  A double-paneled door on thick leather-like hinges, patterned like a gnarled tree, blocked the entrance. It creaked open easily when Vorduthe pushed it, and he slipped inside, motioning to the others to follow.

  The broad hallway in, which they stood could almost have been the interior of a spacious building in Arcaiss, were it not for the alienness of the designs on the walls. Vorduthe was used to carved wood and bright, simple colors. The soft, full light came from numerous cressets. Opposite the door a staircase, organically grown like everything else, led to a balcony or gallery.

  The place was empty of Peldainians. Cracking sounds came from nearby. The seaborne warriors were breaking the windows, as quietly as they could, and filtering into the palace. Finding no resistance, they gathered together, looking to Vorduthe for guidance.

  Suddenly a serpent harrier uttered a warning exclamation, pointing with his sword. Vorduthe whirled in time to see Octrago and Mistirea disappearing through a small door to the right of the stairway. Three of the men who were to have watched them charged in pursuit, but the door slammed and held as they tried to force it.

  “Sorry, my lord,” another said. “They caught us unawares.”

  “Too late now—don’t waste time on them.” Vorduthe raised his voice. “Spread through the palace, put down any and all resistance as you find it.” He picked out a group of men. “You come with me. The rest—that way, and that.”

  He was about to mount the stairway, when men appeared on the gallery.

  They were Peldainians, their bony white faces peering down curiously but without fear at the invaders. They were garbed for combat, carrying swords and timber shields, and wearing breastplates and helmets of honey-colored metal. All this Vorduthe perceived in a moment, for in that instant what he had taken to be a ceiling decoration detached itself from the ceiling and fell on the whole gathering of Arelians.

  It was a net. Like the others, Vorduthe tried to cut his way through it with his sword, but this was no ordinary net. It was not made of rope. Its flexions reminded him of triproot or stranglevine, except that it acted not to strangle or to amputate but only to immobilize. And this it did by progressive squeezing. Swords fell from nerveless hands; arms quivered with the effort to break free as the net wrapped itself tighter, embracing each man individually.

  The net was a living thing that reacted to movement, even the movement of breathing. Vorduthe realized this belatedly. He held his breath in an attempt to fool the net, but it remembered its victim, and whenever he breathed out a little it contracted around his thorax, preventing him from drawing breath again.

  Suffocation overwhelmed him, vision faded. With a faint croak of frustration, Vorduthe lost consciousness.

  With hands hauling him to his feet, he knew he had not been out for long. The net had been drawn back and was rolled up against the wall. The bony-faced men in honey armor were everywhere, dragging and herding the disarmed Arelians to one side with cuffs, blows and pricks with swordpoints.

  The voice of Troop Leader Kana-Kem cried out hoarsely. “Remember our pledge, Commander! Remember!”

  Vorduthe felt shame. He had led his men into a trap.

  Before he could reply, another voice called out.

  “That man must be kept apart from the others!”

  It came from Mistirea. Vorduthe raised his eyes and saw four figures descending the staircase. The High Priest was pointing to Vorduthe, and Octrago was by his side.

  With them was a man very advanced in years who stepped c
arefully with the aid of a stick, watched over by an accompanying servant. He wore a robe of a glowing lilac color laced with silver, more sumptuous than anything Vorduthe had yet seen in Arelia. The skin of his face was like bone bleached and weathered on the beach. Yet except for its age, even taking national likeness into account, it was remarkably like Octrago’s.

  The four stopped a few steps from the floor. There was a sudden silence, and the guards paused in their work to bow to the old man, who inspected everything with a kind of bewildered interest.

  Vorduthe would have expected a roar of rage from the seaborne warriors at the entrance of Octrago. Instead they were as still as statues, and as silent, only their eyes betraying their feelings.

  “This trap has been well laid,” Vorduthe announced loudly. “Your talent for treachery now becomes evident, Askon Octrago—tell me, is this your cousin Kestrew, the false king we were to turn off the throne? If so, why are we prisoners and you are not?”

  The old man gave a puzzled look to Octrago, who twisted his mouth in a cynical smile.

  “There is no cousin Kestrew,” he told Vorduthe. He sounded almost sad. “That was a tale I spun to serve my purpose. But as for treachery, I want you to understand that everything I have done I did for the sake of my country. And since you ask, you see before you King Kerenei, undisputed monarch of Peldain—whose eldest son I am.”

  Vorduthe’s head swam with this news. “Korbar was right all along,” he muttered. “Everything has been lies.…”

  “Nearly everything.”

  For the first time the old king spoke, quaveringly. “Askon, what should be done with these strangers?”

  Octrago did not reply instantly. He looked pensively at Vorduthe, who held the gaze, and it seemed that his supercilious expression softened slightly.

  “They must all be put to death, father; and immediately. Perhaps I could wish it otherwise, but they are hopeful fools whom I have led a long way from home and used to good purpose. They will be dangerous to us while they live.”

  Were it not for the guards who held him Vorduthe would have hurled himself at Octrago’s throat, but instead it was Mistirea who intervened. He swept past Octrago, pointing to Vorduthe.

  “If you kill this man, Peldain dies with him!”

  “The High Priest suddenly develops a conscience,” Octrago said caustically. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Give the order now, father, before my nerve breaks too.”

  Mistirea addressed himself imploringly to Kerenei. “Will no one listen to me? I am High Priest of the Lake no longer!”

  “This is preposterous,” Octrago drawled. “Father, I did not go through unimaginable trials just to have our High Priest prove obstinate now. These are desperate times and if he will not cooperate—force him!”

  “You may torture me unto death,” Mistirea said calmly. “It will make no difference. Peldain is doomed unless my successor can be found. Why, when I retired to the mountains, could you find no one to take my place? It is because there is no Peldainian able and worthy to fill the role, and if providence had not sent us new blood the Cult of the Lake would have died with me. This I have known for a long time.”

  He turned, pointing his-finger at Vorduthe again. “This man is your new High Priest. There can be no other.” He cast darting glances around him. “Who will gainsay me? You, Prince Askon? Do you have mental insight, to look into a man and tell whether he has the power of communion? Yes, you have impossible bravery and extraordinary resourcefulness too—but you are not an initiate of the cult.”

  King Kerenei’s look of incredulity had become more and more pained. He stamped his stick on the stair. “Enough! I can take no more! After all this time my son, whom I had thought lost on a gallant but hopeless enterprise, has returned to me. He has succeeded beyond all our dreams, and still matters are not right! I cannot bear it!” He turned to mount the stairs. “Askon, look into this matter. Mistirea’s knowledge must be our guide.”

  “As you say, Father.”

  While the King took his leave Octrago, author of Vorduthe’s misfortunes, sauntered to him. Despite himself he was evidently intrigued by what Mistirea had said.

  Vorduthe spoke stiffly. “Whatever you want from me will not be forthcoming if a single one of my men is harmed.”

  “You are quick to seize a scrap of advantage.…” Octrago fingered the hilt of the upward-pointing Arelian sword he still wore. A hint of friendliness returned to his manner. “Well, we shall see what transpires.”

  “I marvel that you are able to face me, after your behavior,” Vorduthe said. “One thing baffles me. No travelers passed us on the way here. We watched you all the time. Yet you still managed to give warning of our approach.”

  “Cog Wood,” Octrago supplied curtly. “I told you it could sense, even think after a fashion. Did you not notice how I tarried there? I wanted the wood to convey our perturbing presence to one of Mistirea’s sensitives here in Lakeside. From then on our movements were followed.” He smiled. “Our land has held a number of surprises for you. And now, my lord, it seems I must explain what really has been happening since the day I landed in Arelia.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “The Forest of Peldain has existed for as long as anyone can remember, and so have the bountiful trees which provide us with all our needs.”

  Prince Askon Octrago filled a beaker with a light yellow liquid poured from a green gourd. He had changed his apparel and wore garments seemingly made of oversized flower petals of various colors, though on closer inspection the material was substantial enough. He slaked his thirst, filled the beaker again and handed it to Vorduthe to drink.

  They were in a small room somewhere in the palace. Vorduthe sat in a wooden chair, watched over by two guards. On one side of a table Octrago sat, relaxed and casual. On the other sat Mistirea.

  Vorduthe did not know where his men had been taken. But Mistirea, unexpectedly his ally, had extracted a promise from King Kerenei that they would not be harmed—yet.

  “You can see why we, at least, never considered the forest an enemy,” Octrago went on. “It was—and is—our defense against invasion from islands we vaguely knew lie across the sea. We have lived safely for generation after generation, inside that impenetrable coastal barrier.

  “The forest, however, is ferocious in more ways than one. It has a prodigious capacity for change. It can develop new plants, new weapons, more swiftly than you could believe. And if left to itself it would spread to cover the whole island, extinguishing all other life.”

  While Octrago spoke, Mistirea’s expression became more gloomy and he lowered his head. Octrago glanced at him before continuing.

  “That has not happened because the forest has always been kept under control. I have told you something of the cult of the lake. You imagined that this concerned ceremonies which had to be performed if a superstitious populace was not to become agitated. Not so. The duties of the cult are real. That lake is no ordinary lake. It is not water. It is a spiritual presence. In its depths, the spirit of the forest truly dwells.

  “To control the forest by communing with this spirit is the function of the High Priest. Only a rare individual can do this, and he is selected for training early in life. Yet this is the duty that High Priest Mistirea chose to betray!”

  Octrago’s voice became loud and angry. He cast flashing glances at Mistirea. “He ceased to dive into the lake or to exert himself in any way. Instead he withdrew to the mountain fastness with the larger part of his servitors, offering no explanation. Since his departure the forest has turned rogue. It is spreading and eventually will engulf all Peldain. Even the artifact trees are beginning to turn savage and mutate into wild forms—does this tale not prick your conscience, High Priest?”

  Mistirea seemed close to weeping. He shook his head, not in answer but with an air of misery.

  “Tell your tale, Prince Askon,” he mumbled.

  “I shall.” Octrago turned back to Vorduthe, with a sour look. �
��If only there had been another able to act as High Priest all would have been well. But none of the remaining sensitives were able to appease the spirit in the lake—not even the one Mistirea was supposed to have been training as his successor. Two sensitives drowned trying.

  “All appeals to Mistirea to return were ignored. Three times we tried to take the fortress by assault, with considerable loss of life. We began to think our ancient, beautiful land was doomed.

  “Finally I decided upon a truly desperate enterprise. Peldain disposes itself thus: the eastern limb is all forest, which also spreads a coastal strip to north and south one hundred leevers deep on average.”

  “You told us thirty to forty leevers, and no more than twenty where we were to cross!” Vorduthe interjected indignantly.

  “Not my largest lie, nor yet my smallest,” Octrago conceded. “In fact, the distance from the coast to the point where the underground river may be reached is fifty leevers, so it is still a uniquely short crossing which moreover leads to the Valley of the Hill Maiden, and thence to the pass over the Clear Peaks. Impossible things are thought of when a realm is imperiled, and I began to contemplate the impossible: a passage through fifty leevers of forest so as to take the fortress from the rear. I don’t know if you are aware of it, but the forest doesn’t actually extend all the way round Peldain. The west coast is an escarpment that rises almost half as high as the Clear Peaks themselves, and then drops straight down into the sea. Such a cliff could never be scaled or climbed, but we succeeded, by means of an ingenious system of pulleys fastened one after the other into the cliff face, in lowering an expedition of rafts and three hundred men into the sea. The plan was to float round the coast to the entry point, and then attempt to penetrate the forest.”

  “Did you have fire engines?” Vorduthe asked him.

  “No we had nothing of that sort,” Octrago said somberly. “Just some knowledge of the forest. We would never have made it, of course, that is clear now, and in truth it was clear then.”