by Джеффри Лорд
«Good enough. Then she shall not be harmed, as long as you do not try to escape.»
The Elstani hurried forward to pull Blade to his feet and tie his hands to a stick behind his back. Daimarz himself tore away the amulet. «This we shall keep for the Masters.» He handed it to Fador’n for safekeeping.
Blade swore. «If you’ll just test it on one of the plants, you’ll see-«
«I see and hear a Jaghdi prisoner who talks too much,» said Daimarz. A hand signal made two of the archers raise their crossbows. «I did not swear to listen to your lies, Blade.»
As the men lined up on either side of Blade, he swore again, but silently. The Elstani weren’t mindlessly bloodthirsty. They wouldn’t kill him outright before he could tell his story to the Masters. But if they refused to test the amulet before it lost its power, he’d have no way of proving that his story was true! The results for Elstan could be just as disastrous as if these men had killed him outright.
Blade felt better about walking into the ambush after watching the Elstani at work for a few days. They were clearly as much at home in the forest as Lorma herself, able to hide so well that neither man nor cat could be sure of detecting them until it was too late.
There were fifteen men in the Elstani party led by Daimarz. All of them were of the Woodcutters’ Guild, and they were as tough and well disciplined as soldiers. With their job, they had to be.
The killer plants spread themselves by firing seeds from seed pods hidden high in their upper branches. When the pods were ripe, they were triggered by the rising sun. So the plants tended to spread toward the east, creeping up on Elstan’s already inadequate farm and grazing lands like a slow tide. The woodcutters’ job was to beat back this tide.
Fortunately they didn’t have to deal with the groves, at least not now. There’d been groves established in Elstani territory a century ago, but somehow they’d been successfully attacked since then. Blade had the distinct feeling that whatever they’d used on the groves was something they didn’t want to talk about in the presence of someone from Jaghd, even if he was a prisoner.
The seedlings, half-grown plants, and full-grown rogues were enough work for any reasonable man. Dealing with the younger plants was more tedious than dangerous. A single team of woodcutters might find more than a thousand of them in the course of a week’s Cutting. It took sharp eyes to pick them out of the surrounding jungle, hoes for the smaller ones, axes for the larger ones, and a lot of muscle and sweat no matter what size they were. The plants were tough as well as prolific.
The rogues were a far more dangerous proposition, even for strong, well-trained men working together in teams. The woodcutters were careful to leave Blade out of sight whenever they tackled a rogue, afraid to let a Jaghd in on their secrets. Blade could still guess most of what happened from listening to the sounds of the fight and what the woodcutters said afterward.
The woodcutters met the rogues head-on. They took their axes and hacked their way into the network of creepers. When the killpods came down they stood their ground and turned the axes against them. When the killpods were all gone, they advanced still farther, to the base of the trunk. A last few minutes’ work with the axes, and the rogue was dead.
Blade didn’t need to hear the woodcutters talking to know how many things could go wrong. Under attack, the killer plants could move their pods much faster than the one he’d fought. A man who got even one arm trapped by the creepers could have a pod closing on him before any one could chop a path to him. A man who was unlucky enough to be pulled down was as good as dead. He might have comrades only a spear’s length from him, but if they were fighting for their lives against creepers and pods they couldn’t help him.
That was why so many of the woodcutters carried powerful crossbows. Half a dozen archers always stayed out of reach of the creepers, bows ready. A brisk shower of bolts could sometimes discourage a killpod. If not, a bolt through the head or the heart was a more merciful death than the killer plants gave a man.
Daimarz’s band didn’t have any dead to mourn while Blade was with them. But one man was blinded by acid from a killpod as they attacked a stand of three rogues growing toward each other. That time Blade smelled smoke and something like burning tar near the end of the battle. The men came back with their already dark skins nearly black with soot, and they talked less than usual about what they’d done.
Apart from not allowing Blade to prove he was telling the truth about the amulets, the woodcutters treated him well enough. They gave him enough food and water, and left his hands untied whenever there were enough men around to guard him. He also discovered that even when he was tied the bar and cords were light enough so that he could break loose if he had to. That would look like a violation of his oath, so he didn’t plan to do it except in an emergency where he needed both hands free. After he volunteered to help carry the blinded man’s stretcher, they left him untied at least half the day.
A drizzling rain was falling as the party set out on the morning of Blade’s tenth day with the woodcutters. Everybody was walking a little faster than before, in spite of their fatigue. They were on the way home, with no more work between them and the hot meals they’d be eating tomorrow night. Their packs were light and even the tools they still had to carry didn’t seem a burden any more. They would have been moving even faster if they hadn’t been trying a new route through some hills rather than around them. It was Daimarz’s idea to try out this new route, the sort of thing he did quite often. Since he was the son of the Master of the Woodcutters, he’d come by his curiosity honestly.
Blade didn’t quarrel with scientific curiosity, but thought Daimarz hadn’t chosen the best time or place to indulge it. His men were tired, their tools made an awkward load, and the best route through the hills seemed to lie halfway up a steep slope. Above was a nearly vertical hillside, below a sharp drop into a mist-shrouded valley, and underfoot slick grass and gluey mud.
The effort of carrying the stretcher on the uncertain footing made even Blade sweat. After an hour Daimarz had him relieved. «I’d rather have my hands free,» Blade said as they approached to tie him again. «Where would I go on this slope?»
Daimarz shook his head. «On the slope, nowhere. But down there-«he pointed into the mist «-who knows? You’d be impossible to catch the moment you were out of sight. That might be too much temptation even for an honest man. And no, I won’t give you the amulet either.»
As soon as Blade was tied up, the march started again. Blade was muttering under his breath, and felt closer to breaking his oath than ever before. He still had to get to Elstan and give the warning, but he’d begun to feel that he might do the job better striking out on his own. Daimarz was brave, honest, and a fine leader, but right now he was also being much too stubborn for his people’s good!
One careful plodding step followed another. The rain grew heavier, and it seemed to Blade that the mist in the valley below was getting thicker. Having his hands tied behind him made keeping his balance a good deal more difficult than it should have been. At least the ache in his shoulders from carrying the stretcher was fading.
Blade felt the ground move under him before he heard the cries of the men or the dreadful sucking sound. He threw himself uphill with all his strength, nearly wrenching a shoulder as he landed. The men in front of him and behind him followed his example and came down beside him. Blade was the first to raise his head, hear the cries get louder, and see Daimarz and the first six men in the line slowly vanish into the mist as the rain-soaked hillside slid into the valley.
The rest of the party seemed to be on firmer ground. Blade was relieved to hear the cries of the men caught in the landslip continuing. Apparently they’d gone down so slowly that they’d been able to keep from being buried alive under the mud. The blind man, the only really helpless one in the party, was still safe. The rest should be able to climb back up.
«Help!» came a terrified shout from down below. «Help us! There’s a rogue down here!
We’ve landed in a rogue! Help!» Blade had never heard any of the woodcutters sounding so close to panic.
Chapter 16
Blade heard the hiss and clatter of weapons being drawn by the woodcutters still on the path. He saw them step as cautiously as cats to the edge of the landslip and look down into the mist. Fador’n was the closest, but even he was staying carefully on firm ground.
Was Fador’n deliberately refusing to go to his leader’s aid, taking a horrible vengeance for the disgrace of losing his bow? Then Blade looked down into the valley and reconsidered. Fador’n might be suffering from nothing worse than a loss of nerve. The mist-filled valley was weird and terrifying, an unreal sight which might easily be suspected of hiding even worse things than the killer plants.
Unfortunately it did hide the plants, and the cries of the men caught among the creepers of the rogue were entirely too real. Even if Fador’n got his nerve back in a minute or two, he might be too late. Without Daimarz, Blade’s chances of having his story believed in Elstan or even getting to Elstan alive would shrink. So would Elstan’s chances of surviving Queen Tressana’s campaign. Apart from this, Blade knew he owed Daimarz something for his justice toward Lorma, and for saving him from Fador’n.
Blade rolled over until he was lying on his face, both arms clear of the ground. Then he put shoulder, back, and arm muscles into one tremendous jerk. The ropes dug into his flesh, then the stick cracked like a pistol shot. A second jerk split it in two. Blade flexed life into his wrists and got to his feet.
Fador’n saw him. He yelled, «The Jaghd’s escaping!» and dashed at Blade, drawing his sword as he ran. Behind him came a man with a raised ax. Fortunately nobody had a crossbow ready for action. All the bowstrings were carefully packed away to keep them safe from the damp weather.
«Damn it, I want to help them down there!» roared Blade. «Give me the amulet and-«Then he had to leap aside from Fador’n’s rush. His effort to be reasonable cost him a gashed forearm. He found himself directly in the path of the axman, with the ax starting down.
All right, if these idiots are more concerned with keeping me from escaping than with saving their friends…
Blade ducked under the downswing of the ax and gave the man a one-two punch in the stomach. He doubled up, vomited, and dropped the ax. Blade caught it in midair and swung it in a wide arc to drive Fador’n back. The woodcutter came in again, too intent on dealing with Blade even to shout for help. The flat of the ax came down on his sword hand. He yelped and dropped his weapon. Blade shifted the ax to his left hand, closed with Fador’n, and punched the man in the jaw. The woodcutter not only fell, he also started rolling down the slope. Blade plunged after him, nearly losing his own footing, and caught up with him just above the mist. He snatched the amulet out of the belt pouch, carefully tied it around his own neck, then pulled Fador’n around so that he wouldn’t roll any farther. The man was an idiot, but even an idiot didn’t deserve the fate awaiting him at the bottom of the hill.
Blade hefted the ax again, testing its weight and balance. For a five-foot, six-inch Elstani, the ax was a two-handed weapon. Blade found he could easily use it with one hand, thought for a moment of trying to get steel for his other hand, then decided time was more important than an extra weapon. He cupped his free hand to his mouth and shouted down into the mist.
«Halloooo! This is Richard Blade, the Englishman. I’m coming down with the ax and the amulet. Hold on! I’ll try to get you out!»
Blade wished he could promise to do more than try, but he didn’t believe in miracles. It would take just about that to get all the men out of the rogue’s grip. The amulet might still be effective. The stopper was still in and the scent was supposed to be more powerful in damp weather. Would it work against a rogue already triggered into action by seven struggling men? Also, Blade didn’t know where the men were, who was in the most danger, or the best route to the base of the rogue’s trunk. The mist would make it hard to find out.
Blade started down the slope, cutting back and forth to slow his rate of descent. The last thing he wanted was to lose his footing on the slick grass and reach the bottom sprawling and weaponless. Then he’d be no more than another victim for the robe.
The panicky cries from the mist had died away at Blade’s shout. As he entered the mist they started again. Then Daimarz’s voice roared out above all the others. «Shut up, the whole damned pack of you! Are you woodcutters of Elstan or women of Jaghd?» A sudden silence, except for a few shouts from above. Blade ignored those. Nobody up there could do anything to him until they’d strung a bow. Even then they might have the sense not to shoot wildly into a mist which hid their comrades as well as the «escaping» prisoner.
As he dropped into the mist, Blade headed to his left, toward the landslip and the fallen men. He heard Daimarz’s voice again, shouting, «If there’s a pod close to you, shout! If not, stay quiet!» Two men shouted. Blade swore. The mist not only blocked vision, it distorted hearing as well. It was almost impossible to tell where a man was from just hearing him.
Daimarz must have realized the same thing. He shouted again. «Everybody stop moving! I’ll keep fighting. That should pull the pods toward me. Blade, can you cut the rest loose while I draw the pods?»
As Daimarz fell silent, Blade reached the outer edge of the rogue’s creepers. They were all writhing and twisting like an endless nest of immense snakes, terrifying enough in broad daylight and quite indescribable seen through the mist. Blade could now understand better why the tough woodcutters gave way to panic when they slid downhill into this.
Blade stepped forward into the creepers. Time to find out if the amulet was still any good. He wished it was on a chain rather than a cord. A creeper that wasn’t attacking him might break the cord.
Two anaconda-sized creepers wriggled toward him. They rose into the air, wavered, then one pulled back abruptly. The second came on, slapped his thigh almost playfully, then swung wide of him. Blade didn’t bother striking at them. He felt like cheering. The amulet still worked!
«Daimarz!» he shouted. «You keep still too! There’s no need for you to sacrifice yourself! The amulet works. I can move in and draw everything to me with no danger.»
«Blade, I-
«Stop arguing! I know what I’m doing! This is the beginning of the end for the killer plants of Binaark!»
That produced a dead silence except for the creaking and scraping of the creepers and the distant shouts of the men up on the hillside. Blade took another step forward, and saw another creeper come at him. It stopped just within range, and he cut completely through it with a single blow of the ax. Sap spattered the leaves around Blade but missed him.
Now he could see the first of the seven men ahead, lying under a bush completely tangled in creepers. He was doing his best to hold still, but a killpod was already wavering just above the bush. A few more feet and it would be within reach of the man.
Blade picked out the three nearest creepers and cut them off. All the others writhed more furiously than ever. The man yelled as the creepers holding him wrenched at his joints. The killpod swept over him and came at Blade. Whatever the creepers Blade had cut were saying, the killpod was getting the message that he was something to be investigated.
Blade let the pod come within easy reach. Then he unleashed his ax in an overhead swing using both hands and all his strength. The branch supporting the killpod was nearly a foot thick, but the ax went halfway through it at one blow. The branch jerked back so violently that most of the rest broke off. The pod dangled by a few remaining muscle fibers, sap gushed out like water from a hose, and the plant started screaming.
Blade jumped back, cut off another creeper, and tried to shout to the men up the hill. Then he realized they’d never hear him over the plant’s screaming. The writhing creepers loosened their grip on the man under the bush. He was still clear-headed enough to realize it, and rolled out of their reach. Then he sprang to his feet and made a dash for safety. He ran straight into
Blade, so hard that both men nearly went down. Blade gripped the woodcutter by one shoulder and bellowed in his ear loud enough to be heard over the plant’s screaming.
«Tell those idiots up on the hill to stop standing around with their thumbs up their arses! The amulet’s working, I tell you. I’ll be able to fight the plants, but you men are going to need some help getting back up. Tell them to send a couple of men down the hill, or at least throw down a rope! Understand me?»
The man jerked his head in what Blade hoped was a nod. Blade pointed toward the firm ground, and the man went off as if a killpod was snapping at his heels. Blade took several deep breaths, closed his ears to the screaming, and turned back to his battle for the lives of the other six woodcutters.
Blade fought his battle with mist all around him. After a while there was a second mist inside his head, and he stopped remembering details of the fight. He only knew that the amulet still worked, that the ax still cut everything he struck, and that one by one the woodcutters came free of the rogue and staggered off into the mist toward safety. This was enough.
By the time Blade reached Daimarz, he was dripping with sweat and his wounded arm was beginning to hurt. He itched in half a dozen places from tree sap, and his ax was beginning to lose its edge. He was still able to chop Daimarz free of half a dozen creepers and pull the woodcutter to his feet.
The man was bleeding in several places where the creepers had scraped his arms and legs. As Blade steadied him, blood from the Englishman’s gashed arm flowed over some of Daimarz’s wounds. The woodcutter pulled himself free so violently that Blade thought he might have violated some important taboo. Then the woodcutter looked steadily at Blade.
«So. We have mingled our blood at the first, not at the last. The proper words must still-no, I forgot. When you have saved-how many lives today, Blade of England?»
«I think all your men got clear of the rogue on their own two feet.»
«Then, seven woodcutters saved. The words do not matter.»