Barrington Bayley - The Forest of Peldain

A fuel wagon was pierced by a tree-lance that had been converted to a spear of flame, and exploded. Yet somehow Vorduthe kept his ravaged force together, leading it between burning stumps that had been a grove of whiplash trees. Behind them the fires flourished but briefly before the forest, in its usual manner, magically damped them down. Behind them, too, lay numerous corpses, including those that had fallen with the fungus-rot. These were almost visibly decomposing. They would add their substance to the soil and furnish fast food for the root system—in its own way, the forest was fiercely logical. Perhaps, Vorduthe thought, they would even be the means of regenerating the whiplash trees he had just burned.

While still on the move he took stock of the supplies. By the gods, there was not much left! Yet, at the same time, he noticed a lifting of spirits among his men. They had won a kind of victory.

And as if to concede that victory the forest became quiet. Vorduthe decided to streamline his resources. He called a brief halt and had the fire engines’ fuel casks refilled. This left but one full fuel wagon and two perhaps a quarter full.

He ordered the contents of one pumped into the other. He also sacrificed three partly laden provisions wagons, abandoning what supplies could not be accommodated elsewhere. The empty wagons were then hurriedly broken up to provide makeshift shields.

Thus unburdened, a more compact party made faster progress, winding between the tall boles. The forest was becoming spacious again, and again Octrago led them upward. One hour, then two hours passed, and blessedly there were no more than occasional single attacks—a lone lance or danglecup, a fallpit which opened up and not always caught its prey. There were no more cage tigers, no more mangrabs. The warriors of the Hundred Islands began to experience a feeling of euphoria, and to hope that the time of dread was now over.

“The forest’s fury seems abated,” Vorduthe said to Octrago. “Are we nearly through?”

But the Peldainian merely grunted in reply. Eventually they were forced to take a downward path again, following a gentle and almost meadow-like slope.

Vorduthe knew that exhaustion played a large part in the mood of relaxation that was being felt. It was now late afternoon, and he was tempted to call a halt and camp for the night, in what seemed a safe spot. But remembering Octrago’s promise, he was eager to be out of the forest before nightfall.

He allowed a short pause for each man to refill his water bag. On resuming, the head of the column encountered what looked like nothing else but an extensive fruit orchard.

The trees, like the whiplash trees, grew in the shade of the great overhang, whose supporting trunks sprang from among them. But unlike the whiplash trees they were enchanting to look on, smothered in pink blossoms. The column sauntered to a halt, more to view the spectacle than anything.

The contrast with everything they had been through so far was startling and refreshing. Was this, then, the end of the nightmare? A smiling serpent harrier walked slowly forward, breathing deeply. “Hey!” he shouted. “It’s pretty!”

Vorduthe could smell a powerful sweet perfume the orchard wafted. Askon Octrago came loping from where he had been loitering at the rear of the column.

“Beware!” he called to Vorduthe in a low tone. “Call that man back!”

Vorduthe felt a prickling in his spine. Already the harrier had reached the nearest tree. He was reaching out to pluck a flower.

And then it happened. The tree shook. It seemed to become a cascade: liquid was pouring down it, squirting out from it. An acrid odor blanketed out the pleasant-smelling scent.

Uttering a high-pitched scream, the serpent harrier staggered back. The tree had doused him from head to toe in its colorless fluid. He flopped to the ground where he writhed in agony, white vapor drifting from his corroding flesh.

“Drench blossom,” Octrago muttered. “So innocent-looking. At close quarters the scent can overpower one’s judgment like a drug. Then it squirts digestive juice.”

Mercifully, the acid did its work quickly. The screams became a gurgle, and stopped. The body ceased its writhing. Bone was already showing.

Vorduthe sighed. “What is your advice?”

“It looks like a large plantation. Send scouts to right and left. If they find no way round use fire again.”

“Send men alone through the forest?” Vorduthe said incredulously. “Will you be one of them?”

Octrago shrugged. “I was thinking of your fuel supply. Very well, burn your way through without delay. It will come to the same, I suppose.”

“First tell me one thing. You spoke of two days’ march, and we are now near the end of the second day. Are we, then, near the landward fringe of the forest?”

Octrago did not hesitate. He looked Vorduthe directly in the eye. “I think not,” he said bleakly. “I think there is some distance to go yet.”

“Then you lied to us.”

“No. I gave my assessment, that is all. As a military commander, you know yourself that everything is subject to changing circumstances.”

“Indeed. I am wondering if in fact you know this route at all.”

Octrago gave a wintry smile. “Are you then coming round to Lord Korbar’s view? That I am an agent of insurgents in the Hundred Islands? In that case perhaps you can explain how I know so much about the Forest of Peldain.”

“Even I know that it contains cage tigers and mangrab trees.”

“And drench blossom? Shoot tubes? Dart-thorns? So far I have managed to guide us clear of any slime carpets, which are the most to be feared. They are next to invisible, but prefer the moister pastures. But how would you tell which are the moister beds, beneath the moss? I tell you, without my help you would all have perished long before yesterday’s nightfall.”

Vorduthe’s reply was openly cynical. “So is this the comparatively easy path you promised us?”

“It is.”

“My army is all but wiped out.”

“It is not wiped out. It still survives as a fighting force, and that is all that is needed. Waste no more time. Use your fire.”

Vorduthe could think of no further retort, or see any other course of action. The now-familiar billowing heat of the fire spouts played on the deceptively pretty orchard. Soon the wagons were rolling over ash, then pausing and extending the path of flame.

Beyond reach of the gushes of liquid fire, the whole orchard was discharging its acid in an orgasmic frenzy. The mind-deluding perfume, the acrid vapors, the smell of oil and smoke, all mingled to concoct a nauseating stench.

After burning a path nearly a leever long, they broke through to more open ground. Vorduthe proceeded another leever, then consulted Octrago again.

“Is there any point in continuing farther today? The light is fading, and the men need rest.”

Even the Peldainian looked tired. “Probably not,” he said. “This spot will do. Make camp here.”

As the barrier went up, and the covering net was fitted, it became pitifully obvious how much Vorduthe’s army had shrunk. Few trees needed felling: the camp area was far smaller than the previous night’s.

Neither would the coming hours be plagued by the intermittent explosions of men into whose bodies dart-thorns had entered. All such men had been slain, frequently in the face of their frantic protests.

Most of the force, after devouring a hastily prepared meal, fell into an exhausted sleep, oblivious even of the pressings of the forest against the barriers. Vorduthe ordered the guard shifts to be changed every hour; any longer, he feared, and the sentinels might not be able to stay awake.

As before, he sent Lord Korbar to tour the camp and make a count of losses. When he returned with his report he was glowering. He cast an accusing finger at Octrago.