“Once again you disparage my word,” Octrago said slowly, his tone becoming firmer. “Previously I was a stranger in your country. But this time you stand upon the soil of Peldain, where I am king. Do you hear, my lord? I am king of this land—monarch and law!”
Korbar turned to Vorduthe. “Is this man even a Peldainian? There is trouble brewing on Orwane, and talk of a secret conspiracy involving the Mandekweans. I have been open in my suspicions from the start: that we have been lured away while a revolt is sprung at home. Better that we turn back now and try to make it to the coast, before the fleet sails away.”
Octrago guffawed. “There is bravery indeed! Anyway, your proposal is useless. You are in the middle of the forest. I admit the going has been harder than I had hoped—harder than on the outward journey—but it is still the best route, I assure you. Turn back and you suffer the same losses all over again. Your safest course is to continue.”
Outside the confines of the camp a rustling could be heard. The barrier creaked with the pressure of something upon it. Throughout the cleared area conversation ceased while men listened anxiously.
Shortly the murmur of talk began again. Vorduthe recalled that he too had urged the king to caution. The idea that a dual rebellion by the island of Mandekwe and the brown-skinned people of Orwane was even now taking place was most disquieting.
But he did not think Octrago could have anything to do with it. Finally he had agreed with King Krassos that the stranger from the sea was a genuine Peldainian.
That did not mean he trusted him in everything. To all doubts Octrago had smooth answers. But perhaps he did not really intend to remain King Krassos’s vassal once his kingdom was regained for him. He had promised that a permanent pathway through the forest could be created for regular intercourse between the interior of Peldain and the Hundred Islands. But bearing in mind the strength of the forest even at its presumed weakest point, how was this to be done?
Vorduthe thought of a roadway driven through the terrifying jungle and protected by a high wall. It seemed hardly feasible… an underground tunnel might be a more practicable proposition… but Vorduthe still did not know how so huge a project could be accomplished.
He put the question to Octrago. The putative king of Peldain looked thoughtful.
“I have discussed this matter with King Krassos,” he said. “At present the people of Peldain have no means of effecting such a safe route. It is you yourselves who have the key—fire engines. You know how to make the special combustible oil you squirt from the engines: We shall distill it in huge quantities and lay it down in a carpet on the fringe of the forest. Then we shall enclose the burned patch in a brick tunnel and repeat the procedure from its mouth. In this way we shall slowly force our way through the forest.”
“It could take a long time.”
“Probably about a year. It is not so long. We may even be finished in time to greet the fleet when it returns. King Krassos will be able to sail here and visit his new dominion.”
Once again Octrago had shown a flexibility of mind equal to all probings. Even Lord Korbar could think of no retort.
“And what of our losses?” Vorduthe persisted. “They are grievous. The discipline of my men is sorely taxed. How many more can we lose, and still hope to conquer Peldain?”
“We shall have enough,” Octrago said after a pause. He smiled. “The King of Peldain tells you so. But for the moment, I shall not insist that you address me as is my due.”
With that Octrago rose and strolled through the net-covered camp.
Vorduthe followed him. They walked between small fires and knots of men.
“Do you expect tomorrow to be as bad as today was?” he asked. “Tell me truthfully.”
“It is difficult to say. It may be that the earlier passage of my party roused the forest to new depredations. We triggered new growth, as it were. But as we near the mountains it should thin out a little, on the high ground. I am confident.”
Vorduthe nodded. A range of mountains, called by Octrago the Clear Peaks, separated the forest from the inhabited part of Peldain. That, at least, was Octrago’s story. He had promised to show them a pass through this range, though he had warned there would be something of a climb.
“I am deeply puzzled,” Vorduthe said. “I have seen no animals in the forest, except for insects. Yet the trees are predatory. They are meant to trap animals, are they not? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, that’s right, there are no animals,” Octrago said, almost wistfully. “There were animals in the forest once, but it has killed them all. It still retains its killing power, of course. The forest never forgets anything.”
“How does it live? What does it eat…?”
“It doesn’t really need meat. These trees can subsist like any common tree, on soil, air and sunlight. Nineteen out of twenty are common trees, as I have said.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Vorduthe repeated. “Why should any creature, whether animal or plant, develop an ability it doesn’t need? That isn’t the way of nature.”
“You have hit on a mystery,” Octrago agreed.
Vorduthe pondered, brooded. Above and around them, the forest swayed. “And you say there were animals here once… it is as though the forest has changed in some way, if that is so. Yet as far as anyone remembers, it has always been the same.”
“I speak of a time long before anyone remembers,” Octrago murmured. “Long before.”
They paused as a serpent harrier at a nearby campfire suddenly dropped his mess-bowl, sprang to his feet and began pacing to and fro in agitation, eyed by his puzzled comrades.
“What ails you, harrier?” Vorduthe asked, stopping the man with a gesture of his hand. A look of suppressed agony crossed the warrior’s face. He clutched at his abdomen.
“Just a stomach pain, my lord,” he said in a strained voice. “It will pass.”
Octrago stirred, looked withdrawn. “Were you struck by any dart-thorns, serpent harrier?” he inquired.
“Why, yes, my lord,” the warrior said gruffly. “But that was hours ago, and they did me no harm. They must have fallen off as they struck—see, they left hardly a mark.”
He pointed through the strips of body-armor he still wore. On his tanned bare skin were three or four pinpricks. Octrago nodded.
“Well, you were lucky, then.” He glanced at Vorduthe, then made as if to stroll on. But in reality he merely stepped behind the harrier while noiselessly releasing the clasp of his sword, letting the blade fall quietly from its scabbard into his hand.
Abruptly the harrier screamed and clawed raggedly at the air. From his torso, from his face, from any place where skin was showing, tendrils sprouted and grew with the rapidity of crawling worms.
Then a sword tip flickered from his chest, withdrawing in the same moment. Octrago had dealt a death blow from behind.
The light of life left the harrier’s eyes. Yet, bizarrely, the dead man failed to fall. He rocked to and fro, as if fastened to the ground. His body and limbs remained stiff, hands still clawed, arms crookedly stretched like tree branches. And meantime the tendrils continued to grow, obscuring his face, blurring the outlines of body and limbs.
Octrago rejoined Vorduthe, wiping his sword on the hem of his short skirt. Those at the nearby campfires had risen, and advanced to view the spectacle, dumbfounded.
Quietly Octrago addressed the gathering. “This man fell foul of the worst kind of all the dart-thorns,” he said. “These thorns appear harmless at first. They leave only small marks and one is generally unaware that they have entered the body and burrowed inward. In fact, the thorns are seeds. After a few hours they germinate and feed on the victim’s flesh. You can see for yourselves that they grow with astonishing swiftness.”