Octrago, however, neatly dodged the fray. He came on straight for Vorduthe, and the unarmed acolyte standing by the commander’s side turned and ran, terrified at the sight of the advancing prince, who shouted a challenge.
“Now we shall have a reckoning, Lord Vorduthe!”
Having longed to meet Octrago on final terms, Vorduthe was almost glad to see the prince so oblivious of his country’s best interests. His sword dropped into his hand and he stood firm to meet the attack.
Neither man carried a shield, but Octrago was quick to take advantage of the fact that he was wearing armor and Vorduthe was not. In the growing daylight his blade shimmered and flickered faster than the eye could follow in feint after feint and, though wise to most tricks of Arelian swordsmanship, Vorduthe found himself forced back by the wild and reckless onslaught.
The rush ended in a straight thrust to the heart which Vorduthe barely deflected in time and Octrago’s point gouged his shoulder. With renewed rage he went on the attack. They came to close quarters. For some moments the two men swayed together, then they sprang apart, weighing one another up warily.
“The lake! Look at the lake! The lake!”
All fighting stopped as, in silence, those on both sides obeyed the hysterical shout that had come from among them. The rim of the sun was visible on the western horizon now. By its light the surface of the lake shimmered, rippled, swirled.
Taking care to keep Octrago visible out of the corner of his eye, Vorduthe half-turned to look behind him. A flood of green liquid was pouring down the sloping terrain from the tunnel that had been dug in it. The diggers, having been carried by the onrush, were picking themselves up, staggering and sloshing to safety.
The same voice as before let out a despairing wail.
“They are draining the lake!”
“You have murdered the soul of Peldain!”
This last came from Octrago. Face contorted, he came at Vorduthe with such berserk fury that the Arelian commander was forced into the lake. Octrago followed him and seemed to have abandoned all thought for his own life. Soon the two were up to their waists and slashed wildly at one another, floundering.
Vorduthe felt an undertow tug at his legs. Then, as he shifted his footing, the bottom fell away beneath him and he toppled.
A strong current caught him. He went under, dragged down and toward the far side of the lake where the tunnel had broken through. His sword snagged on the bottom and was torn from his grasp, then something seized his leg and began clawing its way toward his throat.
It was Octrago; the Peldainian prince had lost his sword too but now was intent on killing him with his bare hands. In utter darkness, swept along by the increasingly swift current, they struggled.
At last Vorduthe felt the other grow weaker. He pushed him away and sought to strike for the surface, but the current was now far too strong. Down he went, and there, in the surging dark, he became aware of an emotion.
It seemed to be all around him in the moving liquid: stark fear, disbelief, a terrible desire not to succumb to death.
The mind in the lake had begun its disintegration. Undisturbed for thousands of years, its substance was moving, whirlpooling, draining away. Vorduthe’s consciousness went blank; involuntarily he found himself entering trance state, and before him there seemed to hover a gigantic face.
Momentarily he saw it clearly: vaguely of Peldainian cast, chalk-white, with straw-colored hair and glaring blue eyes. It was this face that emitted the emotion Vorduthe had been feeling. The eyes were desperate, savage in their protestation of what was happening. The lips moved, mouthing an accusation he could not hear.
For the huge visage was distorting. It was a face drawn on water, and the water was moving, streaming, pouring and whirling toward some outlet to one side.
Vorduthe came to normal awareness. He had not filled his lungs properly when he went under but did not have the strength to regain the surface. He realized that his best chance of survival would be to go with the stream and hope to be carried through the tunnel. He began to swim, trying to reach the center of the maelstrom whose outlet was at the far bottom of the lake.
His lungs strained for air. He bumped into something, was sucked into a thick confusion of mud and detritus. Vaguely he was aware of being carried along at speed, then his senses gave out.
When he came to, Donatwe Mankas and Wirro Kana-Kem were dragging him clear of a widening swamp of moss and green fluid. He forced himself to his feet, waved them away and looked out over the scene, breathing deeply.
The green lake was still pouring through the tunnel mouth. Hours would pass, perhaps, before it all drained away. Kana-Kem indicated a limp figure lying some distance from the tunnel, gradually being pushed down the slope by the flow. “That is Askon Octrago, my lord. Washed out like a dead fish. He could not dive like an Arelian!”
Vorduthe looked at the pathetic form with mixed feelings. “In some ways he was noble of soul,” he admitted. “He achieved remarkable things, despite his methods… such determination has to be admired.”
“His father, King Kerenei, died last night,” Mankas added. “He was a king himself, yet he came and fought you personally. That, too, was brave.”
Vorduthe sighed. “What of the rest of it?”
“We have won the day already, my lord. The heart went out of the Peldainians when the lake started to move, and even more so when their King Askon failed to surface! Most are dead, a few are taken prisoner.”
“Then it is all ours,” Vorduthe said. He stared into the rising sun. “This land was falsely promised to our monarch. We shall take the liar at his word. I claim Peldain in the name of King Krassos, his heirs or successors.”
“We still are few—even fewer, now. It is a big place.”
“Who is there to oppose us? The common inhabitants have no spirit of resistance, and besides their god has been destroyed.”
How could he explain what he knew, and how he knew it? That King Krassos was dead, the Hundred Islands torn apart by insurrection, Arcaiss sacked. Peldain would have to be put to work, a path cleared through the forest, ships built, an army of warriors trained. It was their task now to return to the Hundred Islands and restore Arelian greatness.
How long would it take? No matter. They would do it.
“First we secure this country,” he said. “Then back to the Hundred Islands. Arelia needs us.”
The strengthening sun was beginning to hurt his eyes, but he did not remove his gaze. He was glad of the excuse for tears.
For his thoughts were in Arelia. He was thinking of the villa on the headland. And only now could he dwell on his grief.
Also by Barrington J. Bayley
Age of Adventure
Annihilation Factor
Collision with Chronos
Empire of Two Worlds
Sinners of Erspia
Star Winds
The Fall of Chronopolis
The Forest of Peldain
The Garments of Caean
The Grand Wheel
The Great Hydration
The Pillars of Eternity
The Rod of Light
The Soul of the Robot
The Star Virus
The Zen Gun
The Knights of the Limits
The Seed of Evil
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