He looked up at Vorduthe, his straw-colored hair shining through the metal strips of his helmet. “Are we ready to move, Commander?”
Vorduthe nodded. “Pick the spot.”
By his own account, Octrago had passed this way before. He smiled faintly as he inspected the edge of the forest, then pointed. “There is a suitable point for entry. Send a firewagon first, as planned.”
On the cindery shore, amid the rubble of tree stumps, the expedition was forming itself into a column. Vorduthe had appointed three squadron commanders to officer his force: Mendayo Korbar, Kirileo Orthane, and Beass Axthall. Under them, two score of troop leaders were busy putting the men in order. Between the wagons, each hauled and shoved by up to thirty warriors, the troops were to march two abreast—a formation made necessary by the denseness of the forest perimeter. Octrago had declared that a deft use of fire would see them through this outer, particularly hazardous fringe. About half a mile in, the forest would become less close-packed, and the procession could re-form itself into something less vulnerable.
Men at fore and aft shafts trundled a firewagon into forward position, the muzzle of its fire spout poking and waving at the forest like an admonishing finger. A serpent harrier squatted over its fuel tank. In one hand he clutched the swivel lever. The other held the string of the matchcord. His face was grim with anticipation.
Ahead of the wagon two testers walked, carrying poles to prod the ground for fallpits. Vorduthe issued the order to proceed, then took his place behind the leading firewagon, Askon Octrago by his side.
The wagon eased itself into the narrow gap between two blackened boles. The shadow of the overreaching branches fell on them.
And then the world he had always known, the world of sapphire sky and dazzling white cloud, of sparkling azure sea and wine-like air, was gone. The forest floor knew only a kind of green twilight, enlivened occasionally by sudden flashes of sunlight that darted through the shifting canopy overhead. Underfoot, the ground was moss-like. As for the trees, they were close-packed and Vorduthe could not for the moment discern any unusual features about them.
By his side, Octrago spoke in a murmur. “In the forest is a large variety of trees and plants,” he said, repeating what Vorduthe had heard from him in Arelia while they had planned the expedition. “Remember that only about one in twenty is lethal, but that it is impossible to tell which is which. That is what makes the forest so deadly, so treacherous. A harmless cage tiger looks exactly the same as a predatory cage tiger.”
Ahead, the wagon twisted and turned to pass between the tree trunks, which were of smooth, straight bark. While speaking Octrago continued to glance to left, to right, and up, sword still in hand as if he expected to be set upon at any moment by invisible assailants.
Suddenly he pointed up ahead with his sword. “Stranglevine! Call a halt.”
Vorduthe bellowed. The wagon creaked to a stop, and he called forward men with cutters.
The vine, a straggly net, hung from a line of trees a short distance ahead. It could be no more than inert liana, but as Octrago had said there was no way to tell by looking. The cutters edged forward, extending their long poles on the ends of which were blades that worked scissor-fashion. The blades sliced and cut, dropping lengths of vine to the ground. Finally the way was clear; the procession pressed forward.
Octrago picked up a length of vine, flexed it and shook it. “No reaction,” he said. “It would turn like a snake if it were killer vine.”
Vorduthe looked back over the line that was still entering the forest from the clean sunlight outside, twisting and turning as it wended between the tree trunks. He glimpsed the feathered helmet of his squadron commander Mendayo Korbar, who had been so bitterly opposed to trusting Octrago. They were roughly three minutes into the forest and so far its supposedly deadly ferocity had not shown itself. Could it be that the dangers had been exaggerated?
As the thought entered his mind there came a dull thwack and something shot out of a thicket: a pointed bamboo-like shaft which speared down from the crown of a tree. It transfixed a warrior through the chest.
What followed was almost obscene. The other end of the shaft was still anchored to the tree that had launched it. Having made its strike, it began to elevate itself, like a phallus becoming erect, lifting the warrior into the air.
The serpent harrier squirmed and clutched at the shaft. Then he gave one last spasm and hung limp and motionless, thirty feet off the ground.
“Cut him down!” someone demanded in an angry growl.
“No!” Octrago warned. “We must keep going—it is dangerous to linger.” He turned to Vorduthe. “This was agreed. The dead must be left where they fall.”
“Fall is hardly the word,” Vorduthe responded glumly. “But I suppose you are right.”
He signaled. Reluctantly, the men left their dead comrade. The column resumed its slow march.
Then the surrounding forest seemed to erupt. It was as if an army of spearmen ambushed the procession. From both sides the bamboo lances lunged down, some failing to find a target, but many ripping through armor and flesh.
The thought came to Vorduthe that his men were like fish in water being speared by stalking hunters. “We are in a spear thicket!” he heard Octrago saying. “Use fire!”
There was no need for Vorduthe to give the order. As the ranks of living spears rose, lifting aloft wriggling bodies by the dozen, the firewagons were already being brought into play. Flame gushed to left and right. Fretworks of fire ran along twig and stem, consuming leaves and flowers. Sap exploded, trunks became pillars of flame.
Acrid smoke obscured the scene. When it cleared, the attack was over. The trees, however, still blazed, crackled and popped. Vorduthe looked aghast at the grotesque honor guard made by the upraised spears and their gruesome burdens. He must have lost fifty men.
“We must move quickly,” Octrago gasped, coughing in the smoke and heat. “The forest is aroused. We have to reach more open ground.”
“You directed us this way,” Vorduthe accused. “Could you find no better path?”
Octrago did not answer, but in his heart Vorduthe had not expected him to. He turned away as archers aimed at their comrades still squirming on the bamboo shafts. That was another rule he had been forced to adopt: they could not carry any seriously injured.
The column started up again, but had walked only yards when a scream came from Vorduthe’s rear, accompanied by a gurgling noise.
He dashed back along the line. The ground had opened beneath the feet of a serpent harrier, tumbling him into a pit whose tapering sides were lined with root-like substance. A nauseating, acrid stench floated up from the hole. The serpent harrier, still screaming, was floundering eight foot down in a bath of acid which came nearly to his neck.
As Vorduthe watched, broad green-brown leaves uncurled from the rim of the pit. In seconds they had made a surface not easily distinguishable from the ordinary forest floor, and the dying warrior’s shrieks were muffled.
As Vorduthe tested this lid with his sword and found it of the consistency of wood, Octrago pushed his way toward him. “It’s a fallpit,” he said glumly. “Our fire engines can’t deal with those, I’m afraid.”
A warrior’s face reddened within the ribwork of withe and metal strip that protected it. “But we walked over that spot ourselves!” he protested angrily. “The wagon went over it too!”
“A fallpit’s lid is solid most of the time,” Octrago said distantly. “It might allow one man, ten men, even a hundred men to step on it before its muscle relaxes. Beneath, the plant consists of a deep hollow root partly filled with digestive acid. Apart from the lid, nothing of it grows above ground.”