“That’s a glum way of looking at it, Captain. I’m sure that under your command-”
“Yeah. We’ll see. Meantime, keep an eye on Pirrak.”
“You can count on it.”
“And get ’em ready; we’re moving out.”
They rode on for what could have been a quarter of a day, if they had any means of judging it accurately. The constant sun sat high in the sky, as it always did, and their sense of time was shot.
The landscape stayed the same, not quite lush and not quite scrub, until a change loomed. Ahead of them was the edge of a forest. It spread a long, long way to the west and east. Stryke halted the convoy.
“Through or round?” he asked Dynahla.
“Round is going to delay us a lot, and would probably be as perilous.”
“Forests are too good for ambushes. I don’t like ’em. Unless I’m doing the ambushing.”
“I could scout it for us. But if there’s no obvious trap in there-”
“You might not see it. I know. That’s why I don’t like forests.”
“Well, shall I?”
Stryke nodded.
The shape-changer took on a bird guise again, a small one this time, presumably to make it easier to negotiate the forest. They watched as it flew towards the tree-line, but lost sight of it before it got there.
There was such a long wait that they were starting to think they’d seen the last of the fetch. Then the bird reappeared, travelling at speed.
Back in his familiar form, Dynahla reported. “It’s big. Took me a while to get all the way over. I didn’t see anything that looked threatening, but that might not mean much. It’s pretty dense in parts, and dark.”
“We going to be able to get that through?” Stryke stabbed a thumb at the curious weapon.
“I think so. Though I expect there’ll be a certain amount of weaving about.”
“I suppose we’ll have to do it then.”
“Like I said, everything in this place has a purpose. The forest’s there because we’re supposed to enter it.”
“That’s another way of saying we will run into something.”
“Not necessarily. It could be just a forest. But it pays to expect trouble.”
“What the fuck,” Haskeer said. “We love trouble.”
“You’re unlikely to be disappointed,” Dynahla told him.
Stryke made sure everybody had at least one weapon close to hand, and got the archers to nock their bows.
They resumed their journey.
The nearer they got to the forest the more it came to dominate, and it became obvious that many of the trees were enormously tall. Entering it was like being swallowed by some gigantic beast composed of timber rather than flesh.
Mulch from untold numbers of rotting leaves carpeted the ground. That made for soft going, but slowed rather than totally hindered them. Generally, the trees were spaced sufficiently far apart to allow them to get through, although there were exceptions. Most obstructions could be steered round, but several times they had to backtrack and look for another way. Even so, they made reasonably good progress.
That came to an end when, by Dynahla’s estimate, they were about halfway. The area they were passing through was boggy, but deceptive because a covering of recently fallen leaves disguised the threat. The millipedes bearing only riders partially sank but scrabbled on. Seeing the danger, Stryke bellowed for the mounts pulling the weapon to be stopped. But it was too late. Under the weight of both the weapon and riders, the mounts floundered in the mire. The load they were pulling began to sink, and the band had to cut the millipedes free. By the time that was done, the weapon was stubbornly bogged down.
They tried hauling. But even the combined strength of the band couldn’t free the weapon’s carriage.
“We need something to lever it out with,” Haskeer said.
“We’re in a forest,” Coilla reminded him. “Take your pick.”
“That one should do it.” Stryke pointed at a nearby tree. “Get it down.”
Haskeer was first there. He swung his axe and whacked it into the trunk.
There was a distant wailing sound that stopped them all in their tracks. It was doleful. In its terrible despair it was almost beautiful. Others joined it, but they were angered, and soon the eerie chorus was one of fury.
“That sounds familiar,” Jup said.
“Yeah,” Coilla agreed. “Nyadds.”
“What are they?” Wheam asked. He looked spooked.
“Spirits of the forest. Or that’s what some called them back in Maras-Dantia. They’re forest fauns, and they’re all female. At least, nobody I know ever saw a male. They’re usually so bashful you wouldn’t know it if you walked right by them.”
“Except when you mess with their trees,” Stryke added.
“Is that so bad a crime?” Pepperdyne said.
“Each nyadd is bound in spirit to a certain tree. If it dies, the nyadd dies. When a tree’s hurt, like this one, they all feel the pain.”
“And they get very pissed off,” Coilla explained. “Jennesta’s said to be part nyadd, which should give you some idea.”
“What do we do, Stryke?” Spurral wanted to know.
“They sounded a way off, and we’ve still got to dig the wagon out. Let’s gamble on them taking a while to get here. Haskeer, the tree.”
“Seems almost cruel after what you said about the nyaads,” Spurral mildly protested.
“Got a better idea?”
“Hell, no.”
Haskeer’s axe bit into the tree. Several of the grunts joined in, and made short work felling it. Then they set to cutting the wood they needed. Soon they had a couple of stout levers, and a lengthy pair of planks to give the wheels traction.
Even with these aids it was a struggle freeing the weapon. Only once it was out and re-hitched, and the racket they had made had died down, did they realise that the wailing had stopped. The forest was silent.
Not for long. A crowd of figures emerged from the trees all around. They were tall, lean and olive-skinned, and their nakedness was partially hidden by ankle-length auburn hair. Their handsome faces were contorted with fury, revealing unusually white, and unusually sharp, teeth. They were armed; mostly with curved daggers, though some had snub swords.
A keening version of the wail went up and they raced at the band.
The nyadds had their fury. The wolverines had weapons with a longer reach. On Stryke’s order these were deployed. Nine or ten nyadds fell with arrows in their chests. It didn’t deter the others, and while the archers were reloading, the first of the attackers reached the band.
Stryke put down two with a single wide stroke. Coilla caught another with a throwing knife, and Jup leapt up to crack a skull with his staff. The dagger-wielding nyadds couldn’t get close enough to inflict much damage, but they threatened to overrun the band. More and more of them were streaming from the trees.
By a cowering Standeven, Pepperdyne lunged and ran-through an advancing nyadd. Nearby, Haskeer laid about them with his axe. Dallog’s unofficial unit were hacking in unison. But for all that it was like spearing fish in a barrel, the tide was relentless, with fresh attackers stumbling over the bodies of their fellows to get to the band.
“We’re not going to hold this for ever,” Coilla said as she slashed at a nyadd’s probing dagger.
Stryke parried a nyadd’s thrust, wrong-footed her and took off her head. Golden blood spattered his tunic. “Then we’ll go for their heart. Archers! Burnables! The trees! ”
They understood, and drew their flammable arrows. Flint sparks ignited the tar-soaked cloth and flame blossomed. The burning arrows streaked out and hit a dozen trees. Most took fire immediately.
An even greater wail went up from the nyadds. They backed off and stared in horror at the burning trees. As they watched, the orc archers loosed a second round, spreading the flame.
The nyadds weren’t simply routed; they forgot about the fight. Now many of them were showing signs of distress, and even pain. Some shook violently, some sank to their knees, some just collapsed. A cruel malady swept through them, and as the fires grew stronger their torment grew as well.