“He is not dead!” a warrior rasped. “He still stands!”
“He is dead,” Octrago assured him. “He does not fall because already he is rooted to the soil, and the plant supports him internally as his body is converted into a bush. Yes, he is dead—but only by the mercy of the sword.” He paused, looking from man to man. “Spread the word—any man who has been struck by these thorns and thinks himself safe had best kill himself while he may.”
With one last glance at the still-transforming bush-harrier he turned and spoke to Vorduthe. “Burn this plant, my lord, before it begins to spit darts of its own.”
Lord Vorduthe fought his feeling of loathing as he issued the instructions.
The army spent a restless night. The surrounding forest seemed to become manic as darkness wore on. It thrashed, it writhed, and intermittently there were loud creaking sounds, almost like croaking shrieks, as though the trees were attempting to uproot themselves or to march upon the intruders. The netting shook constantly; hasty repairs were called for as ragged holes appeared in it. The perimeter barrier came under constant pressure; more than one wagon was knocked on its side.
At intervals blood-curdling screams signaled that another harrier had discovered himself host to dart-thorn seeds, screams which were abruptly cut short as the hapless victim was rescued from his agony by his comrades. Then the camp would flare with firelight as combustible oil was poured on the growing bush and ignited. The stench of burning half-men made sleep almost impossible.
Toward the end of the night panic gripped the resting men. Beneath them the ground had begun to heave and tremble. Octrago, roused from his slumber, barely muttered an explanation.
“I expect it’s the forest’s root system,” he yawned. “It’s detected us and is trying to get to us. Don’t worry, it won’t keep this up for long.”
In several places roots broke the surface and waved in the air like tentacles. But Octrago was proved right. In minutes the unnatural disturbance subsided. The roots had exhausted their energy in unaccustomed motion.
Shortly before dawn a rattling noise came from the upper reaches of the trees, followed by a rushing sound and then a prolonged crashing like that of waves during a violent storm at sea. After the initial fright the encamped warriors realized it was nothing more than a rainstorm blown in from the ocean. But only a few drops fell through the netting; the forest absorbed the entire downpour.
The storm finished abruptly, and the air began to lighten with the approach of dawn. Vorduthe made sure the sun was clear of the horizon (though its globe never actually became visible through the foliage) before preparations for the day’s march began. There was a hasty breakfast. Then the protective netting was carefully examined. It was found to be filled with dart-thorns of various sizes, some up to a hand’s span in length. These were all gingerly removed before the netting was rolled up and the perimeter barrier dismantled.
Not a man had slept except in snatches. Inspecting his haggard warriors, lords Korbar and Orthane by his side, Vorduthe found it easy to read the fear in their faces. But determination was still there, too—if only a grim determination to live.
“One more day’s march, my lord?” questioned a serpent harrier, almost pleadingly.
“We march till we are through,” Vorduthe told him bluntly.
Once he had checked the fuel wagons the column set out in good order, adopting the same formation that had been used the previous day once they were through the terror-hedge. Probers and cutters led each group. Behind them, where possible, came a firewagon, while other wagons were placed on the flanks.
The experiences of the day before had led to improvisation. Wagons emptied of supplies—mostly drained fuel wagons—had been broken up and the pieces lashed together to give makeshift cover. As many as could walked beneath these mobile roofs which were held aloft on staves, while others huddled close to the wagons.
The constant presence of the forest was preying on Vorduthe’s mind. It was as though some great beast, fastened to the ground by roots, were watching them as they crept through its fur.
He asked Octrago about this feeling. The Peldainian shook his head. “No, the forest is not a single creature. It is the same as any other forest, except that its plants prey upon animals and men.”
Korbar was walking with them. “The trees seem to act in concert sometimes,” he commented doubtfully. “Such as last night while we camped.”
“That is not hard to understand. If one member of a herd of leaping deer takes flight, the others will take flight. If one in a pack of legged snakes spots prey and courses after it, the others will follow. The trees sense when others around them are aroused.”
They continued with few words, except when Octrago was obliged to act in his role of guide. Sometimes he merely seemed to prefer high ground, as Vorduthe had noticed earlier, except when he steered the groping army clear of some grove or thicket he deemed particularly hazardous. But sometimes he would peer through the forest canopy to try to locate the position of the sun before choosing a direction. For all his seeming negligence, he clearly had a destination in mind.
Slowly but steadily the forest began to build up its savagery. The first few tree-lances hit the improvised shields with shocks and thuds and sent their carriers staggering, grateful for the protection. Then, with increasing frequency, there came trip-root, stranglevine, shoot tube, fallpit, man-grab, cage tiger, dart-thorn… all morning the column ground its way slowly through the jungle, suffering an enemy it could rarely fight, for the attacks came singly and to have used the fire engines constantly would soon have expended the available fuel. Even Vorduthe began to feel the weariness and despair of being constantly surrounded by sudden death. It was as though there never would be an end to this horrid forest.
And he could not avoid noticing that Octrago’s face, too, became increasingly drawn, though whenever he became aware of Vorduthe’s gaze he put on an air of confidence.
Then, without preliminary warning, a dreadful combined assault was let loose. The ground opened up beneath the trudging army as fallpits by the hundred revealed their terrible maws. Thick clusters of tree-lances and shoot tubes descended, knocking aside timber shields from tired arms before withdrawing aloft with a grisly harvest. Almost as swiftly, a swarm of danglecups followed, hauling up its own crop of screaming men who as they rose wriggled like dancing dolls.
At the same time was added the slam and bang of mangrabs, whose boles had been hidden by camouflaging bush.
A cry broke simultaneously from the throats of both Octrago and Vorduthe. “Scatter! Get away from here!”
But there was no one who needed prompting. Men were running, fleeing to either side of the broad, vague trail laid down by the column. Some became victim as they ran, plopping into acid-filled fallpit roots or lofted writhing upward by clutching green caps. Vorduthe discovered that Octrago was no longer by his side. He had bolted into the forest.
In moments Vorduthe, too, was seeking cover in unknown dangers, scything his sword over his head to slice danglecups that dropped on uncoiling threads, while all around him men went crashing through the undergrowth in heedless fear.
From many came shrieks as they met fresh terrors. But eventually the forest became comparatively quiet. Vorduthe found himself in a small glade. He poked the moss with the edge of his sword, turning it to try to find the smooth dark-green surface he had learned from experience meant fallpit.
He heard a rustling. A troop leader entered the glade. Like Vorduthe, he grasped his sword in his hand. Vorduthe could see that he was near the limit of his endurance, and perhaps was unhinged by his experience. His sword point wavered unsteadily as he caught sight of Vorduthe, as if seeking out his throat. For a moment Vorduthe feared he was about to attack him in his frustration.