Vorduthe looked toward his monarch. Krassos was smiling. “The stranger has been interrogated at length,” he said. “If he is a liar, he is a convincing one.”
“Forty leevers of Peldain forest still sounds impassable to me,” Vorduthe replied, looking back at Octrago. “How did you cross it?”
“By means of a special route known to me which avoids the greatest of the forest’s severities. Even so we suffered much difficulty. Of fifty who set forth, only five survived to reach the sea, where we put out in a raft whose frame we had carried with us. Had our preparations been less hasty, we would have fared better.”
“Then you are not alone? There are others of you?”
“I fear not. For over ninety days we drifted at sea. We of Peldain have no experience as sailors. When an Arelian ship picked us up, I alone was left, my companions having died of thirst and myself nearly so.’
Krassos nodded. “He was in poor shape, that much we do not need his word for. And he comes from none of our islands, if I am any judge. But speak on, Octrago. Tell Lord Vorduthe the reason for so desperate a venture.”
The stranger drew himself up. He held his head high. “I, Askon Octrago, am the rightful monarch of Peldain, but I have not been permitted to take my throne. I suffer, my lord, from treason. On the death of my father, the revered King Kerenei, my cousin Kestrew gathered together a gang of ruffians and claimed the throne for himself. Peldain is a peaceful country, my lord. The king commands no armed forces. I was forced to flee for my life. Yet there is nowhere in Peldain where I could be safe. Therefore I and my loyal companions resolved to seek help from the islands we knew existed across the ocean.”
King Krassos took up the tale. “And now Octrago offers to become my vassal, in return for help in regaining his kingdom.” He clapped his hands. Vorduthe saw that his eyes were sparkling. “That’s it in a nutshell. What do you think, Vorduthe?”
Vorduthe pondered these remarkable words. It was not surprising that Krassos was aroused by the tale. The possibilities it opened were, indeed, enticing….
“What, exactly, are you proposing?” he asked Octrago, tilting his face in the typical Arelian quizzical manner.
“A comparatively small force is needed to take the kingdom itself,” Octrago told him smoothly. “Peldain has never known external enemies—the forest itself has been sufficient defense. And it is the forest that will be the greater foe. With my guidance, and proper preparation, enough men could get through the same route I came by. The rest should be easy. Later, I believe this route could be strengthened, the forest driven back. Peldain would have regular intercourse with the Hundred Islands—and would be added, I pledge, to King Krassos’ realm. That I rule as his loyal vassal is all I ask.”
“This matter needs thought…” Vorduthe cut off his own words. He could see that, in fact, King Krassos had already made up his mind. Here at last was a chance to do what his father had done, and moreover, to nearly double the size of the kingdom. The temptation was too strong to resist.
But now, from the shadows at the side of the audience chamber, another figure stepped forth. It was Mendayo Korbar, a member of the Defense Council and a squadron leader under Vorduthe’s command. He wore a kilt made of pieces of beaten silver, sword-shaped and riveted to a belt. On his feet, sandals of bark leather. His torso, gleaming with oil, was bare save for the straps that held his weapons.
With hostility, he gazed on Askon Octrago. “Sire, how can you trust this man?” he said bitterly to King Krassos. “He says he is a king. Yet all we know of him is that he was picked up out of the sea. He speaks the same language that we speak, when even among the islands different tongues may be heard, yet he claims to come from a land with which we have never had contact! I say he is an impostor, and that there is no country of Peldain. The forest covers all of the island.”
Octrago, stepping toward Korbar, moved in and out of the bars of sunlight that shone from the high mullions of the room and made a grill pattern on the tiled floor. When the light struck his head, his straw-colored hair seemed to flame.
His voice, with its weird accent, became cold. “The son of a royal household does not permit one of inferior rank to call him a liar,” he said. “Though I am a castaway in a foreign land, I am ready to meet and deal with that slight.”
He too wore an Arelian kilt, though of strips of stiffened reed paper dyed in a rainbow of colors, and in addition a tunic of light green flax. The king permitted him to carry weapons, and he bore a sword, carrying it in the Arelian fashion, hilt downward, the blade slung up and passing under the left arm to jut up behind the shoulder, held in its scabbard by a clasp. Clicking open this clasp, he drew the sword. “Take back those words.”
“Indeed I will not,” growled Korbar. His own blade whistled free and he waited for Octrago’s attack.
It came almost immediately. Korbar was carried back by the first rush and almost stumbled. Octrago’s sword edge nicked his forearm and spattered drops of blood. He quickly recovered, and for a short while the two blades flashed blindingly in a brilliant display. It was clear that Octrago, though fighting in a style different from that taught in Arelia, was Korbar’s equal.
King Krassos and Lord Vorduthe watched fascinated at first, but then the king became alarmed at the thought of losing either man. He shouted with displeasure and leaped down from the dais where he had been seated.
“Enough! Put up your swords, I say!”
The clash and sparkle ceased. Octrago’s sword slithered up its sheath and the clasp clicked as he turned to bow to the king. Sullenly, Korbar did the same.
“I have heard tales spun as convincingly in the market place, sire,” he grumbled. “I repeat, he is a storyteller, a tool of insurrectionists who wish to draw our forces away from the Hundred Islands!”
“If you are right, you will have a chance for revenge,” Krassos promised him. “I am tired of you both: leave me. Not, you, Vorduthe. I would speak with you.”
After Octrago and Korbar had departed in different directions, Krassos beckoned Lord Vorduthe close. “So what is your opinion?”
“For one who is supposed to come from a land without war, he is handy with a sword,” Vorduthe said doubtfully.
“He was not trained in Arelia, I’ll warrant.”
“Unless he is a master of subterfuge,” Vorduthe admitted. “Still, I think there is some merit in what Korbar says. There is unrest across the water. There may be a need to forestall rebellion shortly. I do not think it safe to split up our forces at present.”
“Ah, that is why I cannot come with you,” Krassos said sadly. “I must remain here to deal with what may arise. I will tell you of my decision. I believe this man Octrago tells the truth. He has described this land whence he comes, its geography, people and customs. Its beasts, and the predacious trees of the forest. Did he invent all this? I do not think so.”
“It is odd that of fifty who set out, only their leader survived,” Vorduthe remarked.
“Hm. Well, it is the leader who is strongest. And doubtless his followers were prepared to sacrifice themselves for their rightful king. You had better learn to get along with Octrago, Vorduthe, for you and he are to be comrades-in-arms. My mind is made up. I wish you to organize an expedition as quickly as possible. Octrago will brief you. Together, devise means of getting our forces through the forest. When you have sketched out a plan, come and talk to me about it.”
“You know, sire,” Vorduthe said in a low voice, “that I have reasons for not wanting to be away on a long campaign.”