The Forest of Peldain

“Excellent!” he declared. “Well, let’s get going. We should be through by morning.”

They cast off, allowing the stream to carry them. The tunnel stretched ahead, a straight, continuous bore. Unlike the route from the forest to the cavern, it was clearly the work of man.

On and on the three boats moved, gliding gently through the darkness, for here there were no hazards and therefore little need of light. If a boat bumped into the wall of the canal it was easily pushed off before it jammed itself. Vorduthe arranged for the men to get some sleep, resting in shifts. And he even slept an hour or two himself.

At one point they encountered an obstacle. Light from a brand revealed a rockfall that partially blocked the way. A spell of work was required to clear the obstruction sufficiently to allow the boats to pass. They continued, until Octrago who had spent the whole time peering eagerly into the blackness, announced he could see light. In the minutes that followed the illumination grew, streaming in from the glowing circle ahead.

They had come through.

Chapter Eight

On its final approach to the exit the formerly circular tunnel narrowed, and the roof rose to elongate itself into a pointed arch. Through this constricted passage, framed at the opening with cut stone, the boats floated gently into morning daylight.

The slightly quickened water rippled. The travelers had emerged from what Vorduthe saw was a vertical gash in a mound-like hillside shaggy with grass and shrub. The underground stream issued into a peculiar gorge, or valley, bounded by cliffs that resembled long barrows or promontories projecting from the hill-mound on either side of the fissure.

The cliffs were oddly rounded, bulging, overhanging the valley floor a little, their vaguely undulating outlines twinned. Downstream they parted steadily so that the valley widened, as they tapered to about half their original bulk at their extremity. There, they ended in sudden up-thrusting crags that jutted like weirdly shaped sentinel towers.

Beyond the stark buttes, at what distance it was hard to estimate, a mountain range filled the horizon, its peaks rising steep and jagged against the early morning sky: the Clear Peaks of which Octrago had spoken.

As the valley became wider the stream meandered, becoming to all intents and purposes a natural river which eventually carried the boats onto a level plain. Astern, the valley with its diverging barrow walls receded. The Forest of Peldain had vanished; but the new landscape over which the river wandered was not without its vegetation. Dotted about it were trees whose predatory aspect was familiar to anyone who had experienced the terrors of the forest: limber, swaying trees with long whiplashes which they cast constantly about as if searching for food. Octrago regarded them with a glum expression. He seemed, Vorduthe thought, disappointed to find them there. But nothing was said, until one of the trees loomed up rooted to the side of the river, its lashes easily reaching to the opposite bank.

Then he ordered the pods out of the water to be carried half a leever downstream, giving the whip tree a wide berth.

The river journey continued. The sun rose higher in the sky and the Clear Peaks became gradually larger. By now everyone was hungry, but Vorduthe refrained from asking Octrago when and how food might be found. Seaborne warriors were traditionally scornful of comfort and there were no complaints.

The tallest peaks were streaked on their pinnacles with something white that shone in the sun. When asked about this, Octrago stared at him in bemusement.

“It is snow. Do you not know what snow is?”

“But that is only found in the far north.”

“It also forms at high altitudes, where the air is thin. There are no tall mountains, then, in the Hundred Islands?”

Still mystified, Vorduthe shook his head.

“Luckily we shall not have to climb so high,” Octrago assured him. “We are less than well equipped to do so, I assure you.”

When the mountains came near enough to seem oppressive the river swung to the west, seeking lower ground. Vorduthe queried if it was not time to quit the boats and proceed on foot, but Octrago advised that they should wait awhile.

The reason soon became apparent. A grove of trees came in sight. Not whip trees, or anything resembling the horrors of the forest, but on the other hand they were equally unlike anything the men from the Hundred Islands were used to. Within the lush foliage their branches formed rough grids, somewhat like cooking-grids, and from these hung bulbous fruit.

“This is it,” Octrago announced. “We disembark here.”

As soon as the prow of the pod hit the bank he stepped from it and carefully scrutinized the grove, as though to make sure it was safe. Then he moved into its shade and reached up to pluck a yellow fruit.

It almost fell into his hand. Without hesitation he bit into it, chewed, then gestured to the others.

“Eat. It’s good.”