Hammer and Bolter 6

by Christian Dunn

  Salk then cut the manacles holding Luko to the back wall, and helped him to his feet. Salk’s words were getting through to him now, dulled by the ringing inside Luko’s head.

  ‘… have to go now! The Fists will be here in moments!’

  ‘Who… who is dead?’ said Luko. His own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.

  ‘Four or five of us, I think. Maybe dead, maybe hurt. There is no time to be sure. There is a way out through the far end, towards the archives.’

  Luko saw Apothecary Pallas emerging from the dust and rubble, together with several other Soul Drinkers. Two more were forcing the door off another cell and Luko saw it contained Librarian Tyrendian, the inhibitor collar still clamped around his neck to quell his psychic powers.

  ‘What of Daenyathos?’ said Luko.

  ‘He is not in his cell.’

  ‘I saw that. Where did he go?’

  ‘I do not know, brother. I have not seen Chaplain Iktinos, either. We must gather and find somewhere we can defend, brother. We are free, but not for long if we cannot make a stand.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, brother, I agree. We must move.’

  ‘What of justice?’ said Pallas. The Apothecary was standing just outside the cell, Soul Drinkers gathering around him. His hands were slick with blood – he must have tried to save Soul Drinkers who had been wounded in the blast.

  ‘Justice?’ said Luko.

  ‘We are renegades. We were brought here to face justice. Is it right to flee from it? And what will we do after we have fled? Fight all the Space Marines on the Phalanx? We have less than a company’s worth. There are three companies of Imperial Fists on this spaceship, and Throne knows how many from other Chapters. What does one more battle mean to us when the outcome will be the same? None of us is getting off this ship, captain. You know that.’

  ‘Then stay, Apothecary,’ said Luko. ‘While there is freedom left for us, I for one will grasp it. There may not be much left for us, but to die free is worth a fight, I think. Come, brothers! We need to leave this place. Follow!’

  Luko and Salk left the cell. Luko saw what remained of the Soul Drinkers Chapter – unarmed, bloodied, they were still marked by the manacles and shackles. But they were his brothers, and for one final time they would fight side by side. The Emperor only knew why Sennon had killed himself to buy this freedom for them – this was not the time to ask such questions. It was enough that they had the chance.

  Luko was a man who seized his chances. He took the bolter offered to him by one of the other Soul Drinkers, and led the way through the Halls of Atonement towards his final moments of freedom.

  Grail Knight

  Anthony Reynolds

  I

  Twilight deepened, slowly giving way to dusk. As the sun slipped over the western horizon, its last rays reflected off Calard of Garamont’s armour. Then it was gone, and darkness descended over the land.

  The ground was rough and overgrown, and a creeping mist hung low over the land. Patches of snow resisted the encroachment of spring, yet blooming wildflowers spoke of its imminent arrival. There were no roads in this wilderness, and Calard’s progress was slow. Ten miles behind him the rolling landscape gave way to the verdant pastures and farmlands of Quenelles, but here on the borders, the land was left untouched by human hand. The early ancestors of the Bretonnians had learnt that lesson well in centuries past.

  Calard guided his armoured warhorse up a steep ridge, picking a path through the heather and scratching gorse. The sides dropped off sharply, and the sheer slopes were strewn with rocks before disappearing into mist.

  His hair was long and unkempt and his cheeks unshaven, yet he radiated an undeniable nobility, and his battle-worn appearance demanded respect. His right hand rested on the pommel of the ornate sword at his hip, a priceless family heirloom said to have been blessed by the Lady herself. A second, much larger sword was strapped across his back. It was a practical blade, heavy and devoid of ornamentation, and was quite capable of cutting a man in half with a single blow.

  At the peak of the hill, Calard reined in his dappled grey destrier, staring to the east. From his vantage atop the ridge, the land spread out before him like a map.

  His gaze was drawn to the vast tract of primal forest dominating the view, now less than a mile distant. It extended before him like an endless dark ocean, its fathomless depths harbouring untold secrets and hidden dangers. Even this far off he could feel the power of the forest, a strange and ethereal miasma that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  This was the Forest of Loren, a place of nightmare and dream, magic and mystery.

  Its densely wooded edge resembled the soaring wall of some grand arboreal fortress, extending north and south as far as the eye could see. No tree strayed beyond its stark border, not even the tiniest sapling, as if an invisible force held it at bay. He knew that eventually the forest gave way to the foothills of the Grey Mountains, but from here it looked as though it went on forever. Low cloud obscured the highest treetops, and the canopy disappeared into haze only a few miles in.

  Impenetrable, dark and heady with ancient magic, the Forest of Loren had long resonated in the hearts and minds of every son and daughter of Bretonnia. From childhood they were raised on stories of the fabled realm, tales of capricious beings of inhuman beauty and trees that came to life, of mischievous trickster spirits and malicious forest creatures that ensnared the unwary. On any given night one could hear the stories of the fey being told in hushed tones across Bretonnia, from the campfires of the lowliest peasants, to the grand halls of the king himself.

  Few dared breach the borders of the ancient forest, and of those that did, fewer still returned. Those that managed to find their way out were more often than not discovered wandering its edges come dawn, babbling incoherently, their sanity shredded.

  Indeed, if even a fraction of the tales surrounding these wildwoods were true then it was a place to be approached only with great caution.

  Nevertheless, Calard felt no fear, for it was the will of the Lady, the patron goddess of Bretonnia, that he was here.

  The first stars were appearing, like tiny pinpricks in the roof of the world. Brightest of all was the evening star, hanging low in the eastern sky above the forest. Known as the Lady’s Grace, it was the first star to appear and the last to depart come morning.

  ‘As you lead me, Lady, so shall I follow.’

  For a moment longer Calard lingered atop the rocky bluff, breathing in the full spectacle before him. He could see a slender pinnacle of stone on the threshold. The evening star blinked above it, like a beacon.

  ‘Forward, Galibor,’ he said, urging his steed with a gentle kick. He rode down the ridge, towards the guiding evening star and the looming Forest of Loren.

  Twenty feet high and carved with elegant, spiralling runes, the waystone marked the very edge of the forest. Ivy clung to its smooth surface, and Calard felt a strange tingling sensation on his skin in its presence.

  Galibor stamped the ground, nostrils flaring. Calard could feel the warhorse’s powerful muscles tensing, and he gripped the reins firmly.

  Calard had ridden the destrier’s grandsire, Gringolet, as a young knight errant, and so knew the horse’s pedigree. The warhorse was feisty and bellicose in nature, and though she had only recently come into his possession, he had been assured that she was fearless in battle. He had no reason to doubt this, and knew that it was unusual for the destrier to display such unease as she now did.

  ‘Be calm, brave one,’ he said, stroking its neck.

  The warhorse relaxed under his trained hands, though he could still feel her agitation. Indeed, he felt a measure of it himself.

  As a boy, Calard had been taught never to stare directly at a deer or boar when hunting, for the animal would instinctively feel a hunter’s gaze upon it. Calard felt that same odd sensation of being watched now, a crawling feeling in the back of his mind. He felt vulnerable, like prey locked in the sights o
f some unseen predator.

  Tearing his gaze away from the waystone, he scanned the treeline. Shadows lurked within, but he could see no threat. Mist coiled from the gloom, insubstantial tendrils reaching out towards him. It wound around the legs of his destrier, which pawed the ground again, snorting.

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ said Calard, as much to convince himself as his horse.

  He dismounted, and took a few steps towards the waystone. Mighty oaks towered over him, their thick branches straining to breach whatever force held them at bay. It was cold in the shadow of the forest; an icy chill seemed to radiate up from the dark soil underfoot. A vague feeling of menace pulsed from within the forest depths, as if it resented his proximity to its border. Since he was a boy he had dreamed of the day when he would see the fabled realm, but standing now in its presence as night drew in, he wondered if his desire had been a foolish one.

  The previous night he had been a guest in the halls of Lord Eldecar of Toucon, an elderly nobleman of Quenelles, and a feast had been laid on in his honour. His quest precluded him for lingering though, and the entire hall had fallen silent when Calard had spoken his intention.

  ‘If I have caused offence, it was unintentional, and I apologise,’ Calard had said, unsure if he had broken some local protocol.

  Eldecar had waved away his apology, but his eyebrows were knotted in concern.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Eldecar had said, finally breaking the awkward silence, ‘but you do know, sir knight, that it is the eve of the vernal tide?’

  Calard had frowned and shrugged.

  ‘You have not lived your life in the shadow of the forest, so can be forgiven for not understanding,’ said Eldecar. ‘Even in Bastonne, you must have heard tell of the wild hunt?’

  ‘When the barriers to the otherworld fall, and the faerie court rides across the night sky? Surely that is merely superstition?’

  Eldecar’s expression remained grim.

  ‘As old as I am, I would cut down any man that called me coward,’ said Eldecar, ‘and yet I would not dare venture out of doors after nightfall on the Spring Equinox. Nor would any sane man of Quenelles.’

  ‘It is by the Lady’s will that I must go,’ said Calard. ‘My faith shall be my shield against any fey witchery.’

  ‘Then I shall pray for your soul, Calard of Garamont.’

  The words came back to Calard now as he stood at the edge of the forest, and an involuntary shiver passed up his spine.

  ‘Superstitions, nothing more.’

  Walking towards the slender stone marker, he drew the Sword of Garamont. Reversing his grip on the ancient weapon, he plunged its blade into the moist earth. Dropping to one knee, he pressed his forehead against the fleur-de-lys hilt of his blessed sword.

  ‘You have called, my Lady, and I have answered,’ he said. ‘Grant me the vision to know what it is you would have me do, and I shall gladly do it.’

  Falling silent, Calard remained motionless, eyes closed in prayer. As his breathing evened out and deepened, he felt a profound sense of peace descend over him. All his concerns and doubts washed away.

  It was not long before he felt a presence nearby. Opening his eyes, his saw a majestic stag at the very edge of the forest, watching him. It was huge, larger even than Galibor, and its branching antlers were easily ten feet from tip to tip. Its thick winter coat shone, ghost-like amidst the shadows of the forest.

  Never had Calard seen such a regal creature, and he scarce dared to breathe, unsure if it was real or imagined.

  With unhurried movements it walked into the forest. About ten paces in it stopped and turned to stare back at him. Its intent was clear; it wanted him to follow.

  Was this the Lady’s will, or some trick of the forest, attempting to lure him within its borders?

  Not for the first time Calard felt the desire to ride from this place, to join the king and face the undead legions of Mousillon that were marching, even now, against his homeland. Surely that was where he belonged?

  He shook his head to throw off these doubts. No, the Lady had brought him here for a reason, and he was honour bound to see that through to the end.

  Rising, he sheathed his sword and took the reins of his steed. Galibor did not resist as he led her towards the edge of the forest, though he could feel her trembling. He paused at the tree-line. The stag continued to look back towards him, waiting.

  ‘Blessed Lady, protect your servant,’ he said, and entered the forest.

  II

  A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold passed through Calard as he crossed the threshold of Athel Loren. The air felt instantly different, clear and crisp like a mid-winter morning, and the temperature dropped markedly. The biting chill filled his lungs, bringing with it the rich scent of the forest – a heady mix of soil, rain, rotting leaves and other less identifiable but not unpleasant aromas. His breath fogged the air. A low mist coiled around the twisted roots of the trees.

  Movement flickered on the periphery of Calard’s vision, and unseen things rustled in the undergrowth. He heard fluttering and chattering in the boughs overhead, and a tumble of twigs, dead foliage and disturbed snow fell around him, but he was not quick enough to locate the source.

  Massive oaks reared up, their trunks gnarled and old, their limbs heavy with lichen. Stars flickered in and out of view overhead, obscured by the criss-crossing canopy of skeletal branches. No new leaves or buds were in evidence; it seemed that winter still reigned here.

  The forest was painted monochrome in the deepening twilight, as if all colour and life had been leeched away in the winter months. The leafless trees were the colour of unyielding stone, and the blanket of ferns were shining silver, as if their fronds had been dipped in molten metal. It was a coldly beautiful realm, ghostly and silent.

  The white stag waited for him close by, half obscured by the low fog. It regarded him steadily, only turning and leading the way further into the forest once it was sure that Calard was following.

  While the creature moved effortlessly through the woodland, Calard stumbled over rocks and roots, and twigs scratched at his face and caught in his hair. It was as if the forest were purposefully making his progress difficult, hindering his every step. Even as he discounted the notion as foolish, his foot caught between a tangle of roots that seemed to tighten around his leg like a trap. He fell to his knees with a curse. He thought he heard high-pitched, childish laughter from nearby, but it was gone in an instant, and might have been nothing more than a trick of the wind.

  A glint of metal in the undergrowth caught his eye. Disentangling himself from the grasping roots, he parted the ferns for a clearer view.

  A corpse lay encoiled beneath the roots of a broad oak. It appeared to be slowly dragging it down into the earth, as if swallowing it whole, yet even half-buried Calard saw enough to recognise a knight of Bretonnia.

  The knight was long dead, his armour rusted and encrusted with dirt. There was not a skerrick of flesh left upon his skull, though tufts of matted reddish hair still clung to his scalp and chin.

  A slender arrow protruded from his left eye-socket.

  A hand on the hilt of his sword, Calard scanned the area for danger. Beams of silver moonlight speared down through the canopy, lending the forest a dream-like quality. Shadows danced around him and the trees creaked and strained like ships at sea, though there was no wind to stir their branches.

  Briefly, he considered digging the corpse free in order to give it a proper burial, for no knight of Bretonnia deserved such ignominy in death. He discounted the notion with some reluctance – the roots of the tree were wrapped tight, and would not easily relinquish their prize. He spoke a brief prayer, willing the knight’s spirit on to Morr’s kingdom.

  Looking back the way he had come, Calard expected to see the waystone marking the forest’s edge and the open land beyond. He had ventured no more than twenty yards into the woods, after all. The way behind him now looked as impenetrable as the way forward.


  ‘What in the name of the Lady?’

  He turned around on the spot, wondering if he had somehow lost his bearings. The forest stretched out in every direction, dark and claustrophobic. Its edge was nowhere to be seen. Calard’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognise a single tree or rock that looked familiar, nothing providing any clue to the way back out.

  The white stag too was gone. Forcing back his rising unease, Calard scoured the ground in a wide arc, but could not find its tracks. It had disappeared without a trace, as if it had been nothing but an apparition all along.

  Recalling the tales that spoke of the forest luring the unwary within its boundaries, and the inevitably grim fate that awaited them, Calard cursed himself for a fool. He had been so certain that it was the Lady’s will that he followed the noble creature, but now, alone and lost in the Forest of Loren as night descended, he was not so sure.

  Calard turned back. Perhaps it was just some trick of the light, he thought, and he would stumble out of the forest any moment.

  The woods became increasingly dense and oppressive the further he went, and within minutes he knew that this was not the way back. It was getting colder as well, the isolated patches of snow on the ground becoming an ever-thickening layer that crunched beneath his boots.

  Turning back in the face of this unnatural winter, Calard retraced his steps, intending to return to the corpse of the knight and pick another direction.

  Thankfully, the snowfall thinned as he backtracked. But there was still no sign he had passed this way before.

  Calard was an accomplished tracker and huntsman, and had lived for long periods in the wilds of the Old World. He was self-reliant and comfortable in such situations, confident in his own abilities. But here in the shadowy realm of Athel Loren he felt like a child lost in the woods, vulnerable and unsure which way to turn. His usually faultless sense of direction had deserted him, but he trusted his instincts enough to know that this was not some failing on his part, but rather that something was actively working to disorient him. It was as if the forest itself were conspiring to confound his senses.