Hammer and Bolter 6

by Christian Dunn

  He saw the elven warleader throw a glance in his direction. The grim warrior mouthed what might have been a curse.

  Calard couldn’t suppress a wild grin. With a shout of encouragement, Calard urged Galibor on.

  VII

  The ride through the forest was like a dream. Calard urged Galibor between the towering silver-barked trees for hours, ducking low-hanging branches and leaning forward in the saddle as the mighty warhorse leapt fallen logs, red and blue caparison rippling.

  With cloaks billowing out behind them, the elves incredibly kept pace with them. For the time being they appeared to tolerate Calard, though they did not even so much as acknowledge his presence.

  The white hart was tireless and swift, galloping ever onward, leading a twisting and turning path through the forest. Huge firs gave way to glades of leafless birchwood and yew, which in turn gave way to wintery oaks and ash.

  They passed crumbling ruins overrun with ferns and twisted roots, and Calard marvelled at a pale stone tower that rose like a needle, disappearing into the canopy. They passed through a grand archway created by two enormous trees whose trunks had came together and entwined around each other, like lovers. At one point Calard glimpsed a wide and fast-flowing river, half-hidden by banks of weeping willow, but the stag’s path veered away from this, turning what might have been north, or south; Calard’s sense of direction was completely befuddled.

  On the occasions when the canopy opened up, he glimpsed the constellations overhead, but far from allowing him to regain his bearings, he became ever more confused. At some points, it seemed as though the silver moon Mannslieb was higher in the sky than it had been previously, as if they were going backwards in time, and at other times he could not even recognise the flickering celestial formations. For one who prided himself on his knowledge of the astral bodies of the heavens, and had navigated his way across the Old World by their guiding light, Calard found this perhaps more disturbing than any of the other wonders he had seen that night.

  Through water-slick ravines and narrow canyons they travelled, always at speed, as if the dryad hunters were still snapping at their heels, though Calard had seen no sign of them for many hours. The screams of the Handmaidens of Winter could be heard on occasion, echoing in the distance.

  They passed an immense green-grey statue of a bare-chested elf – easily a hundred feet tall – with cloven hooves and the horns of a stag jutting from its brow. It was carved from a rocky spur jutting up beside an icy spring, and covered in ivy and lichen. Calard saw each of the elven warriors avert their eyes as they passed by, making a gesture of warding, or perhaps of respect.

  Thousands of glowing sprites joined them for a time, emerging from the boles of trees and from beneath fern-fronds. The tiny pixie that had attached itself to Calard hovered at his shoulder, tattered wings a blur of movement. She was garbed in glowing plate armour in mimicry of Calard’s own, and she wore a serious expression upon her tiny, pinched face. She clutched a miniscule lance under one arm, a ribbon-like pennant fluttering from its tip, and on her left arm carried a shield with the device of a man spewing forth a torrent of leaves and ivy from his mouth.

  Finally, the white stag eased its relentless pace and drew to a halt in a protected glade along the banks of a frozen river. The elves spread out, many of them ghosting back into the trees. Others took up positions nearby, leaping lightly atop snow-covered boulders where they crouched, bows in hands, watchful for danger. As soon as they were still they became virtually invisible; even those in the open were almost impossible to see once their cloaks were drawn around their shoulders and their hoods lowered.

  The white stag knelt in the snow, allowing the veiled lady to slip from its shoulders. Cythaeros was eased off its back by the leader of the elven warparty and laid gently upon the leader’s cloak, which he had spread out upon the ground in the lee of a stand of rocks. The wounded elf still wore his antlered headdress.

  Calard reined in Galibor, and slipped from the saddle. He moved towards the elven leader, who was kneeling beside Cythaeros, inspecting his wounds.

  ‘How is he?’ he said as he approached.

  His words were ignored, but Calard could see that the green-black tendrils beneath the unconscious warrior’s skin had spread. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark rings. He still clutched his large, curved hunting horn to his chest, even in unconsciousness.

  For a moment Calard was unsure if the elf was still breathing, and he feared that the frantic ride had killed him. Then he saw the faintest of breaths misting the air around the elf’s nose. For now at least, the elf lived.

  ‘I will pray for him,’ said Calard. The elven warleader grunted in what might have been acquiescence, and Calard moved around to stand at the feet of the injured warrior.

  He drew the Sword of Garamont and reversed his grip on the hilt before driving its point into the snow and kneeling before it. Ignoring the pixie kneeling in the snow alongside him, mimicking his every move, he closed his eyes.

  Lost in prayer, he did not hear the veiled lady approach.

  ‘He is the Morning Star,’ she said in fluent Breton, interrupting his communion.

  Her voice was strange, like three voices overlapping and speaking as one, yet he recognised it – it was the voice that had spoken in his mind just before he had seen the Green Knight.

  Calard kissed the fleur-de-lys crossbar of his sword, and pushed himself back to his feet.

  The veiled lady stood nearby, looking down upon the unconscious elf. Of the elven warleader, there was no sign. The white hart and Galibor stood together, drinking melt-water from the lake.

  ‘The Lady of the Lake would not have brought me to him if he were not important,’ said Calard, sheathing his blade.

  ‘We are all of us important,’ said the lady in her trinity of voices. ‘And yet as insignificant as leaves on the wind.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Calard, to which the lady merely shrugged.

  ‘Those creatures,’ he went on, seeing that she was not going to offer any further explanation, ‘what were they?’

  ‘The Shael-Mara,’ said the veiled lady. ‘Handmaidens of Winter. Dryads. They are furies, as twisted and bitter as their mistress.’

  ‘Are they... daemons?’ said Calard, realising only now that the sky was brightening. Dawn was close at hand.

  ‘In a sense,’ said the lady. ‘They are of the forest. They are the forest.’

  ‘But the fey and the forest, are they not bound to each other? Why would the forest seek to harm its elven protectors?’

  The veiled lady laughed at that, the sound strange and unearthly.

  ‘Have you never thought that perhaps it is not the elves that protect the forest from intruders, but rather that they protect intruders from the forest?’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. And no.’

  Calard shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘He is dying, isn’t he?’ he said, looking down at Cythaeros, whom the lady had called the Morning Star.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Is it not in your power to save him, lady?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘but I cannot.’

  ‘Why? You said he was important.’

  ‘He is of the highest importance, but it is not allowed,’ said the veiled lady.

  ‘And what of me?’ said Calard.

  ‘You will do what is right for you to do.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The path you walk is yours to choose freely.’

  ‘My place is in Bretonnia,’ said Calard.

  ‘A great darkness has risen. It threatens to engulf your homeland in eternal twilight,’ said the lady. ‘I see a black grail, overflowing with blood.’

  ‘Merovech,’ said Calard.

  ‘The same,’ said the lady. ‘His legions are on the march.’

  ‘Have you the gift of far-sight, lady? Can you see how far from Couronne Merovech is?’

  ‘He is close,’ whispered
the lady. ‘He will cross the Sannez within days.’

  ‘How can that be?’ said Calard in shock. ‘It would take him months to march through Lyonesse and L’Anguille!’

  ‘Time flows differently within the bounds of Athel Loren,’ said the lady. ‘It is like the river that you call the Upper Grismerie, and the Asrai call Frostwater – in places it runs swift and deep, while in other places it slows and pools, barely moving at all. Months have passed in the realms beyond the forest’s borders since you stepped foot within its bounds, Calard of Garamont.’

  ‘Months?’ said Calard. ‘My place is alongside the armies of the king! I must be away!’

  One of the elves standing sentinel cried a warning.

  ‘They come,’ said the veiled lady.

  The forest seethed with movement in every direction. They were surrounded.

  The warleader was shouting orders, and the elves formed a pocket of resistance upon the banks of the frozen river, facing outwards. He ushered the veiled lady into the protective cordon, and she remounted the proud white stag. Calard too slipped through the semi-circular arc of elves, who were preparing themselves for a final, last stand. They knelt in the snow, arranging their arrows point first in the ground within easy reach, and readied their bows.

  The sky was growing brighter. Dawn was less than an hour away.

  Forest spirits in all manner of forms were emerging from the forest on all sides, and the ground resounded to the rhythmic step of immense, as yet unseen, creatures of wood and branch drew near.

  Mounting Galibor, Calard turned the warhorse and moved into the wood elf battleline, ready to do his part in the coming battle.

  ‘No,’ said the ebony-haired elven warleader, his face stern.

  ‘I would fight alongside you and your kin, elf,’ said Calard.

  ‘No,’ repeated the elf, shaking his head. ‘You are needed elsewhere.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The King-in-the-Wood must be reborn come the first rays of dawn, lest the compact be broken,’ said the veiled lady. ‘We must away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Over the ice,’ she said.

  Calard turned in the saddle to look across the frozen river.

  ‘Then we all go,’ he said. ‘I will not flee like some craven coward while others fight my battles for me.’

  ‘No,’ snapped the elven warleader, his eyes hard. ‘It will not hold the weight of us all. Go!’

  The white hart was already stepping out onto the frozen lake. The ice groaned beneath its hooves, and cracks began to appear.

  ‘This is madness,’ said Calard.

  The creatures of the dark forest were starting their advance now, and the elves began to launch their first arrows high into the air. Each warrior had loosed three arrows before the first had even struck home, all with unerring accuracy.

  ‘Head towards the rising sun,’ said the pale warleader. ‘The Oak of Ages is near. Now go!’

  Calard glanced along the line of elves. Each of them knew that they would die here, yet they remained stoic and calm, showing no fear. Cold and defiant, their leader flicked his braided black hair over his shoulder, and turned his gaze towards Calard.

  ‘Go, kegh-mon,’ he said. ‘May Kournos guide you.’

  ‘Fight well,’ said Calard, before turning Galibor towards the ice. The white hart was standing twenty feet out on the ice, waiting for him.

  ‘Go!’ snapped the elven leader, ‘Now!’

  Calard nodded, and guided Galibor onto the ice. It shifted beneath Galibor’s armoured weight, and Calard swore. The mighty warhorse resisted him, trying to step back onto solid land. With a firm hand, Calard urged Galibor forward, stepping out fully onto the ice, praying that it would hold.

  The ice groaned, and he saw deep arcing cracks spreading across its surface. Swearing again, he kicked Galibor forward, racing the reaching cracks. The white hart began to gallop towards the centre of the frozen river, and Calard guided Galibor to follow.

  He saw the huge, curved hunting horn drop from Cythaeros’s lifeless fingers, falling onto the ice, unnoticed by the veiled lady. Calard made to ride on, then swore to himself and hauled on his reins, dragging Galibor to a halt.

  The sounds of the battle echoed out across the lake but the shore was hidden in mist. Deep cracks in the ice were reaching towards him, as if in pursuit.

  Calard slid from the saddle and dropped to the ice, which groaned alarmingly beneath him. Spider-web cracks were already appearing beneath his heels. Stooping, he picked up the hunting horn and swung back into the saddle as larger cracks began to appear.

  With a yell, he kicked Gringolet forward, even as the ice began to break up behind him. He raced to catch up with the white stag, the biting wind making his face sting.

  The sounds of the battle echoed out across the lake behind them. Calard turned to look back, but the shore was hidden in mist.

  The sky ahead of them was steadily lightening with the dawn, and the pair turned their steeds towards the rising sun.

  Without knowing exactly why, compelled by some sudden, wild instinct, Calard drew in a deep breath and raised Cythaeros’s curved hunting horn to his lips.

  A deafening blast issued forth, the note deeply resonant and sonorous. The sound boomed out across the lake of ice like a shockwave, before bouncing back moments later, reverberating off the distant tree-line and cliffs. Calard’s ears were still ringing when he heard an answering horn in the distance.

  Cythaeros stirred, raising his head briefly, golden eyes blinking. He mouthed a few words of elvish, before he slumped forward one more, unconscious.

  ‘The Wild Riders come,’ said the veiled lady.

  ‘Wild Riders?’ said Calard.

  ‘The Untamed,’ said the veiled lady. ‘The Pyremasters. The Hounds of Kournos.’

  ‘Are they friend or foe?’ said Calard, and even though the wind whipped his words away from him, he was confident that she heard him.

  ‘Neither, and both. They are dangerous, but they will see us safely on our path.’

  ‘Where? What path?’

  ‘The Oak of Ages.’

  VIII

  Racing the rising sun, Calard leant over the neck of his powerful warhorse, urging her on. She was tired, but galloped hard through the wilderness alongside the majestic white stag.

  It had grown steadily colder the nearer they came to the Oak of Ages. Frost had formed upon Calard’s eyebrows and unkempt beard, and he pulled his cloak around his shoulders, shivering. He kicked the ice off his stirrups, and brushed snow from his shoulders.

  He could sense that this was an old part of the forest, and he suspected that it had been here long before the birth of the Bretonni, perhaps even before the elves.

  Oaks large enough to hold small villages aloft within their branches rose above them, their gnarled limbs thick and heavy.

  An icy mist hugged the ground, despite the imminent daylight.

  Calard could not have said when the Wild Riders arrived. One moment they had been alone, the next they were surrounded by a great ethereal host of savage, unearthly warriors. It was as if they had materialised from within the mist itself, like wraiths or vengeful phantoms. At first Calard was unsure if they were truly beings of flesh and blood, or merely echoes of warriors long dead. Certainly they were more forest spirit than elf.

  Tall and proud, they rode snorting steeds as ferocious and untamed as themselves. Naked from the waist up but for sweeping fur cloaks, they appeared oblivious to the cold. Their torsos and arms were covered in intricate tattoos and war-paint that baffled the eye. The painted designs were in flux, shifting and writhing across their flesh, forming ever more complex patterns and swirling knot-work.

  Their flesh was tinged green, and their eyes blazed with fey light and callous savagery. Curving horns like those of young bucks protruded from their temples, revealing their animalistic nature, and they bared their teeth at Calard like wolves. Their mane-like hair was braided and long,
filled with sticks and ivy and bones.

  They carried spears and swords bound in runes and blood, and scorned the use of saddles and bridles. Skulls and severed heads hung from their belts, and bones and teeth were strung upon necklaces of sinew.

  They radiated a ghostly inner light, as if moonlight were trapped within their flesh, and they exuded an untamed fury that threatened to be unleashed at any moment.

  In some ways, the power emanating from the otherworldy beings was similar to that he had felt in the presence of the grail knight Reolus, though this power was far less refined, wilder and less unpredictable, and certainly more dangerous.

  As if hearing his thoughts, one of the Wild Riders turned and grinned savagely at Calard, white fire flaring in his predatory eyes. He saw the warrior’s muscles twitch, as if he were restraining the urge to lash out. The tattoos upon the warrior’s chest and arms writhed like constricting serpents.

  Transfixed by the gaze of the savage rider, Calard found his heart beating faster, and his breath quickening. Images of blood and destruction filled his mind, and he felt a sudden urge to howl at the moon and let his baser instincts overwhelm him.

  He wanted to run with the wolves, to join the hunt and hear the plaintive cry of the quarry as it was run down. He wanted to experience the joy that came as the prey was caught and torn apart in a glorious frenzy. He wanted to rip and rend at flesh. He wanted to taste hot blood in his mouth.

  Calard blinked and turned away, severing eye contact with the grinning, fierce warrior. Breathing hard, he mouthed a prayer to the Lady and clutched at the fleur-de-lys pendant around his neck. The barbarous creature laughed at his resistance to its savage nature.

  Others had joined their ride towards the Oak of Ages. Painted warriors with their hair stiffened into garish spikes ran alongside them, throwing themselves into acrobatic leaps and somersaults to the frenzied beat of drums, and immense warhawks the size of draught horses corkscrewed and dove through the branches overhead. Incredibly, elves were crouched upon the shoulders of these great hunting birds, and Calard marvelled at their preternatural skill and balance to stay mounted as their feathered steeds spiralled through the canopy.