Tiphaine shook her head. “No, she is his daughter. A wonderful child, but wilful and drawn to troublemakers.”
“Like Kyarno?” ventured Leofric, nodding towards the reduced numbers of the Eternal Guard.
“Indeed,” agreed Tiphaine. “Cairbre will not be happy when he finds the lovers.”
Leofric blushed at such frankness, though it explained Cairbre’s anger at finding that Kyarno and Morvhen were missing from the glade of the Crystal Mere.
“Is she betrothed to another?” asked Leofric.
“Morvhen? No, she is not, but a wild one like Kyarno does not please her father, who fears he will lead her to ruin.”
“I can see why,” agreed Leofric.
“Truly it is a shame that love chooses you rather than the other way round. I knew she was planning to meet with Kyarno and had thought I had dissuaded her, but love is deaf as well as blind it seems.”
“She does not obey the wishes of her father?”
“Sometimes, but she can be capricious and I am only surprised she has not yet sought you out to speak to at length.”
“Me?”
Tiphaine nodded, moving to sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool and stirring it with a languidly circling finger as her fellow handmaids continued to swim and bathe in the spite-rippled water.
“Oh yes, I should imagine she will have many questions for you. Morvhen has an unhealthy thirst for knowledge of that which lies beyond our borders, foolish child.”
“Is it customary for the servants of your lords and ladies to be so forthright about their faults and foibles?” asked Leofric, knowing that he would have had his servants whipped for speaking in such a fashion.
“I say nothing to you that I have not said to her many times before.”
“Oh…” said Leofric, sitting a discreet distance from the beautiful elf woman, watching the warriors of the Eternal Guard glare disapprovingly at him. The sun shone on Tiphaine’s hair, making it glow as though afire and the shimmering fabric of her dress did little to conceal her pale flesh.
He looked away as Tiphaine said, “You still have not told me why you weep in this place of beauty.”
Leofric was silent for long moments, wondering whether to answer or not, but Tiphaine had shown him a kindness he had not experienced thus far in Athel Loren and he was strangely compelled to speak truly.
“My wife is lost to me,” he said at last. “The spirits of the forest took her. Winter dryads I think they were called, I’m not sure.”
“Ah… now I understand your tears,” said Tiphaine with a wistful smile. “Well, this is a good place to bring such sorrows, the waters are said to ease the pain of loss and remind us of the wonder of what was once ours. I came here when my brother was killed.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss, my lady.”
Tiphaine nodded in polite acceptance of Leofric’s sentiment. “I thank you, but it was many decades ago and the pain is lessened now by time and the waters of the Crystal Mere.”
“The waters take away the pain?” asked Leofric.
Tiphaine shook her head. “No, never that, for the pain reminds us of what we have lost and without that, the blessings of the life that has passed are forgotten. And that is the saddest thing of all, Leofric, to forget the joy of life.”
“I feel that more now, though the pain is still there,” said Leofric.
Tiphaine nodded. “Then your time in Athel Loren has not been misspent.”
Leofric was about to reply when the smile fell from Tiphaine’s face and a rustle of thickly-leaved branches shook the treetops, making the brightly patterned birds take to the air with a shrill caw of warning.
Though the sun still filled the glade with its golden light, a shadow passed through it, an elemental cry of warning as the spites in the water flickered into the air with primal hisses of rage.
“What is it?” said Leofric, rising to his feet as the handmaids began swimming to the edge of the pool and the riders of the Eternal Guard readied their spears with angry yells. Tiphaine sprang nimbly to her feet and called to her fellow handmaids as spites spun angrily through the air, flitting into the trees to the south and changing from shapeless glows to jagged, clawed imps with wings of light.
The Eternal Guard rode to the edge of the pool and began shouting in frantic elvish to the women in the water. Leofric’s warrior instincts now spoke to him of imminent danger and he shouted over to the Eternal Guard. “Give me a weapon! I can fight.”
If they understood him, they gave no sign, but continued to hurry the elven women from the water. Leofric felt utterly helpless and ran over to where Tiphaine helped her fellow handmaids from the waters.
He heard a sudden thunder of hoof beats and looked up in time to see one of the Eternal Guard punched from his saddle by a long, crudely-crafted spear hurled from the edge of the glade.
The elf cried out in pain and landed with a splash in the shallows of the pool.
Leofric spun to face the direction from which the spear had come.
Emerging from the trees were five hideous monsters, their brazen roars and twisted, mutated bodies marking them out as creatures of Chaos. Centaur creatures, they were red-furred and horned, their hideous bodies massively muscled and terrible.
With a terrifying, bestial roar, the monsters charged.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The tracks of their passing were easy to follow, the lovers not even bothering to conceal their flight into the forest. Cairbre’s anger and frustration grew as he rode deeper into the forest as did his fear that something terrible was going to happen. The forest had an ill-favoured sense to it this day and his warrior soul responded to its unease.
“Spread out,” he ordered, “and watch for them circling behind us. I don’t want to be away from the Crystal Mere any longer than need be.”
The two mounted warriors that accompanied him nodded and peeled away, eyes scanning the forest for sign of Kyarno and Morvhen, their spears held lightly at their sides.
Cairbre followed tracks that led him a merry dance through the thickly gathered trunks of the trees, his route taking him further and further from the Crystal Mere. Branches and fronds brushed him as he rode, their touch speaking to him of their unease and fear. Something was amiss, and to be abroad in the depths of the forest at such a time was both foolish and dangerous.
He still found it difficult to believe that Kyarno and Morvhen had defied the will of their lord and master once more. Such things were simply unthinkable— to defy the leader of a kinband was to break faith with those appointed guardianship of the forest and such a thought gave Cairbre cold shivers.
But beyond even that, he was angry with himself for allowing this to happen. He was Lord Aldaeld’s champion, the Hound of Winter, and to allow his charges to come to harm would be the gravest failure imaginable. The long centuries hung heavily on Cairbre and the twilight of his life was upon him more than ever.
This would not have happened even a century ago, when the summer sun cast its last rays upon his youth and vigour. He was slowing and knew it. His skill with a blade was unmatched by any save the deadly wardancers, but his strength and stamina were a shadow of what they had once been.
The Hound of Winter would soon no longer be the hunting beast of his master, but the aged companion that lives out its days in comfort by the fire. That time was not yet come, and until it did, Cairbre would serve Lord Aldaeld with all his devotion and love.
And if that meant that he had to throw Kyarno from Coeth-Mara?
The youth had had his fair share of chances and though none could doubt the tragedy that had befallen him as a youngster, there was no excuse for his continued reckless disobedience and disrespect.
The trees thinned and Cairbre halted his horse as he came to a leafy glade with white blossoms and shifting branches. Cackling faces creaked in the depths of the gnarled wood and the desperately alluring scent of honey drifted on the light breeze. He turned his horse away as the thorn bushes crack
led and moved, dark shapes within them shaking the branches in frustration as he rode away.
Cairbre knew the lovers would not have come this way, the malicious spites of this part of the forest serving to divert them from such a course. Leaving the treacherously scented glade, he rode back along the overgrown path, now seeing the carefully disguised tracks that looped back on the ones he had been following.
So their flight had not been as frantic and reckless as they would have him believe…
Kyarno might be wild, but he had a fine grasp of the hunter’s skills.
But the Hound of Winter had hunted the enemies of the Asrai long before Kyarno had been born and, though he may be getting long in the tooth, he had lost none of the fearsome skills that had seen him honoured as Lord Aldaeld’s champion.
And his title of the Hound of Winter was well earned.
He rode swiftly but silently through the woods, weaving between the trees and closing on a gathering of gently bobbing spites that circled in the high branches of the trees in the distance. Spites were curious, flighty spirits and were easily attracted to new things, and Cairbre hoped that they might yet lead him to Kyarno and Morvhen.
Laughter drifted to him and his jaw clenched as he recognised his nephew’s voice. Morvhen’s voice joined Kyarno’s, and there was no mistaking the tone as that reserved for lovers and those who had shared their bodies with one another.
Cairbre slid from the back of his steed and spun the Blades of Midnight in a tight circle, loosening the muscles of his shoulders and forearms as he closed on the sounds of the voices.
He reached the edge of another glade, moving as silently and stealthily as he was able, glancing up at the voyeuristic spites to make sure they would not give his approach away. Through the grass and obscuring branches he could see Kyarno and Morvhen lying naked on a bed of leaves and grass, enfolded in one another’s arms. He looked away, relieved that they were safe, but angry at the wilful defiance they had both shown.
Parting the branches with the Blades of Midnight, Cairbre strode into the clearing and said, “Get dressed, both of you. We are going back to the Crystal Mere.”
Kyarno leapt to his feet, reaching for his bow, but relaxed as he saw who had discovered them.
“Uncle,” said Kyarno. “You appear with monotonous regularity when I least wish you to.”
Cairbre said nothing, simply stepping forward and backhanding his nephew hard enough across the jaw to draw blood.
“You are a disgrace to your kin, Kyarno,” hissed Cairbre. “You insult your lord, you dishonour me and you dishonour yourself.”
Kyarno wiped the trickle of red from his chin and spat a mouthful of blood, his eyes full of controlled anger. Without a word, he set aside his bow and turned to pull on his clothes. Cairbre turned to Morvhen, his eyes averted as she too slipped into her clothing.
“My lady, I am disappointed with you,” he said. “I suspected you might try and see my nephew, but I had hoped you held me in enough regard not to.”
“I hold you in the highest regard, Hound of Winter, you know that,” said Morvhen.
“Then why do you try me so?” shouted Cairbre, taking hold of her arm and marching her towards his horse. “I am sworn to protect you, yet you behave like a spoilt child. You dishonour your father with such behaviour.”
“Take your hand from her,” said Kyarno.
Cairbre heard the note of warning in his nephew’s tone a fraction too late and turned in time to have Kyarno’s fist thunder against his cheek. He stumbled, but quickly righted himself, swinging the haft of the Blades of Midnight around and slamming it into Kyarno’s midriff.
His nephew doubled over, winded, and Cairbre brought the haft up sharply, cracking it against his jaw and sending him spinning backwards.
“Know your place, Kyarno,” said Cairbre, turning away.
Morvhen looked fearfully at him and he pulled her towards his horse, anxious to return to his warriors. He heard a cry of anger behind him and spun in time to block a hooking right cross with the haft of his weapon as Kyarno came at him again. He spun the Blades of Midnight, twisting Kyarno’s arm away and stabbed the blade into the ground between his feet.
Cairbre leapt into the air, twisting around the haft to hammer his boots into Kyarno’s chest and fling him across the clearing. He landed lightly as Kyarno rolled to his feet and shouted in frustration, drawing his sword and preparing to charge. Cairbre spread his stance, bringing the Blades of Midnight around to aim at his nephew’s heart.
He took a step towards Kyarno then jumped in shock as a long, blue-fletched arrow slashed through the air and hammered into the trunk of a tree, an inch from his head. Another shaft buried itself in the wood beside Kyarno’s head and the two combatants were suddenly brought up short.
Morvhen stood beside her lover’s steed with Kyarno’s recurved bow held horizontally before her, a fresh pair of arrows nocked to the bowstring.
“Both of you put up your weapons!” she yelled. “Or do I have to put arrows in you to get you to stop this madness?”
“Morvhen, put that bow down,” said Cairbre slowly, seeing the hurt in her eyes.
“Put up your weapons, both of you,” repeated Morvhen and Cairbre could see she meant every word. Slowly he extended a hand towards her, palm-up, and raised the Blades of Midnight until the weapon was upright beside him. Kyarno did the same, taking deep, calming breaths and sheathing his sword once more.
“Morvhen, be careful with that bow,” said Kyarno.
“Yes,” agreed Cairbre. “Please.”
“Be quiet, both of you!” snapped Morvhen. “By all the gods of the Asrai, I am heartsick of this constant battle between you. Why must you fight? You are kin!”
“He struck me!” shouted Kyarno.
“You struck me first,” pointed out Cairbre.
“Shut up! Isha’s mercy, can’t you hear yourselves? You are like children squabbling over a bowstave.”
Both Kyarno and Cairbre opened their mouths to argue, but the creak of the tautening bowstring silenced them both.
Morvhen wept bitter tears as she spoke again, “I hate this constant bickering between you. You pretend to all the world that you are enemies when everyone can see the love and kinship between you. You are bonded by blood and nothing can break that. As much as you might try to.”
Cairbre plucked the arrow from the tree next to his head and said, “You are right, Morvhen, but that does not alter anything. I have a duty to my lord and must fulfil it. You need to put down that bow and come with me back to the Crystal Mere. You understand that, yes?”
“I want to hear you say that you will stop this incessant feuding,” said Morvhen, aiming her words as well as her arrows at both Cairbre and Kyarno.
Kyarno nodded and Cairbre could see that, with the surge of anger drained from him, his nephew was deathly worried at what had just happened. True, there was a bond of blood between them, but Kyarno had struck the champion of Lord Aldaeld, and there could be only one punishment for such a blatant attack on the honour of an elven lord.
Cairbre sighed, his duty and honour warring with the call of kith and kin, and he turned from Morvhen to say, “Kyarno, you are my nephew and I love you dearly, however much you may not want to believe that. You have struck the champion of Lord Aldaeld and you know the penalty for such an attack.”
“Cairbre, no!” cried Morvhen.
“You would take my head with the Blades of Midnight, uncle?” asked Kyarno, trying to sound defiant, but Cairbre could sense the fear of his realisation.
“You know what you have done, Kyarno and were you anyone else, then yes, you would already be dead,” nodded Cairbre, looking beyond Morvhen to see his two Eternal Guard warriors approaching through the forest.
“It is time to leave, Morvhen. Lower the bow.”
Morvhen glanced over her shoulder at the approaching horsemen and nodded, easing the string on the bow and dropping to one knee to slip the arrows back into Kyarno’s quiver.
Cairbre turned his back on the Eternal Guard and said, “Only we three know of this and I see no reason to change that. Clean the blood from your face, Kyarno, and we will say nothing more about this for now.”
“You would do that?” asked Kyarno, obviously surprised.
“I would, but we have much yet to resolve, you and I, so let this be a lesson to you, eh?”
Kyarno nodded warily and retrieved his bow from Morvhen, swiftly cleaning the blood from his face as the two Eternal Guard rode into the clearing.
“I found them,” Cairbre told them needlessly. “Let’s get back to—”
Cairbre’s words trailed off as he felt the forest around him cry out in warning, the impending sense of doom he had felt earlier now filling him with dread.
Branch and leaf, earth and water cried out in loathing and Cairbre felt the soul of the land shudder at the touch of something terrible.
Now the growing unease he had felt earlier in the day became clear as the magic of the forest spoke to him of the intruders in its midst.
The creatures of Chaos were upon Athel Loren.
And Cairbre knew exactly where they were going.
Roars and war-cries filled the glade of the Crystal Mere as the beasts charged. Their brazen hooves threw up great clods of earth and grass and the forest itself trembled in rage at such gross trespassers. Leofric felt his limbs as lead weights, unable to move at the sight of such vile, terrible creatures of Chaos.
Memories of the fateful charge into the diabolical ranks of the daemon lord and the horrifying moments of blood and death against the Lord of the End Times flooded him, momentarily rooting him to the spot.
He heard a cry of warning, recognising it as that of Tiphaine, and shook off the torpor that seized him, running to the fallen elf with the beast’s spear wedged through his chest. Lady Morvhen’s handmaids ran from the water as one of the Eternal Guard began shepherding them towards the edge of the glade and away from the creatures of Chaos. Leofric saw Taschen at the edge of the glade, the beast’s eyes wide at the sight and scent of the beasts, but its spirit held it fast and prevented it from fleeing.
[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest Page 11