[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill

  “Time to be away from this place,” he whispered to himself as he dismounted and unbuckled the girth. He looked for somewhere to hitch his steed’s reins, but saw nothing that would serve. He turned back to the horse and watched with amazement as the glowing spites — that seemed now to be his constant companions — flitted past his head and vanished into the low, twisting branches of the tree. The wood writhed and swelled, growing and reshaping itself into a knotted branch at just the right height to form a hitching rail.

  Leofric chuckled, already becoming more used to the strange creatures of the forest, and said, “Thank you, little ones,” as he hitched Taschen’s reins to the newly formed branch. The glowing spites emerged from the wood and resumed their bobbing pattern above his head as he began stripping the tack from his horse.

  With a grunt, he hauled off the saddle and dropped it onto the hitching rail then began rubbing down the flanks of his weary horse. In this place of magic and mystery, there was a reassuring sense of reality in this simple task that, ordinarily, he would have ordered his squire attend to.

  Having seen to the needs of his mount, who now began feeding on the long grass, he entered the chambers Naieth had escorted him to. She had left him to his own devices, saying, “Rest well, Leofric, we will talk again soon.”

  He had merely nodded, seeing no reason to speak to her of his plans to depart Athel Loren this very night. As he had watched her depart he felt no guilt at this deception, merely a desire to be away and to be reunited with his son.

  Inside, the trees and branches of his chambers smelled of warm jasmine and were filled with light, softly glowing traceries as though the sap within ran like liquid amber. He saw the same bed of leaves where he had awoken and, beside it, a deep wooden bowl of water and another set of fresh clothes, identical to the ones he wore.

  But beside them — and a much more welcome sight — was a tall, intertwined arrangement of branches upon which was hung his armour, polished to a mirror sheen, and his scabbard. The hilt of the Carrard sword glittered in the fading light and he marched across the chamber to grasp its soft, leather-wound hilt.

  Drawing the sword, he cut the air with its silvered blade, running through a series of martial exercises designed to loosen the muscles of his shoulder. He frowned as he swung the blade, twisting its length through the air in a series of dazzling thrusts, ripostes and cuts. Though he performed each move flawlessly, the sword’s weight felt strangely different, and it took Leofric several moments to realise why.

  Next to the elven blade he had wielded in battle earlier, this sword felt clumsy and inelegant, heavy and ponderous, though he knew the blessing of the Lady was upon it and it was many times lighter than any similar blade.

  Disturbed, he sheathed the sword and placed his palm against the breastplate of his armour. The surface was smooth to the touch and the gold chasing along its edges and the unicorn in its centre shone like fire with the touch of the setting sun.

  Leofric turned from his armour and stripped off the bloodstained clothes he wore, washing himself with water from the bowl and using the bunched garments as a cloth. When he was as clean as he could make himself, he dressed quickly in the fresh attire, noting that the scar on his hip from the forest spirit’s attack had completely vanished. Leofric was a fast healer, but he knew that such speed was unnatural — there was not even a blemish to mark its passing.

  Perhaps the waters of the Crystal Mere had healing properties beyond those of easing the torments of the bereaved?

  Putting the vanished wound from his mind, Leofric lifted his greaves from the frame of branches, buckling them onto his shins. Normally he would be wearing quilted hose beneath his armour, but there was no sign of the ones he had been wearing upon entering Athel Loren, so he had to content himself with buckling the armour on tighter than normal.

  Piece by piece, Leofric donned his armour, shrugging into his heavy mail shirt and coif and wincing as the links bit into his skin through the thin shirt he wore. Silver moonlight streamed into the chamber as he lifted the breastplate and fitted it across his chest, smiling at the familiar feel of armour again.

  Only then did he realise how difficult putting it on was going to be without his squire to help him.

  With some difficulty, and not a little distraction from the curious spites that circled him, he was able to get one strap buckled and reached around in vain for the next.

  “Instead of just watching me, it would be useful if you could help,” snapped Leofric as a spite shaped like a tiny dragon circled his flailing hands as he tried to grasp the next buckle.

  No sooner had he spoken than he felt the buckle pressed into his palm and looked down to see a tiny glowing figure, no larger than his hand floating beside him. Like a miniature elf, the small, red-capped figure smiled with a wicked grin and nodded towards the next buckle.

  “Now then, what are you, my little friend?” asked Leofric, but the diminutive creature didn’t answer, content merely to hover in the air beside him. Despite himself, Leofric couldn’t help but smile at this absurd little creature. Here, in this place, he supposed he should not be surprised at anything anymore.

  “Thank you,” he said, pleased that the little spites appeared to have taken a liking to him. “Your help is most welcome.”

  The glowing spite giggled, the sound like the chiming of glass, and Leofric buckled the strap of his armour and moved onto the next, not surprised when it was also pressed into his hand.

  “I may make you my squire…” said Leofric, the smile falling from his face as he suddenly pictured Baudel, his guts spilling over the forest floor as he was disembowelled by one of the deadly forest spirits. Without speaking again, he finished donning his armour and turned to put on his sword belt.

  He felt better now that he was armed and armoured once again, as though the mere act of putting on the apparel of a knight of Bretonnia had reminded him of his duty, a duty the magic of this forest seemed keen to erode the memory of.

  He drew his sword once more and dropped to his knees, holding the sword by the hilt with its point resting on the soft floor of the chamber. Taking Helene’s favour, he wrapped the scarf around the hill and quillons of the weapon, entwining it with his fingers as he knelt in prayer.

  Closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the pommel of his sword, Leofric softly recited the vow of the knight: “Lady, I am your servant and in this time of trial I once again offer you my blade and service. When the clarion call is sounded, I will ride out and fight in the name of liege and Lady. Whilst I draw breath the lands bequeathed unto me shall remain untainted by evil. Honour is all, chivalry is all. Such is my vow.”

  With each word spoken came a feeling of peace and tranquillity and Leofric knew that his prayer had been answered.

  He stood and sheathed his sword in one smooth motion, lifting the last of his armour from the frame. He slid his helm over his head and snapped shut the angled visor, before turning and marching from the chamber.

  The Lady herself had come to him, easing his troubled mind, and he knew that the time was now right for him to leave Athel Loren.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Even at night, Coeth-Mara was a place of light and magic, the boughs and branches of the forest garlanded with moonlight and starfire. Snow was falling, carpeting the ground in white and the sense of hostility Leofric had felt before was much lessened now, though he knew that the forest would never be a safe place for a human.

  His armour chafed against his skin and clanked loudly with every step, but Leofric knew there was no sense in trying to be stealthy — such a thing was next to impossible in a suit of heavy plate armour anyway. He left the chamber of branches and passed through the blurred boundary between his dwelling and the forest itself, seeing Taschen still feeding on the grasses of Athel Loren. The horse had eaten its way through a wide swathe of grass and Leofric rubbed his mounts neck, saying, “Elven grass obviously agrees with you, my friend. I wonder, would you prefer it to grain?”

>   Taschen ignored him as he threw his saddle blanket over the horse’s back then lifted his saddle from the spite-formed hitching rail. It had been many years since Leofric had saddled a horse himself and the process took longer than he remembered it taking Baudel. Nevertheless, it was a skill that, once learned, was never forgotten, and soon he had his steed saddled and ready to ride.

  Leofric climbed into the saddle, settling himself and adjusting his scabbard before grasping the reins and spurring his horse onwards into the night.

  In the veiled twilight of darkness, the forest was perhaps even more spectacular than during the day, though there was a chill to the air that felt to Leofric like the depths of winter rather than its onset. The sense of time slipping away from him felt more acute at night, as though the moons above him were circling the world differently.

  He angled his horse along a trunk-lined processional, the leafy arches shining with reflected light from the glittering snowflakes on the wide leaves and drooping foliage. As spectacular as it was, there was also something infinitely sad and fearful to the forest, a sense of things dying and never to be seen again. Leofric felt a sense of ancient melancholy as he rode through the leaf-strewn paths of Coeth-Mara, the sounds of faraway voices and tree-song filling him with an unexpected wistfulness.

  “I will remember this,” whispered Leofric. “For good and ill, I will remember this.”

  Whether it was the moonlight shadows or his apparent acceptance by the forest, he did not know, but he could now clearly see the softly lit outlines of tall columns of trees and gently curving roofs of branches and leaves. He had noticed the same thing upon his return to Coeth-Mara, but only now in the moonlight were the song-woven structures of the elven halls truly visible. Only a day before he would have ridden through here and seen nothing of Lord Aldaeld’s domain and Leofric’s would have been the loss.

  But for all its beauty, it was still a place of shadows and fear. It was still the forest that had taken his wife and though the pain of her death was still fresh, it felt like a lifetime had passed since the spirits of the wood had taken her. He could feel the pain of her loss diminishing, as though the forest itself sought to heal his hurt, and knew he had to leave before he forgot her completely.

  He could feel many eyes upon him, though he saw not a single soul. The eyes of Athel Loren were ever watchful and he knew that his departure from Coeth-Mara would already be known. He gripped the hilt of his sword, hoping that he would not need to draw it, but knowing that such a hope was ultimately doomed.

  A red-furred wolf padded softly from the trees, its coat gleaming like copper in the moonlight and its eyes a glistening red. A golden hawk with a curious expression sat on its back and examined him carefully. Leofric tensed, wondering if the wolf would attack as it turned to face him and bared its fangs.

  But before the wolf could advance, a hunting hound with fur the colour of snow ghosted from the shadows, a low, threatening growl building in its throat.

  Leofric slowly drew his sword, holding it close to his side as the hound leaned forwards and barked in the wolf’s ear. The wolf ignored the hound and took slow, stalking steps through the snow towards him, never once taking its eyes from his. Leofric rubbed Taschen’s neck as the animal approached.

  He raised his sword and pulled on his horse’s reins to better angle himself to meet the wolf’s attack.

  As he drew back his sword arm, a gentle voice whispered, “I wouldn’t if I were you…”

  Leofric risked a glance over his shoulder, seeing Morvhen Eadaoin atop a glorious roan mare with a mane the colour of snow on the mountains. She had changed from her red dress into more practical attire of buckskin trews and a feather-laced jerkin with strips of gold woven into the fabric. Her long, chestnut hair was teased up into a high, feather-woven cascade of silver pins, leaves and braids. Her long, delicate features were curious and unafraid, her wide eyes dark in the shadowy night.

  “What are they?” asked Leofric.

  “Spirits of the wild,” said Morvhen. “The spirits and beasts of the forest have a strange relationship and not even we really understand it.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “That depends on whether you mean them harm,” said Morvhen. “Do you?”

  Leofric shook his head and sheathed his sword as the hound again barked at the wolf. The wolf stopped in its tracks and held his gaze for a second more before bobbing its head towards Morvhen and turning to pad back the way it had come, crossing the path and disappearing into the forest across from them. Satisfied that the wolf had gone, the hound also bowed its head to Morvhen and ran off into the forest after its red-furred companion.

  Leofric let out a deep breath, shaking his head at such strangeness.

  “Where are you going?” asked Morvhen. “Are you leaving my father’s halls?”

  “I have to,” said Leofric, raking his spurs back and riding onwards. “I have to return to my son and my lands.”

  “Yes, you said that before,” said Morvhen, riding to catch up. “I didn’t think you really meant it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Morvhen, pointing at the glowing spites that followed Leofric. “It doesn’t look like they want you to leave and my father says that you humans change your minds all the time. I just thought that once Coeth-Mara welcomed you, you might want to stay for a time.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That once you’d seen how beautiful Athel Loren was, you’d want to see more of it and speak more with me. I told you, I want to hear all about your adventures.”

  “No,” said Leofric, halting his horse. “I meant what you said about humans changing their minds. What do you mean?”

  Morvhen pulled ahead of him, riding her horse in a tight circle and Leofric could see that she was armed. An elven bow was slung from the flank of her steed and she wore a narrow, short-bladed sword across her back. Had she come here to stop him leaving?

  Cunning of them to send a woman, knowing he would not harm her.

  “Well, he says that you make war on each other all the time and that a human’s word is like summer mist. My father fought in a land called the Empire before I was born in the time when they had three emperors. He said that the leaders of the humans couldn’t decide on who was to rule them and that they fought bitter wars with one another with alliances like shifting sands.”

  Leofric cast his mind back to Maixent’s history lessons in the draughty garrets of Castle Carrard, trying to recall his teachings of the land of Sigmar to the north of Bretonnia. Since the time of Magnus the Pious, a single Emperor had led the Empire, though there had been a time…

  “But that was over five hundred years ago,” said Leofric. “How could your father have fought in the Empire then?”

  “He was young then,” admitted Morvhen. “But we elves have a greater span of years than you humans. Didn’t you know that?”

  “There are stories that say you are immortal, but I had taken them for flights of fancy. I never believed you were so long-lived.”

  Morvhen laughed. “We are not immortal, Leofric. Nor is it that we are long-lived. It is just that your kind exists so fleetingly that all others appear to be immortal. It is no wonder your people live such rushing, desperate lives. To have such a limited time to experience the joys that life has to offer must be terrible indeed. How do you cope with it?”

  Leofric tugged on Taschen’s reins and rode around Morvhen, saying, “You have never ventured beyond the borders of Athel Loren, have you?”

  “No. What has that to do with anything?” replied Morvhen, riding to catch up with him once more.

  “It means that you have no idea what you are talking about,” snapped Leofric. “Try living in the world beyond your cosy forest paradise and then ask me about the joy of living, little girl! I have been a warrior for most of my adult life. I have killed men and I have killed monsters. I have seen good men slaughtered by warriors of the Dark Go
ds and seen my wife murdered by the creatures of this damned forest. So don’t you dare talk to me about living! I have done my share of living in the brief span allowed to me by the gods and I am going home to spend the rest of it with my son.”

  Morvhen’s jaw dropped open and Leofric could see that she had clearly never been spoken to in such a manner. No sooner had her shock faded than her regal blood flushed her face and she said, “I forbid you to go. I want you to stay and tell me of faraway lands, of monsters you have slain and wars you have fought.”

  “You want to know about the wars I have fought?” demanded Leofric.

  “Yes,” said Morvhen. “I do.”

  “Very well, Lady Eadaoin. Shall I tell you of men screaming for their mothers as their guts spill from their bellies, of boys carried from the field of battle with their legs no more than a bloody pulp because they tried to stop a rolling cannonball? Is that what you want to hear? Or maybe I should tell you of the women beaten and raped by passing soldiers and left to die by the roadside, of the children dragged off to a life of slavery by the northmen, or the field hospitals that stink of gangrene from wounds that have become infected because injured men lay in a bloody field for days before being found by their fellows?”

  Morvhen’s face twisted in disgust at such things and though Leofric regretted such a breach of his chivalric code, he was in no mood to humour this spoilt little girl. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, softly reciting the vow of the knight under his breath.

  “You speak as though I am innocent of war,” spat Morvhen. “I am not. Athel Loren is forever threatened. We have enemies all around and I have lived a hundred years and shed my share of blood in its defence. I too have known the loss of friends and loved ones.”

  Morvhen wheeled her horse and Leofric could see a cold hardness to her eyes and a defiant strength he had not noticed before.

  “Those who died at the Crystal Mere,” she said. “They were not strangers to me.”