[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill

  “Enough!” said the Red Wolf, cocking his head to one side. “Loec tells Cu-Sith that we need something special for this one!”

  Leofric took a great, gulping breath of air as the iron grip around his throat was released and the Red Wolf took a step back. With the flashing blades no longer weaving around him, Leofric felt his heartbeat begin to slow, and he watched as the elves began circling him again. Each one was practically naked, but for golden torques and thin harnesses of leather. Their skin was daubed with chalk and lime and heavily painted with vivid dyes, and they wore their resin-stiffened hair in wild, elaborate styles. They watched him with predatory eyes, but moved like the most graceful dancers and Leofric realised he looked upon the Red Wolfs troupe of wardancers.

  “I am a guest of Lord Aldaeld,” said Leofric, massaging his bruised throat.

  The Red Wolf lunged forward, baring his teeth like the wolf on his chest. “You think Cu-Sith doesn’t know that? Cu-Sith knows everything Loec does!”

  “Loec…” said Leofric, now remembering Kyarno mentioning the name. “Wait, isn’t he one of your gods?”

  “That he is,” nodded the Red Wolf, reaching up to dab his finger in the blood on Leofric’s cheek. “And a close friend of Cu-Sith, human.”

  “I see,” nodded Leofric.

  “Kill him and garland the trees with his entrails!” shouted one of the wardancers.

  “No, present them to Lord Aldaeld!”

  “Silence!” shouted the Red Wolf, somersaulting backwards onto the bough above Leofric. “Cu-Sith likes this one. Didn’t flinch during the sword dance. Sensible. Might keep him as a pet.”

  “Pet! Pet! Pet!” chanted the circling wardancers.

  “Are you Cu-Sith?” asked Leofric, as the Red Wolf swung from the branch to land lightly in a crouch before him. The leader of the wardancers nodded, rolling forwards and twirling a pair of swords as he rose to his feet with a grace no human dancer could ever hope to match.

  “Cu-Sith heard that a human was kept in Lord Aldaeld’s halls, but did not believe it. Now Cu-Sith sees him and wonders why he is not dead,” said the wardancer, the eyes of his wolf tattoo following Leofric as Cu-Sith circled him in the opposite direction to his troupe.

  “Tell me, human, why are you not dead and why should Cu-Sith not make it so?”

  Leofric tried to stay calm as the snarling, hissing elf stopped behind him, sniffing his neck and shoulders like a wild animal.

  “I… I was spared from the forest spirits by Naieth,” said Leofric.

  “The prophetess?”

  “Yes, yes, the prophetess.”

  Cu-Sith circled back around, leaning in close and turning Leofric’s head with the flat of his blade. “She wants you alive? Why?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” said Leofric, the words tumbling from him in a frantic rush. “She says there are times of war coming and that I am to fight alongside the elves of Athel Loren.”

  “You?” spat Cu-Sith, spinning his blades and sheathing them before catching another pair hurled towards him without his asking. “Cu-Sith does not believe you. What about you, Loec?”

  The leader of the wardancers closed his eyes and cocked his head to one side, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. The other wardancers looked on in awe as their leader nodded and laughed to himself at some unheard jest. Suddenly Cu-Sith’s eyes snapped open and he brought his new swords up in a cross-wise slash, each blade slicing the skin of Leofric’s cheeks.

  Leofric flinched from the thin cuts, more in surprise than pain, as Cu-Sith spoke again. “Loec says for Cu-Sith to let you go, but you are marked now, human. Cu-Sith’s pet you are now!”

  The wardancers laughed and spun faster and faster around him, peeling off one by one and disappearing into the forest in bounding somersaults and incredible leaps from tree to tree.

  The Red Wolf remained before him for a second longer before giving out a manic laugh and flipping up into the high branches above. Leofric tried to follow his progress as he leapt higher and higher into the branches, but was forced to look away as dislodged powdery snow fell into his eyes.

  And when he looked again, Cu-Sith was nowhere to be seen.

  Leofric made his way back down into the more populated halls of Coeth-Mara, shaken to the core by his brush with the wardancers. Cu-Sith had terrified him with his fearsome display of lunacy; the leader of the wardancers clearly insane to believe that he spoke directly to a god.

  There had been a wild madness to the Red Wolf and its sheer unpredictability scared him more than anything else. Who knew what such an individual might do?

  As he descended into Coeth-Mara, he dabbed the cuts on his cheeks, wondering if he actually was Cu-Sith’s pet in the eyes of the elves, or whether it was just another indication of his madness.

  Now Leofric understood the wariness and unease he had sensed when Tarean Stormcrow had first mentioned the leader of the wardancers.

  Leofric shivered, feeling a tremor of unease pass through the boughs and branches around him and a sudden chill pierced him. He looked around him for the source of his unease, but could see nothing specific.

  Elves moved through the snow-wreathed paths of Coeth-Mara, but there was an urgency to their movements now, a suspicious fear in their glances as they retreated to their halls.

  Ahead, Leofric could see a group of riders coming towards him and stood aside as the Lord of Coeth-Mara and his daughter rode past, accompanied by Tarean Stormcrow, Naieth, the Hound of Winter and a dozen of his warriors. Both Aldaeld and Morvhen were regal and magnificent in pale robes of cream silk and embroidered gold. Lord Aldaeld wore a crown of antlers and carried his green-hilted longsword belted at his side, while Morvhen was unarmed.

  Neither gave him a second glance as they passed.

  Naieth gave him the briefest of acknowledgements, her robes of gold shining in the morning sun and her staff of woven branches shimmering with dew. Tarean Stormcrow, dressed in an elaborate tunic of sky blue silk and silver, and carrying a long, hardwood spear, peeled away from the procession to stop before Leofric.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, noticing the cuts on his face.

  Leofric glanced over his shoulder and said, “I met the Red Wolf.”

  “Cu-Sith!” hissed Tarean. “You encountered his wardancers?”

  “Yes,” nodded Leofric. “It was… a memorably frightening experience.”

  “I should imagine it was,” agreed Tarean. “I am surprised he let you live. Cu-Sith has no love for those of your race.”

  “So I saw,” said Leofric, dabbing at the cuts once more.

  “Be that as it may, Leofric, you must return to your chambers and prepare yourself. Clean the blood from your face, put on your finest clothes, polish your armour then await my summons.”

  “Why? What is happening?”

  Tarean nodded in the direction of the group of Lord Aldaeld’s riders as they disappeared into the trees.

  “The Laithu kinband has arrived for the Winter Feast,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two score of them there were. Each was richly attired, outlandishly so, thought Caelas Shadowfoot as he watched the procession of riders from his vantage point in the heights of a hoary old willow tree. The easily recognisable figure of Valas Laithu rode at the head of the column, his cloak of red a bad omen in these times of trouble, knew Caelas.

  A human in Coeth-Mara and the Red Wolf attending the Winter Feast. No good could come of it. Where the Red Wolf danced, trouble followed.

  He watched Valas turn to say something to a young, sharp-featured elf beside him, the youth nodding curtly, as though he had heard these words many times before. Caelas recognised the stripling as Sirda, son of Valas, and felt a shiver travel up his spine that had nothing to do with the frost that coated the gnarled bark of the tree he clung to.

  Both Valas and his offspring were known to the Eadaoin kinband, as was their reputation for deviousness and cruelty. Where other kinbands might kil
l intruders to Athel Loren or send them back the way they had come in equal measure, the Laithu kinband would see all such trespassers dead, their bones left at the forest’s edge as a grim warning to others.

  Even from hundreds of feet up, Caelas could see the cruel lines on Valas Laithu’s pale face and did not envy Lord Aldaeld the coming gathering. Sirda was no better, having inherited the worst of his father’s traits as well as developing some bad ones of his own.

  Caelas edged around the bole of the tree, leaning out onto a snow-covered branch and signalling that the Laithu kinband drew near to one of the Eadaoin kinband’s waywatchers nearer to Coeth-Mara. Though, truth be told, none needed warning, as the riders below had made no attempt to disguise their approach. A single scout had travelled before them, Caelas and his waywatchers having tracked him for the past week, oft times passing within a few paces of his position to test his skills — but not once had the Laithu scout observed them.

  Caelas was disappointed in the lack of caution shown by the Laithu kinband. Everything he had heard of them had led him to believe they were warriors of skill and cunning, though what he had seen over the last week did not bear such a reputation out. He and his waywatchers could have ambushed the Laithu kinband a dozen times or more, slaughtering them in a hail of arrows before their prey had even known they were there.

  But such were not their orders. These visitors to Coeth-Mara were to be allowed to approach unmolested. As he watched them draw away from him in the direction of Lord Aldaeld’s halls, Caelas briefly considered following them and returning to the place where he had been born. It had been many years since he had seen his kin, but the thought of being amongst others sat uncomfortably with him.

  He loved his kin and kinband, but only here, in the magnificent wilds of the forest, did he feel truly at home. Indeed, it had been months since he had laid eyes on any of his fellow waywatchers, content to read their signs in the wild and communicate through the secret language of the forest known only to them.

  Caelas ran along the tall branches of the willow and leapt across the gap between it and a white-leaved chestnut, swinging around its thin trunk and looping his way down the tree. Even before he landed, his bow was drawn and an arrow nocked as he scanned the undergrowth for signs of life. He already knew there was nothing around here for hundreds of yards that he was not already aware of, but a waywatcher did not live to be as old as Caelas by relaxing his guard.

  He risked a glance around the chestnut’s trunk, watching the last signs of the Laithu kinband vanish from sight. Something sat ill with him and the decades spent alone in the wilderness had taught him to trust his instincts.

  Caelas ghosted from tree to tree, invisible in his grey cloak and stealthy movements, examining the trail left by the riders. He shook his head as he silently gauged the depths of their tracks, seeing that they had taken no care to cover their back trail or ride in single file to better disguise their numbers.

  No, something sat ill indeed and Caelas was not one to let such things lie.

  The waywatcher set off into the forest, determined to find the truth of what was going on.

  “Blood of Kurnous,” whispered Lord Aldaeld as he watched Valas Laithu and his retinue come into view over the snow-covered rise ahead. “This will be a trial indeed.”

  “My lord?” said Tarean Stormcrow, adjusting his cloak and tunic so that it sat perfectly. Tarean altered his grip on the spear he held, brushing a melting snowflake from his shoulder. The rituals of elven greetings were highly formalised and were Tarean to fail in his duty as herald, the dishonour would pass to Aldaeld himself.

  Aldaeld and his most trusted kin, his herald, his daughter, his champion and a dozen of his loyal Eternal Guard, had come for this rare meeting of elves from across the forest. The prophetess had insisted on accompanying him too, and while he had only grudgingly offered her the hospitality of his halls, he was glad of her presence here now. Lord Valas was known to be a dabbler in the mystic arts and Naieth’s presence was, this time, a welcome one.

  The tension in this leaf-strewn archway of ice and snow was palpable, none able to deny the apprehension that Lord Valas’ visit had brought.

  “I will be glad when this snake is far from my halls,” said Aldaeld.

  “I understand, my lord, but custom demands that we make him welcome,” pointed out Tarean Stormcrow.

  “I know that,” snapped Aldaeld, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. “It does not mean I have to like it.”

  “Perhaps you should not hold your sword thusly,” suggested his daughter.

  He looked down, startled that he had not even noticed he was gripping the hilt so tightly. Aldaeld smiled at his daughter and said, “Yes, you are probably right, my dear.”

  She was beautiful, thought Aldaeld, regal and every inch the daughter of an elven lord and, were circumstances different, he had hoped Morvhen would have plighted her troth to Tarean Stormcrow by now. Alas, her heart had gone to the never-do-well, Kyarno, and as much as he had tried to keep her from Cairbre’s nephew, his every attempt had served only to bring them closer.

  Thinking of the miscreant Kyarno brought a scowl to his rugged, ancient features. His every instinct was to throw Kyarno to Valas Laithu, but both Tarean Stormcrow and the Hound of Winter had recently spoken to him of their belief that Kyarno was not yet a hopeless case. Aldaeld was still to see proof of that and this visitation by the Laithu kinband was yet another reason for Aldaeld to wish him gone from his halls.

  “Do not worry, father, this will be over with soon,” promised Morvhen.

  “I fear it will not be over soon enough, daughter,” said Aldaeld. “Valas will want his pound of flesh for your lover’s mischief before this is out and I only hope his foolishness does not cost us all too dearly.”

  “Father—” began Morvhen.

  “You should not think to defend him, Morvhen,” interrupted Aldaeld. “He would not thank you for it and he does not deserve it. Do not think me ignorant of all that passes in my domain, daughter. I know what happened in the forest between Kyarno and the Hound of Winter before the creatures of Chaos attacked.”

  Morvhen flushed and looked away and even Cairbre had the good grace to look embarrassed at Aldaeld’s words. Seeing the hurt in his daughter’s eyes, Aldaeld’s expression softened and he reached out to touch her shoulder.

  “Neither am I blind to the desires of your heart towards Kyarno, but I must put the welfare of this kinband before anyone’s feelings. Even yours. Kyarno has a good soul, I see it, truly I do, but until he learns his place in my kinband, there is no place for him in it.”

  “My lord,” said Tarean Stormcrow. “Perhaps this is a conversation best had another time? Lord Valas approaches.”

  Aldaeld kept his eyes on his daughter for a few seconds more before turning to face Lord Valas and his warriors, his stern, patrician demeanour reasserting itself once more.

  Lord Valas was tall, thin and pale-skinned, even for an elf, his slender frame clad in rich robes of heavy furs and soft tan leather. The hood of his spite-rippled cloak of red leaves was pulled back and his long, dark hair was swept into a tight ponytail with a circlet of gold across his brow. His tapered ears were hung with beads of gold and his eyes were a brilliant shade of blue.

  Valas nodded to Aldaeld and bowed his head a fraction. Aldaeld echoed the gesture as Tarean edged his horse forward, a precise bowstave-length away from the newcomers. His herald lifted the long spear he carried; its shaft was etched with spiral grooves and tipped with a patterned copper blade engraved with eyes that were said to seek out and defeat an enemy’s blows.

  “Lord Valas,” began Tarean, holding the spear by the hardwood haft and offering it to the lord of the Laithu kinband. “Aldaeld, Lord of a Hundred Battles, bids me welcome you to Coeth-Mara and offers you this gift as a token of our kinbands’ fellowship. Fashioned at Vaul’s Anvil by Daith, master craftsman of the Ash Groves, it is potent with the magic of Athel Loren and was wielded in battle by th
e great eagle-rider Thalandor.”

  Valas Laithu reached out and plucked the spear from Tarean’s hand, examining the magnificent weapon without apparent interest. He nodded briefly and handed the weapon to his son, who gave the spear a much more thorough examination.

  Sirda was the image of his father, saw Aldaeld, sharp-featured and without the grace of the Asrai who dwelt in harmony and balance with the forest. Sirda seemed furtive, always looking beyond the Eadaoin Eternal Guard, and Aldaeld could guess who he was looking for. The Laithu were a harsh kinband, merciless to those not their own, even other elves, and unlike his father, Sirda was armed, bearing a pair of elegant swords and a long, ornamented bow across his back.

  “Lord Aldaeld’s gift is most welcome,” said Valas Laithu. “I thank him for it and bid him greetings from my kin. Will he permit us to enter his halls freely?”

  Tarean Stormcrow turned back to Aldaeld and the elven lord held the moment before saying, “I will indeed. I offer you the freedom of Coeth-Mara and bid you join my kin for the Winter Feast.”

  “You honour me,” said Valas. “Rightly is it said that even the lowest that arrive at Lord Aldaeld’s hall will receive his charity.”

  Aldaeld bristled at Valas’ words. Obviously Valas knew of the human in Coeth-Mara and was keen to show his disapproval.

  He nodded and said, “All are welcome within my halls, even those who would normally be turned away.”

  Valas smiled, though there was no warmth to it, and said, “Happily we are all in accord here. Is that not so?”

  “It is indeed,” said Tarean Stormcrow quickly. “Lord Aldaeld has spoken of little else but your visit to his halls.”

  “I’m sure,” laughed Valas and Aldaeld fought to control his temper as he saw Sirda Laithu cast secretive, lascivious glances towards Morvhen. Catching Aldaeld’s eye, Sirda gave a guilty smile and returned to surveying the forest behind them.