[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Was this the Lady of the Lake come to save him?

  The spiteful forest beasts retreated from the light, but as the stranger drew closer Leofric saw that this woman was not the Lady, but must surely be elfkind. She moved effortlessly through the woodland, the branches and roots of the forest parting before her and easing her passage towards him.

  She wore a long robe of spun gold and elven runes, weaving streamers of pale blue and green billowing around her as though in the grip of an invisible wind. Her hair was the colour of molten copper, teased into braided tresses above her tapered ears with silver pins and woven with feathers and gemstones. She turned her large, almond-shaped eyes on Leofric and he could feel a great and terrible power in the elf witch.

  She carried a long staff of woven twigs with a carven eye at its top and the creatures of the forest backed away from her. Despite the obvious power of the elf sorcerer, the forest wraiths were not cowed, their spite and anger plain at being denied their kill for now.

  Behind the elf, Leofric could see the outlines of a great many figures, but each time he tried to focus on one, it blended back into the forest, leaving him unsure of what he was seeing. Was that the curve of a bow, the glint of sunlight on an arrowhead?

  So that was it… they were going to kill him themselves.

  Trust an elf to want to finish the job.

  Though it railed against his code of chivalric conduct to attack a woman, he knew that this was no ordinary woman, this was an immortal elf with the terrible power of magic at her command. He pulled out Helene’s scarf, the very same favour she had given him on the tilting fields of Couronne, and wrapped it around the hilt of his sword.

  Leofric screamed in loss and rage and charged the elf woman, pain and anguish lending his limbs fresh strength. The elf didn’t move, the creatures of the forest surging forwards as he charged.

  Tears blurred his vision as his sword slashed towards the elf’s head.

  Dazzling sparks of cold fire leapt from a resounding impact and Leofric shook his head clear of the blinding light to see that his blow had been intercepted by another blade — a blade the colour of moonlight, its length curved in a long, leaf shape and etched with intricate, spiralling patterns.

  His gaze travelled the length of the exquisitely crafted weapon, past the intertwined leaves of its silver quillons towards the gauntleted hand that held it.

  Leofric felt a prickling sensation of magic and wrenched his eyes from the blade to the warrior who bore it, seeing a magnificent figure riding a steed with a mane the colour of fire, clad head to foot in a suit of heavy plate armour, fluted and chased in the manner of a Bretonnian knight. In his other hand, the knight carried a banner of rippling cream silk, emblazoned with a heraldic device Leofric did not recognise, a scaled dragon of pale jade set atop the image of a flowering oak.

  The knight’s armour was old, ancient even, and heavily damaged. A series of parallel grooves carved a path diagonally down the knight’s breastplate and his vambrace and cuirass were browned as though burned by some corrosive substance. Pieces of the knight’s armour were also mismatched, the helmet was a design Leofric had never seen before, and the pauldrons had clearly been repaired many times.

  But for all that, there was a terrifyingly potent aura of power surrounding the knight, a faint, yet unmistakable haze of something unseen. The green eyes behind the helmet’s visor blazed with some internal wychfire and though they spoke eloquently of great power, Leofric sensed no evil in them, only an aching sadness and purity.

  And what manner of knight rode a steed such as this one? The knight sat atop a destrier with a remarkable coat of purest white, but whose mane was a fiery bronze, like captured flames rippling from the wonderful beast’s neck. Its limbs were elegant and muscular, sculpted as though from marble.

  Leofric knew the qualities of a fine steed as well as the next knight, and while the Bretonnian warhorse was a creature of rare power and endurance, this was an elven steed, a beast of savage beauty, strength and grace.

  Was this knight…? Could he be…?

  A Grail Knight, one of the virtuous few who had long quested for the grail, driven ever onwards by visions of the Lady of the Lake to seek for her chalice in far-off lands, to vanquish evil, to aid the needy and forever prove his virtuous heart in the heat of battle. If this knight was such a warrior, then he had supped from the grail; blessed beyond all men and honoured with a life of service to the Lady.

  A Grail Knight… A saint amongst men, a warrior beyond compare who had slain great monsters, fought in wars beyond number, vanquished the most dreaded of foes and who had been granted powers beyond the ken of mere mortals.

  Leofric opened his mouth to speak, but the mounted knight shook his head.

  He stumbled as a wave of dizziness threatened to overcome him and the creatures of the forest closed, scenting their prey’s weakness.

  Without seeming to give his mount a signal, the strangely clad knight interposed himself between Leofric and the hissing hag-creatures, and their lashing, branch-woven forms retreated before him.

  Leofric supported himself on the fallen tree, watching the power and authority that the warrior commanded. It seemed to him that a shimmering golden aura surrounded the knight, but Leofric could not be sure, his vision blurring as blood loss and pain conspired to rob him of his strength.

  “We are not your enemies, sir knight,” said a melodic voice at his ear and he cried out in surprise. The elf witch was at his side, a cadre of fey-featured elves behind her with long recurved bows carried lightly at their sides. Though the forest floor was thick with dry leaves, they had made no sound as they approached.

  Clad in a mixture of russets and greens, their clothing was perfectly chosen to blend with the colours of the forest, and they carried scabbarded swords belted at their sides. The elves regarded him with expressions of faint disdain.

  Each had feathers and braids woven into their long hair, held in place by leather circlets and the pale skin of their heart-shaped faces was almost translucent, painted with curling tattoos.

  Leofric tried to raise his sword, but its normally lightweight blade felt as though it weighed as much as a greatsword.

  “No…” he whispered, dropping to his knees. “Helene!”

  The elf witch glanced over at the hulking form of the Grail Knight who said, “We are too late again?” His voice was rich and deep, yet filled with pain.

  “We are,” nodded the elf. “But we may yet—”

  “Spare me your platitudes,” said the knight, turning his horse and riding away. “I have heard them all before.”

  “When will we see you again?” the elf sorceress called after the knight’s retreating form.

  “You already know the answer to that, Naieth,” replied the knight, disappearing into the forest without another word.

  Leofric watched the exchange with dazed incomprehension, feeling his limbs fill with a strange lethargy as the elf sorceress returned her careworn gaze upon him once more. The elven archers surrounded her, their bows drawn and grey-fletched arrows nocked to the strings.

  Her voice was musical and lilting, with a haunting edge to it as she spoke to him, the words running like honey through his head.

  “Leofric, I bid you welcome to the woodland realm of Athel Loren,” she said. “My name is Naieth and I have been waiting for you for a very long time.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Crystal foam sprayed the air, cascading over glistening rocks from high above, the roaring of the tumbling waterfall drowning out the cries of distant eagles and the calls of wolves as they padded through the evening.

  The waterfall cut a deep groove through the rocks above and fell in lazy arcs to the foaming pool in the centre of the clearing below, where two figures lay naked in each other’s arms and two elven steeds roamed its edges.

  Morvhen Eadaoin held her lover, Kyarno Daelanu, tightly, relishing the hard, alabaster smoothness of his skin against her own. Both elves were long limbed
and graceful, with a languid suppleness to their movements as they made love by the water’s edge. A mist of fine water sheened their bodies as they moved against one another until at last Kyarno gave out a long sigh and rolled from her, a contented smile creasing his boyish features.

  He lay back, curling an arm behind his head as she lay close to him, enjoying the light of evening as it spilled like molten gold over the treetops. Darting lights flitted between the trees and bobbed like fireflies across the surface of the churning water, dancing in the air with gleeful abandon.

  Morvhen draped an arm around Kyarno’s chest and whispered, “That was wonderful…”

  “Yes,” agreed Kyarno. “I’m no expert, but it looked like you were enjoying it.”

  “Oh, I think you’re an expert, my love,” smiled Morvhen, sliding on top of Kyarno to straddle him and leaning down to kiss him.

  They made love once more, finally lying side-by-side as the sun dipped below the treetops and soft moonlight spilled into the glade. Distant songs could be heard from the trees, carried on warm winds from the north.

  Morvhen ran her hand across Kyarno’s smooth, hairless chest and teased the wet locks of his braided, chestnut hair around her fingers, leaning up to kiss his chin. His features were hard and angular, as though carved from stone, though there was a softness to his dark eyes that most folk missed, simply seeing the arrogant, troublesome youth many considered him to be. Spiralling tattoos looped across his chest and neck, winding in coiled snake patterns on the hard muscles of his shoulders.

  Even in repose, she could feel the buried tension in Kyarno, a tension that nothing she could do could quite dissipate. As a lover, Kyarno was tender and giving, though she knew that there was a part of him that she still had not reached.

  “So much for having me back to Coeth-Mara before nightfall…” said Morvhen.

  Kyarno smiled and ran a hand through Morvhen’s lustrous, dark hair, kissing the top of her head.

  “Not my fault,” he protested.

  “No? How so?” laughed Morvhen. “I seem to recall it was you who wanted to stop at the Crystal Mere for ‘a rest’.”

  “True, but then I wasn’t the one who suggested we go for a swim, was I?”

  “Tell that to my father,” said Morvhen, instantly regretting the words as she felt him tense up beneath her fingers.

  “Would he listen?” snapped Kyarno. “Or would he send the Hound of Winter to cast me from Coeth-Mara once again?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Morvhen, rising up on her elbow to look into the eyes of her lover. “Forget I mentioned him.”

  “How can I?” said Kyarno. “His disapproval hangs over everything we have like a shadow, Morvhen. You know as well as I that he will never accept me.”

  “No,” agreed Morvhen sadly. “But things can change.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but there must always be hope. Don’t judge my father too harshly, he has a duty to his kinhand, and—”

  “And I’m not part of that, I know,” said Kyarno bitterly. “I am nothing but a troublemaker and that’s that.”

  Morvhen sighed and reached up to run her hand across Kyarno’s brow, feeling the anger and bitterness he carried as a poison that ran through him as surely as the blood in his veins. She kissed the clenched line of his jaw and ran her hand through his hair, slowly easing his anger with gentle caresses and feathered kisses.

  The moon rose higher in the night sky and Morvhen could feel Kyarno’s anger recede, giving way to the love she knew he felt for her. Sadness touched her as she realised that he was right, her father would never accept Kyarno the way he was now — there was a reckless wildness to him that sat ill with the lord of the elven halls of Coeth-Mara. Lord Aldaeld of the Eadaoin kinband had a sacred duty to protect his people and the forest of Athel Loren, and Kyarno was not a part of that, as much as she could see he desperately wanted to be.

  Darting spites flitted overhead, like laughing shooting stars against the darkness of the night sky, and the two lay in silence for a while before Kyarno broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to get angry at you.”

  “Hush…” whispered Morvhen. “Let’s not allow it spoil this night, it’s too beautiful for harsh words.”

  “No, you are too beautiful for harsh words,” said Kyarno, cupping Morvhen’s face and looking into her sapphire eyes and taking in the graceful curve of her jaw. “I know what others think of me, and they are right to, but when I am with you… I feel a stillness, I am at peace. I want that feeling to stay.”

  “I know, I know,” whispered Morvhen, holding him tightly, knowing that his wishes were as dreams, fleeting and insubstantial, though she had not the heart to tell him.

  “Did you see what Naieth and the Waywatchers brought in earlier?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. “A human.”

  “Yes,” nodded Kyarno. “Though why she brought him to Coeth-Mara is beyond me. She brings more woe upon the Asrai than even I do.”

  Morvhen said nothing, knowing the source of Kyarno’s rancour towards Naieth.

  “Why did they not just kill him and be done with it?” continued Kyarno. “The human entered our forest and the Waywatchers should have slain him.”

  “Kill him? Oh, come now… it’s just one human, what possible harm could he do?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Kyarno. “Where one comes, others will follow, it’s their way.”

  “Maybe, but this was one of the horse-warriors from the lands to the west and they don’t often come this way. Just think of what far-off lands he might have travelled to, what strange things he could have seen!”

  “Why do you care?” asked Kyarno. “What is there beyond Athel Loren but enemies? No, far better that we have nothing to do with the humans.”

  Morvhen sat up, stretching like a cat and running her hands through her hair, tying it back into a long ponytail with a leather cord. “So you’re not the least bit curious why she brought him back?”

  Kyarno shook his head. “No. And neither should you be, Your father won’t allow you to associate with a human.”

  Morvhen laughed and gave him a pointed stare, “Just like he didn’t allow me to associate with you, and we all know how much attention I paid to that.”

  “That’s different,” said Kyarno. “Aldaeld doesn’t like me, but he hates humans.”

  Morvhen shrugged, tucking her leg beneath her body and smoothly rising to her feet. She began gathering up her long ochre dress and doeskin boots, her body drying in the warm breeze as Kyarno collected his clothes and bow.

  “Well, I for one will speak to the human, learn of his lands and his life,” said Morvhen, slipping on her dress and pulling on her boots. “I want to hear of his adventures in far-off realms against monsters and the armies of the Dark Gods! I want to know of lands with high mountains, deep blue seas and endless deserts. Can you imagine a desert? A landscape without trees or greenery that stretches out beyond the horizon and never ends.”

  “Sounds horrible,” said Kyarno. “Why would you ever want to go to such a place?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to go to a desert, but I wish to know everything about it.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Morvhen,” cautioned Kyarno, pulling on his clothes and beckoning his horse to him. He sheathed his bow in an oiled, leather case and buckled on his sword belt as his steed nuzzled him. “You may not like what you hear.”

  Morvhen laughed at Kyarno’s seriousness and leapt lightly to the back of her horse, its rump painted with spiralling patterns and its tail woven with garlands of leaves.

  She twisted her fingers into its silvered mane and said, “We should get back to Coeth-Mara. The Hound of Winter will be going out of his mind looking for me before my father finds out I’m not there.”

  Kyarno nodded, a gloomy expression settling on his features once more at the mention of his uncle and the prospect of return to Coeth-Mara. He vaulte
d onto the back of his horse, riding alongside Morvhen and leaned close to kiss her. She could feel the heat of his skin as his hand slipped around her neck, drawing her close until their lips met.

  They kissed long and tenderly until Kyarno reluctantly pulled back, still with his hand resting at the nape of her neck. He rested his forehead on hers and said, “When will I see you again?”

  Morvhen started to speak, when a strident voice from the edge of the clearing shouted, “You won’t! I’ll have your hide first!”

  Kyarno groaned and turned to see Cairbre, the Hound of Winter and champion of Lord Aldaeld Eadaoin, ride into the glade. The warrior of the Eternal Guard wore armour of banded gold, with a grey cloak of feathers and leaves worn draped over one shoulder. His bronze helmet was conical and ridged, its sheen bright and polished.

  Carried lightly in one hand was a thin-hafted spear, both ends bearing long, leaf-shaped blades of pearlescent white that were rich with etched spirals and grooves.

  “Cairbre, Kyarno was just about to escort me back to Coeth-Mara,” said Morvhen, as the Hound of Winter walked his horse towards her, his face a mask of controlled anger beneath his bronze helmet.

  “He shouldn’t be here with you, my lady, you know that,” said Cairbre, without looking at Kyarno. “How can I protect you if you insist on behaving like this? Your father was clear about your liaisons with my nephew. Why is he with you?”

  “I am right here, uncle, you can ask me yourself,” growled Kyarno.

  Cairbre’s spear was a pale blur and Kyarno was pitched from the saddle as the flat of one of the blades smashed into the side of his head. He sailed through the air, twisting to land lightly on his feet with an arrow nocked to his bow and a murderous anger in his eyes.

  “Kyarno, no!” shouted Morvhen, but Cairbre shook his head.

  “Damn you, uncle, I’ll put an arrow through your throat!” shouted Kyarno.