He was not long for this woodland realm and could not fall prey to its faerie magicks now. Leofric rode through the golden splendour of Coeth-Mara, remembering the words that had passed between him and Kyarno only this morning as he saw subtle hints of archways and pillars, suggestions of roof and beam and the barest outlines of passages and doorways. Where once he had seen nothing but tree and branch, forest and bush, he now saw signs of habitation, of life and living.
Here he saw a mother and child shaping a bowstave, there an elf skinning a brace of coneys. Leofric smiled as he passed many such domestic vignettes, amazed that he had not seen them before. Had he simply been ignorant of what to look for or was the forest now allowing him to see its gracefully shaped structures? Or was there something more sinister at work? Was the magic of the forest even now altering him in ways he could not fathom, reshaping what his human senses could perceive?
Such a worrying notion only heightened his desire to leave Athel Loren and, once night fell, he decided would make his way from this place before he was lost to its fey power forever. He had no wish to suffer the same fate as the vanished Duke Melmon and knew that the longer he stayed here, the more likely such an end became.
The handmaids of Morvhen seemed to glide past him, each one offering him a shy smile and a bow of gratitude as they did so and Leofric felt a great humility at their recognition. As she passed him, Tiphaine whispered, “They want me to tell you that they are sorry for teasing you at the Crystal Mere and to thank you for rising to their defence against the monsters.”
Leofric shivered as he remembered how close the arrows loosed by the handmaids had come to his head and said, “I am not sure they really needed my help, but I am glad to have been of service.”
Tiphaine smiled, reaching up to touch his arm and Leofric felt a soothing warmth to her touch. “Take care, Leofric Carrard. I wish you well.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Leofric as she moved away. “I hope I may one day be of service to you again.”
Looking over her shoulder as she joined Morvhen and the rest of her handmaids, Tiphaine smiled and said, “As do I.”
Leofric watched as Morvhen and her handmaids gently relieved Cairbre of the body carried on the back of his horse and led the elven steeds bearing the other dead warriors of the Eternal Guard into the winding paths of Coeth-Mara. Soft laments sighed from their lips as they vanished and Leofric found himself sad to see Tiphaine go, but shook such thoughts from his mind as Kyarno rode alongside him.
“Where are they taking the fallen?” asked Leofric.
Kyarno looked up and Leofric saw that the young elf’s earlier manner had reasserted itself in his suspicious stare.
“They are being taken to be cleansed before being laid to rest in the forest,” said Kyarno, “but it is not fitting for a human to speak of elven dead.”
“I am sorry,” said Leofric. “I meant no offence.”
“No,” replied Kyarno slowly, “it is I who am sorry.”
Leofric could see the difficulty Kyarno had in making such an admission as he spoke again. “You fought to defend my kin when all I have offered you is anger and hostility. For that I thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary. They were creatures of Chaos and though, in the end it is fruitless, evil must be fought at all times.”
“Fighting Chaos is never fruitless… Leofric. May I call you that?”
Leofric bowed his head and said, “Yes, you may. But I have seen the face of evil, Kyarno. I rode with my king down the east causeway of Middenheim to face the lord of daemons and though we fought like Gilles and the Companions, we could not defeat it. The best and the bravest of Bretonnia, and still we could not defeat it.”
“Perhaps you were not strong enough?” said Kyarno without malice.
“On the charge, there are no mightier warriors than the knights of Bretonnia,” said Leofric proudly. “Or at least… at least I thought so… until…”
Leofric’s eyes misted over and the gold and greens of Athel Loren faded from sight as he saw again the mud- and corpse-choked wasteland around the great northern city of Middenheim. The Ulricsberg towered over the group of knights, its tall spires wreathed in smoke and flames as the shamans of the Dark Gods hurled their vile magicks at its walls and terrifying dragons and other nameless, winged horrors breathed gouts of fire.
Smoke and a thick, cloying mist hung over the battlefield, the twisted corpses of slaughtered beastmen lying strewn about amid the hacked apart bodies of men in various liveries of the Empire’s provinces. The red and white of Talabheim mingled with the gold and yellow of Nuln and the blue and red of Altdorf. Shattered breastplates, discarded halberds and dented sallet helmets rusted in the open air. Leofric remembered the stench of death, the rotten aroma of opened bowels and decomposing flesh.
The knights had walked their horses through the battlefield, scattering carrion birds as they feasted on eyes and tongues, as well as foxes and dogs fighting over the contents of ruptured bellies. Here and there, looters of the dead scurried from corpse to corpse, slitting open purses for coin and pilfering gold teeth or trinkets.
Where they came upon such animals they killed those they could and drove away others, though Leofric knew it was a hopeless task, for as soon as they moved on, the scavengers, both human and animal, would return.
It had begun slowly, as a soft drumming noise like far away thunder.
Then it had grown to a rumbling storm of slow hoof beats and the knights had circled their horses and twisted in the saddle to pinpoint its direction, for none now could doubt that the sound was approaching cavalry. And in the forests around Middenheim, it could only be that of the enemy.
The hateful mist had conspired to confound their efforts to locate the approaching foe and Leofric had felt the tension rise as the noise grew louder and louder. Some of the younger knights cried that the mist was unnatural, that it was the result of an enemy spell. Older, wiser heads scoffed at such protestations, but Leofric had heard the unease in their denials as the mist closed in.
The maddeningly slow drumbeat of hooves grew louder with every passing second and though it seemed their foe must surely be upon them, there was still no sign of them.
None could now doubt the sorcerous nature of the mist as it thickened and coiled about them, acrid and unpleasant, and dulling the sound of the approaching riders. A carnyx horn sounded in the mist and Leofric could hear the galloping jingle of trace and the metallic scrape of swords being drawn.
The knights lowered their lances, but by now it was already too late as the mist suddenly rose and the thunderous charge of the riders of Chaos struck them. A single dread rune blazed with power on a banner carried by one of the knights and Leofric’s heart trembled as he recognised to which warlord the rune belonged.
Riding at the head of the terrifying knights of Chaos was Archaon himself, seated astride his monstrous steed of the apocalypse, swollen by dark magicks to many times the size of even the mightiest Bretonnian steed. Its eyes were burning coals, its breath that of a furnace.
The Lord of the End Times was vast and awesome in his evil, clad in armour forged of brazen iron and a horned helmet blazing with fell energies. A great bearskin cloak flared out behind him and he carried a terrible, flaming sword, its blade screaming with a soul-destroying roar.
Knights fell, both they and their mounts hewn in twain by each swing of Archaon’s colossal blade. Bloody arcs clove the air as Chaos-forged blades shattered armour and weapons alike, killing men and beasts without pity or remorse. Leofric’s shield was smashed from his arm, his body numbed by the force of the blow. The knights fought bravely, but against such brute ferocity there could be no victory.
Though it shamed every knight among them, they had turned their horses and fled from the battle, the raucous cries of the chosen warriors of Chaos ringing in their ears as they rode on to find more prey.
The shame of that rout had not lessened, and though the king had honoured each and every one
of them after the final victory, they had all left the Empire with the guilt of fleeing before the enemy festering in their hearts. Men who Leofric had fought alongside for years would no longer meet his eye, the shared guilt making each man loath to seek out the company of his fellows.
It had been a black day for honour and the memory of it had all but unmanned him. Leofric had seen the raw power of Chaos that day and it had settled like a shroud upon him, filling him with dread for the day when the Dark Gods finally took the world for their own.
Filled with such gloomy thoughts, all he could picture was Helene’s face, wishing he could have spent the last days of this world’s life by her side. Such selfish thoughts did not become a knight of Bretonnia, but faced with the inevitability of the fall of nations, he knew he was but a man, with a man’s desires.
And yet, amid such darkness was life. The image of his son’s face, smiling and full of innocence leapt unbidden to his mind. Beren’s green eyes were the image of his own, his laugh like an angel’s. There was no malice or guile to his son, only a child’s unquestioning love and purity. While such things existed in the world, there was something worth fighting for, even if only to preserve it for a little longer.
Leofric smiled ruefully, the darkness of his thoughts retreating in the face of the love he felt for his son. The battlefields and horrors of the Storm of Chaos faded and he saw that he was once again in Athel Loren, its enchanted boughs of red and brown leaves like a fire above him, its beauty almost painful against such horrors as he had just relived.
The sweet scent of wood sap and leavening bread caught in his nostrils and Leofric felt a strange peace settle upon him, as though such homely, domestic scents had somehow brought his soul back to him.
He saw Kyarno looking strangely at him and said, “Athel Loren is a place of wonders and miracles, but I can never forget that, for my kind, it is also a place of fear and death. I think that if I were to remain here I would soon have a surcease of sorrow, but that is not for me and I must go before I forget my duties.”
“Leave?” said Kyarno. “You still do not understand, human. You cannot leave.”
“No?” replied Leofric coldly.
“No, you are deep in Athel Loren and without the leave of Lord Aldaeld and the forest you would be dead before you were out of sight of Coeth-Mara.”
“Be that as it may, I have to try.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” shrugged Kyarno, “but then who am I to give advice on what to do?”
“Then tell me where I may find this Lord Aldaeld,” said Leofric. “If I must secure his leave to travel through his lands, then so be it.”
“It looks like he has come to find you,” said Kyarno, pointing towards a group of horsemen that approached along the main thoroughfare of Coeth-Mara.
Leofric followed Kyarno’s gaze and saw Cairbre riding out to meet a group of elves led by a powerful-looking elven warrior atop a golden-coloured horse with a pale mane and tail. The elf’s bare chest was adorned with numerous tattoos of twisting, knotted torques, thorns and wild beasts, his long cloak of leaves and feathers rippling with motion.
The warrior carried a long, green-hilted sword across his back and wore a crown of woven branches and leaves atop his patrician features. His oval eyes were utterly dark, seemingly without pupils, and Leofric sensed a power to this elf beyond anything he had felt from any other — even Cairbre or Naieth.
This elf was empowered with the magic of the forest and Leofric knew that this must be none other than Lord Aldaeld Fleetmane, lord of Coeth-Mara and protector of this domain of the forest.
He saw an unmistakable hostility and disdain in Lord Aldaeld’s eyes, and knew that if his fate truly lay in this elf’s hands, then it was doubtful that it would be a happy one. Accompanying Lord Aldaeld was Naieth, clad in a long dress of green velvet with a grey-feathered owl sitting on her shoulder, and a golden haired elf in clothing similar to Kyarno’s but of exquisitely tailored reds and blues. A trio of the Eternal Guard followed behind their lord on foot, their twin-bladed spears held at their sides.
Cairbre dismounted and stood before the elven lord, the Blades of Midnight held across his body in a defensive posture. Turning back to Leofric, he said, “You are required to dismount.”
Leofric nodded and climbed down from Taschen’s saddle, holding himself tall and proud before this elf. Aldaeld may be lord of this place, but Leofric was a knight of Bretonnia and bowed to no king but his own.
The elven lord spoke to the richly dressed elf riding alongside him who bore a longsword and carried a short, recurved bow slung over one shoulder. His hair was long and golden, held in place by a silver circlet, and Leofric saw a softness to his features that he had not seen in other elven warriors.
The elf nodded and said, “I am Tarean Stormcrow, and I am herald to Aldaeld Eadaoin, guardian of the forest realm of Athel Loren and Lord of Coeth-Mara. Lord Aldaeld welcomes you to his hall.”
Leofric switched his gaze from the herald to Aldaeld himself, seeing no hint of that welcome in his patrician features. Behind the elven lord, Leofric saw Naieth’s owl hoot nervously and had the distinct impression it was talking to her. The faerie legends spoke of elf sorcerers who could speak to the beasts of the forest, and it appeared that Naieth was one of them.
Leofric ignored Aldaeld’s herald and addressed the elven lord directly. “Do you not speak for yourself? Must you hide behind another?”
“Lord Aldaeld does not lower himself to speak the tongues of men,” explained the elf named Stormcrow. “You will address me and, through me, Lord Aldaeld may consent to speak to you.”
Leofric folded his arms across his chest as Aldaeld spoke again to Stormcrow, who shook his head and said, “Lord Aldaeld asks why you insult him by speaking to him directly. Do you not accord honour to other kings besides your own?”
“I do,” acknowledged Leofric, “when I am their guest or supplicant. But not when I am their prisoner.”
“Ah…” said Stormcrow, spreading his arms wide and smiling broadly. The elf’s smile was contagious and Leofric found himself smiling as well. “You think you are a prisoner here?”
“Am I not?”
“No,” replied Stormcrow, shaking his head. “You are a guest in Athel Loren, though, for your own safety, it would be wise not to enter the forest without the consent of Lord Aldaeld or the trees themselves.”
“A prison may be called many things, but if one is not free to leave, then it amounts to the same thing does it not?”
“There is truth in what you say,” nodded Tarean Stormcrow, looking over Leofric’s shoulder at Kyarno, “but Coeth-Mara truly is not a prison, save for those who choose it to be so.”
Lord Aldaeld spoke a swift burst of elvish and his herald took a step towards Leofric, saying, “The lord of Coeth-Mara wishes it known that he is grateful for the aid you gave to his daughter’s handmaids. To have fought the beasts of Chaos took great courage for a human and he is pleased that you survived.”
“The Lady Tiphaine has thanked me on their behalf, and the gratitude of a lady is its own reward.”
Tarean Stormcrow bowed slightly to Leofric and said, “You are a human who knows the value of honour. Nevertheless, Lord Aldaeld is indebted to you and extends to you the hospitality of his halls for so long as you remain within them.”
Leofric glanced at Naieth, wondering how much of Lord Aldaeld’s hospitality was as a result of her and how much of it was resented. Even he could sense the frostiness between Aldaeld and Naieth.
“In addition to this great honour, he bids you to attend upon his kin at the Winter Feast, when the Wardancers of the Red Wolf will perform the Dance of the Seasons.”
Though nothing was said, Leofric could sense a sudden shift in mood and felt a shiver of fear work its way up his spine at the mention of this Red Wolf.
He shook off his momentary unease and said, “Convey my thanks to Lord Aldaeld and inform him that I accept his gracious offer of hospitality for
as long as I shall remain here.”
Tarean Stormcrow smiled broadly, nodding slightly to Lord Aldaeld, who wheeled his horse and rode away without another word. The herald swung onto the back of his own horse and he, Cairbre and the Eternal Guard, followed their master as he departed.
As they left, Naieth rode forwards, the owl flying off towards the treetops above, a strange, sad expression on her face as she spoke to Kyarno in the gentle cadences of her native tongue.
Kyarno shook his head at whatever she said and spat some harsh elven words back to her before riding off, leaving Naieth and Leofric alone together in the forest.
“What did you say to him?” asked Leofric.
“Nothing,” said Naieth. “It is not important.”
Leofric turned from the elf witch and climbed back into his saddle, running a hand through his unruly hair and brushing grass and dirt from his clothes.
“Well, it seems as though your idea of sending me to the Crystal Mere was not entirely successful,” said Leofric.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Leofric,” said Naieth, her voice taking on a distant, ethereal quality… as though she looked straight through him. “I think perhaps it achieved exactly what was intended.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that there are often many things that need to happen for the present to choose the right path into the future,” said Naieth, and Leofric was unsure as to whether she was talking to him or herself.
The chamber of branches was clearer to him now than when he had first awoken here, the distinct outlines of shaped wood and curved bough now obvious. Where first he had seen nothing but the riotousness of nature, he now saw the guiding hand of artifice, though nowhere did he see anything as crude as a straight line.
Late evening sunlight streaked the branches of the trees, the distant sounds of melodic voices and the warm smells of summer mingling with the crispness of autumn and the bite of winter, and Leofric had a sense of time slipping away from him.
[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest Page 14