[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Morvhen dug her heels into the mare’s flanks and rode off in the direction of Coeth-Mara.

  Leofric cursed and watched her ride away, sorry for hurting her, but unwilling to be diverted from his course. The spites following behind him hung motionless in the air and he could sense their disapproval of him.

  “Don’t say a word,” he cautioned them, before realising he was talking to glowing balls of light. Surprised at his own foolishness, he turned from them and rode onwards.

  The forest flashed past her in a blur, emotions raging within her head at the human’s words. Though part of her knew there was some truth to what he had said, her pride would not yet allow her anger to diminish. Morvhen pushed the mare hard, releasing that anger through the speed of her horse. She was not worried about Ithoraine stumbling or plunging her leg into a rabbit hole or root; the horse knew the forest well enough to gallop headlong in the darkness without fear of such things.

  She rode hard through the overgrown paths of the forest, feeling branches and leaves pull themselves from her path as her mad gallop continued. The human thought her ignorant of the harsh realities of life, that she knew nothing of loss and pain.

  Well, he would soon know of loss and pain if he rode further into the forest without her father’s blessing. The dryads of winter were far from welcoming to outsiders and though he rode from Coeth-Mara, they would offer no mercy to a human in their forest.

  The thought gave her pause and she leaned over Ithoraine’s neck and whispered to her, entwining her fingers in the horse’s mane. Her steed circled, coming to a halt with a neigh of disappointment that their wild ride was over.

  As she rode back into Coeth-Mara, the reality of the human’s fate sank in and her anger vanished as she knew who would bear the full wrath of her father should he be killed by the forest spirits.

  Kyarno.

  With a whooping yell, she rode to warn her lover.

  With Morvhen gone, the forest took on a darker aspect, the moonlight now imparting a sinister, spectral glow instead of the silver sheen it had once provided. Where before there had been a strange warmth to the inky blackness between the trees, there was now only the chill of the grave.

  “Foolish,” Leofric muttered, “very foolish.”

  Had the forest sensed the anger of the words that had passed between him and the elven princess? Was it even now withdrawing the welcome it had offered him at Coeth-Mara? If so, he would need to hurry.

  Clouds covered the moon and as he rode deeper into the woods, the snow fell more heavily, and it became increasingly difficult to see the path before him. Rustling in the undergrowth and a high pitched whispering that sounded as though it came from all around him set his nerves on edge.

  Leofric kept one hand loose on Taschen’s reins, the other tight upon the hilt of his sword. An owl hooted nearby and he saw the grey-feathered bird perched on a snow-laden branch, watching him intently with its saucer eyes. He ignored the bird and kept his, eyes flitting from shadow to shadow as they danced before him.

  The sounds of the forest were magnified by his isolation — every creak of a windblown branch or rustle of leaves made him jump, ever fearful of the creatures that had killed his men-at-arms. A clammy, creeping mist snaked through the trees and coiled around their tall trunks.

  “I am a knight of Bretonnia and servant of the Lady, no harm can come to me.”

  Taschen whinnied in fear and Leofric could feel a shadow steal across his soul, a dark pall of fear that he could not name or pinpoint. Unseen things rustled in the depths of the wood and a hundred whispering voices seemed to hiss from the depths of the unnatural mist.

  A branch caught his armour and his sword flashed from its scabbard before he realised that he was not under attack. He rode on, not sheathing his weapon, but keeping the blade bared.

  “I am a knight of Bretonnia and servant of the Lady, no harm can come to me,” he repeated, willing the simple prayer to work in the face of this darkness.

  Taschen’s progress through the undergrowth became slower and slower, branches, roots and bushes growing thicker with every yard gained. Leofric pushed aside low branches and twisted in the saddle as grasping thorns and briars snagged on his armour. Though he kept his sword at the ready he was unwilling yet to use its edge to clear a path, his instincts warning him of the danger of such action.

  The hoot of an owl sounded again and Leofric turned to see the bird close by once more.

  “You are said to be wise, friend. Do you know an easier way out of this damned forest?” he called up to it.

  The owl did not reply and Leofric found himself surprised that it did not, having seen stranger things than talking animals in Athel Loren. The bird turned its head to the left and then to the right and Leofric had the distinct impression that it was shaking its head at him.

  Despite his growing unease, he laughed and said, “Perhaps you are wise after all.”

  The owl bobbed its head up and down and Leofric’s laughter died in his throat as it continued to watch him struggle through the gathering forest. He turned from the bird and continued onwards.

  The moon emerged from behind the clouds and a deathly chill seized his heart, the light like ice-water pouring from the skies and filling his veins with the touch of death. Shadows gathered at the edge of his vision as he felt the approach of something of terrible power through the silver-streaked mist.

  Leaves snatched at his helm, branches caught on his armour and roots twisted around the legs of his steed. Though his determination was still strong, he began to question the sense of his current course. Should he continue or retreat?

  The hiss of something dreadful in the depths of the rising mist told him that he had long since passed the point where such a choice could be made. Shapes moved all around him, shadowy and sinuous, like ghosts in the mist, and he heard a cackling laughter. There was no humour or warmth in it though, only malice and a spiteful glee at his predicament.

  His breathing came hard and fast, his heart hammering fit to break his chest, and he shouted, “The Lady of the Lake protects me, so if you come seeking death then come out and face me!”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than the mist retreated and a blinding radiance emerged from the trees.

  Leofric cried out and shielded his eyes against the glare as its shining brilliance turned the forest from night into day.

  Kyarno pushed Eiderath hard, galloping into the dark, moonlit paths of the forest with terrible urgency. The foolish human was going to get himself killed and Kyarno knew that he would be the one to suffer for Leofric’s stupidity. The snow was falling in earnest as he reached the edge of Coeth-Mara and though he barely felt the cold, he shivered in fearful anticipation.

  He plunged headlong into the trees, taking the secret ways that only the Asrai knew of, travelling in a manner beyond the purely physical. Eiderath’s speed was great, the horse having been raised from a foal for a swiftness and agility that no thick-limbed human beast could ever match, but Kyarno only hoped that he could reach the human in time.

  Morvhen had come to him, breathless and afraid, and as he sought to discover the source of her distress, he had felt the ancient soul of Athel Loren rise up somewhere deep within the forest.

  She had told him what had passed between her and the human and unless Kyarno reached him soon, the forest would deal with him as it dealt with all intruders.

  “Come, my friend,” he yelled to Eiderath as they rode. “Tonight I need you to fly as never before!”

  * * *

  Leofric squinted through the halo of white light, seeing a shimmering figure emerge from the trees, and he raised his sword. The growing nimbus of light that surrounded the approaching figure began to dim and where Leofric expected to see more of the hag creatures of branch and tree, he instead saw something far more astonishing.

  Beauteous and divine, a woman of unearthly grace stood revealed in the new sunlight, unseen winds swirling around he
r and rippling her pale green robes. Artists would weep to see her face, knowing that they could never capture such beauty, and her eyes pierced Leofric with their kindness and wisdom. Her body shone with an inner radiance, like captured moonlight, and her arms reached out to him, trailing streamers of glittering stardust.

  Leofric wept to see such splendour and felt his sword tumble from his hand, the very thought of raising arms against this goddess abhorrent to him. Helene’s favour trailed from the hilt of the falling sword, blue and stark against the brilliant glow of this wonderful apparition.

  “My Lady…” he whispered, his soul crying out with the rapture of this vision before him. She smiled and his heart sang with joy to be blessed so.

  Leofric dismounted and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands to his breast and averting his eyes. Magical zephyrs spun her robes around her, billowing around her back like pale, gossamer wings.

  Leofric…

  He raised his gaze to the Lady of the Lake, for it could surely be none other, and cried out in wonder at her giving voice to his name. Leofric struggled to find words to say, but who could ever express what it was to be in the presence of a goddess?

  Every knight of Bretonnia longed and dreamed for this, to be judged virtuous and valorous enough to be granted a vision of the Lady of the Lake. That such a vision should come to him here, in this place of magic and terror, was surely a sign that he had earned her favour.

  Whither goest thou?

  Though he was loath to defile such a divine moment with his own crude words, Leofric said, “I return to your lands, my Lady. To your service and to my son and heir.”

  You would abandon me so soon?

  “No! Never!” cried Leofric.

  Then why do you leave this place?

  Confused, Leofric stared into the liquid pools of the Lady’s eyes, awed by the power and compassion he saw there and feeling all the hurt and sorrow of the last few days rise up inside him in an unstoppable wave.

  “My wife is dead!” he cried. “This place took her from me and now I am lost!”

  Leofric fell forwards onto his elbows in the snow, weeping as the full force of his grief poured from him in great, wracking sobs. The light of the Lady surrounded him and he felt her healing warmth enfold him, like a mother’s comfort or a lover’s embrace.

  No, she is not gone from you. She is with me.

  Soothing, wordless song came to him and he saw Helene standing beside the Lady, smiling and with her ringleted hair caught in the same impossible winds that stirred the Lady’s robes.

  “Helene…” he cried, reaching out to her.

  She dwells at my side and awaits the day when you will come to her.

  Leofric pushed himself to his knees and watched as the vision of Helene faded, his last sight of her a wistful smile on her lips and a playful glint in her eye. Though his heart broke to see her go, he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders at the thought of her at peace with the Lady.

  “Tell me what I must do,” said Leofric. “I am yours to command.”

  There was a time when the knights of Bretonnia and the folk of this realm stood together as brothers. That day must come again. You must return.

  “Return? To Coeth-Mara?” asked Leofric. “But what of my son?”

  Those around him will love him and he will grow to be a fine man.

  “Will I ever see him again?”

  You shall, but not now. You and Helene may yet raise him to manhood.

  “I don’t understand, my lady… Helene and I? How is that possible?”

  Time is a winding river beneath the boughs of Athel Loren, Leofric, and many things are possible here that some would think hopeless. Paths once trod may be trod again and their ends woven anew.

  Leofric fought to follow the Lady’s words as they echoed within his head, their beauty and meaning slipping through his grasp like water.

  Times of war and blood are coming and you must be ready, Leofric.

  “I will be,” he promised.

  The very air was alive with magic. Kyarno could feel it in every breath and see it in the luminescence that filled every tree with light. The song of the trees grew stronger, a rousing chorus of wondrous power that leapt from branch to branch as it spread outwards from somewhere ahead. Ghostly mists conspired to mislead and befuddle him, but Kyarno had ridden the wilder parts of the forest for decades — the groves of the dark fey and the chasm glades of Beithir-Seun — and was too clever to be taken in by such petty diversions.

  Eiderath was as surefooted as ever, weaving in and out of the close-pressed trees like liquid, with barely a motion from him. Like all riders in Lord Aldaeld’s kindred of Glade Riders, Kyarno had a bond with his steed nurtured from birth, and rider and mount were in perfect synchrony.

  There was power afoot in the forest this night and Leofric was riding blindly into it. This was no orc-infested wood: this was Athel Loren and a thousand times more dangerous.

  Apparitions moved in the mist, the cackling faces of crones and thorn-clawed harridans of winter, but Kyarno ignored them all, riding towards a brilliant glow and potent sense of magic that filled the forest ahead.

  “This human will be the death of me,” he whispered as the full force of the magic rushed towards him. His skin prickled and he felt the power of Athel Loren reach deep inside him, its warmth and love coursing through his veins like an elixir.

  Kyarno gasped as the power sought out all his hurts and pain, soothing them and filling him with peace. He whispered to Eiderath and the horse pulled up, stamping the ground and wishing to be at the gallop again.

  The light from ahead was eclipsed as a rider emerged from the glow and Kyarno cried out as it began to fade, the wonderful light retreating into the depths of the forest. He wanted to follow, to bathe in its radiance again, but a warning voice in his head told him that such would not be permitted.

  He looked up at the rider, amazed to see Leofric alive and well.

  Better than that in fact. The glow that had bathed the forest in its light seemed to have left some lingering radiance on the human, his flesh and armour rippled with luminescence and elven magic. Leofric’s armour shone like new and his face was alight with purpose and life.

  “What happened?” managed Kyarno.

  “The Lady came to me,” said Leofric, his voice awed and humbled.

  “She came to you?” he asked as the knight rode past him, amazed that she would deign to take an interest in the fate of one human.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Kyarno, turning his horse and following.

  “Back to Coeth-Mara.”

  “Why? I thought you wanted to leave?”

  “I will leave, Kyarno, but the Lady has charged me with a quest and I am sworn to its completion.”

  “A quest?” asked Kyarno. “What quest?”

  Leofric smiled and said, “To save Athel Loren.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Winter reached its zenith the following morning, layering the forest in a crisp white blanket and dropping the temperature quicker than Leofric could ever remember. Snow lay thick on the ground, snapping branches from the trees with its weight and robbing the forest of its life and vitality.

  But what the forest lost in life, it gained in magical beauty. Long spears of ice drooped from the branched archways, glittering in the cold sun like vast chandeliers, and snowflakes glimmered and shone like shimmering rose petals as they floated through the air. Coeth-Mara still breathed with life, but it was a still, silent life as its inhabitants awaited the first breath of spring.

  The elven halls became a new home to Leofric, this dwelling of branch and leaf never cold despite the biting chill of winter beyond its confines. Whether magic or his ever-present spites kept it warm, he didn’t know, but each passing day made him feel more comfortable.

  Though few of the elven halls’ inhabitants spoke to him, he could sense a lessening of the hostility towards him as word spread of his encounter in the
woods. How the elves of the forest could understand the rapture of the Lady of the Lake was beyond Leofric’s comprehension, but it was further proof that the course he had chosen was the correct one.

  Weeks of winter passed, with Leofric and Kyarno often riding out into the silent forest to explore the twisting paths that lay hidden beyond the trees. Such ventures beneath the icy, snow-wreathed boughs of Athel Loren further thawed their dealings with one another, as though the shared experience in the forest that night had allowed human and elf to find some common ground, though the hostility that had characterised their previous meetings had not entirely vanished.

  This was brought home to Leofric one afternoon when Kyarno had offered to teach him how to use a bow.

  “No, Kyarno,” Leofric said. “Such a weapon is fit only for peasants and those of low birth. As a warrior who follows the rules of honour I cannot countenance using such a weapon for battle.”

  Leofric had seen the anger in Kyarno’s face and though he now regretted his harsh words, he could not change his belief. A hurled weapon had slain Gilles le Breton, first king of Bretonnia, and, since that day, no knight had ever loosed an arrow or hurled a spear in battle.

  Sometimes Morvhen would join them, chaperoned always by the Hound of Winter, and Leofric found himself looking forward to their arrival, as it invariably meant that Tiphaine and some of her handmaids would be present.

  Though they never spoke, Leofric would sometimes catch Tiphaine stealing a glance towards him, and though he often wished to converse with her, he felt it would somehow sully their courtly relationship were he to thank her for the gift he was sure had come from her.

  Upon waking one morning, Leofric had found fresh clothes awaiting him as he always did, but atop them was an exquisitely fashioned quilted jerkin of tan leather and silky fabric, together with soft buckskin hose. Twisting patterns of leaves and thorns were embroidered along the jerkin’s sleeves and a rearing unicorn was picked out in gold thread above the heart. The garments were extraordinary, comfortable and warm, and fitted him better than anything he had ever worn before.