[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Naieth nodded sadly. “Yes, I am sure. The King of the Wood has tasted blood already and he will not stop until much more has been shed.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “No, Leofric, there is not. With the waystone barrier breached, the power of the king is free to reach beyond the borders of Athel Loren.”

  “Then we must restore the barrier!” he cried. “How can we do that?”

  “Only by restoring the waystone to its former position, Leofric.”

  Leofric turned to Lord Aldaeld and said, “Please, my people are dying. Help me.”

  “Help you?” said Aldaeld. “What is it you think I can do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Leofric helplessly. “Whatever you can.”

  Aldaeld shook his head. “The lives of humans are not worth the effort and risk to elven lives. The wild hunt will return to the forest once the king’s lust for battle and destruction is sated. When he returns to Athel Loren, we will recover the waystone.”

  “But my people are dying!” shouted Leofric. “Your king is killing the people of Bretonnia and you will stand by while that happens?”

  Aldaeld nodded and hissed, “I would stand by while he wiped humans from the face of the world if that were his course. You bring nothing into this world and it is certain you will take nothing out of it. Why should I mourn your kind?”

  Leofric stood speechless, shocked at this candid admission by Lord Aldaeld, who turned from him to address Naieth.

  “How is it that the barrier has failed?” demanded the elven lord. “Has the power of the enchantments wrought upon the waystone faded?”

  “No,” whispered Naieth, closing her eyes once more and allowing her spirit to travel the mystic paths of the forest. “The power of such ancient magic does not fade easily some other power is at work here.”

  “What other power? What could overcome the power of the elder magic?”

  Suddenly Naieth cried out in horror and pain, and but for the support of the Hound of Winter, would have fallen, Blood ran from her nose and she wept tears of pain.

  “No!” she wept, and Leofric was surprised to hear the venom of hatred in the prophetess’ tone. “It is the beast. It is Cyanathair! It has returned.”

  A ripple of horror spread through the halls at the mention of this name, though Leofric did not understand what it meant. Swiftly the horror turned to anger and the mood of the hall changed to one of vengeful aggression. He saw the same golden fire he had seen in Kyarno’s eyes at the waking of the King of the Wood reflected in every elf within the hall, a wild anger and lust for killing that sent a chill along his spine.

  The elves of Coeth-Mara milled like caged wolves, the threat of violence in every face and every gesture as they clutched at sword hilts or gripped the hafts of spears.

  Was this part of the King of the Wood’s power? Did part of his anger and destructive nature pass to his people upon his waking?

  “Who is this Cyanathair?” asked Leofric warily.

  “Do not speak its name again!” gasped Naieth.

  “It is the Corruptor,” said Cairbre. “It is the enemy.”

  “Your race knows it as the Shadow-Gave,” said Naieth. “It is the bane of all things living, an abomination. It is the thing that should not be.”

  The Shadow-Gave…

  Legends spoke of such a creature, a fell monster too terrible to imagine, that had ripped its way into the world in a village near the Forest of Arden. A bestial creature of Chaos that warped everything around it into horrific new forms, it was a tale to frighten young children with. The myth of the creature was recorded in the Bretonnian lay “Requiem”, a tragic poem that spoke of men who crawled in the mud like beasts and animals that walked on their hind legs and babbled nonsensical doggerel as they feasted on one another.

  “Surely such a creature must be dead?” said Leofric. “Beastmen are no longer lived than humans. It must have died many hundreds of years ago.”

  “How little you know, Leofric,” said Naieth, not unkindly. “If only it were so. No, the Corruptor is a creature of Chaos Eternal. It has been slain many times in the secret war, but each time it is reborn anew to continue its destructive quest amongst the races of this world. The Lady Ariel seeks always to defeat it, but the power of the Dark Gods is strong and the beast lives still.”

  Leofric struggled to understand Naieth’s words, grasping at their meaning as a drowning man clutches for a lifeline. But amid the words of the prophetess, something stood out above all others.

  “Who is the Lady Ariel?” asked Leofric.

  “She is the voice and will of Isha,” said Naieth carefully and Leofric knew that she was not telling him the whole truth. He suspected he might not want to know the true answer to his question and decided to let Naieth’s evasion go for the moment, the more pressing concern of his people uppermost in his mind.

  “Well, human,” said Aldaeld. “The Corruptor is a foe to all races, so it seems we will aid your people after all.”

  “I welcome your help, Lord Aldaeld, however it is given,” said Leofric.

  Lord Aldaeld shrugged and said, “Circumstance makes strange bedfellows of us all,” as the elves of Coeth-Mara scattered throughout the hall, gathering up weapons and girding themselves for war.

  Kyarno sidled close to him and whispered, “Thank you for your words, even though they carried no weight with Aldaeld.”

  Morvhen approached and Leofric said, “My lady. I apologise if I spoke out of turn earlier, but I meant no disrespect in speaking for you.” Lord Aldaeld’s daughter smiled and gave Leofric a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I was glad of your words, Leofric. They came from the heart and I felt that, even if my father did not.”

  The Hound of Winter appeared at Morvhen’s shoulder and said, “Kyarno, I am sorry that I could not vouch for you.”

  “It does not matter, uncle,” said Kyarno. “I know your loyalty must be to your lord. It is as it should be. You would not be Lord Aldaeld’s champion were it otherwise.”

  “Will you fight alongside us against the Corruptor?”

  “If Lord Aldaeld will allow me to, then yes, I shall,” nodded Kyarno, glancing in Leofric’s direction. “A true warrior fights not because he wants to, but because he has to.”

  “He will be fortunate to have your blade,” said Cairbre, his eyes cast down.

  “Uncle,” said Kyarno, gripping the Hound of Winter’s sleeve. “The bad blood between us is no more. The light of the Lady Ariel touched me and… well, I feel cleansed of the bitterness I carried. I tried to tell Tarean Stormcrow of this and I believe he and I might have been friends, but alas, that was not to be. I foolishly missed the chance to know his friendship, but I will not make that mistake again with my kin.”

  Cairbre smiled and Leofric now saw the resemblance between the two elves as the barriers between them began to come down.

  The reconciliation between uncle and nephew was interrupted by the raised voice of Lord Aldaeld as he shouted, “To arms! The host of Lord Aldaeld Eadaoin goes to war! I will send word to the kindreds of the forest that Cyanathair has returned, and the blades of battle shall be wetted in blood, the fires of war fanned by hatred of the children of Chaos.”

  Warlike cheering greeted Aldaeld’s words, the wild exultation of the hall infectious as the elves of Coeth-Mara roared with the lust for battle. Leofric felt his heart quicken, caught up by the thought of taking the fight to the monsters of Chaos.

  Kyarno was right: it was the fight that mattered, not the outcome. It did not matter whether they won or lost in the long war, it was that they fought at all that was the victory. So long as warriors of courage stood against the dark powers, evil could not triumph. So long as one blade was raised against evil then it could never win.

  A flurry of swords, like a forest of glittering stars, flashed into the air as all the warriors in Coeth-Mara shouted their allegiance to their lord.

  As the cheeri
ng died down, the Hound of Winter asked, “If we take the fight to the Corruptor, how then are we to bring the waystone back to its home in the earth?”

  Stony silence greeted his words, as the practicality of them sank in.

  No one said anything until Kyarno hesitantly ventured, “Beithir-Seun could do it.”

  Morvhen said, “No, he is surely gone from the world, is he not?”

  Naieth took a step forward and said, “No, he is not, but his chasm glade has been lost amidst the mountains for centuries. None now live who know of it.”

  “I know of it,” said Kyarno slowly. “I have walked in his glade and spied upon his mighty form. He lives still and if anyone could carry the waystone, then it is he.”

  “Who is Beithir-Seun?” asked Leofric.

  * * *

  Naieth led the way, following her owl companion through a part of the forest Leofric had not seen during his time in Athel Loren. The trees grew thickly here and a potent sensation of magic seeped into Leofric through the soles of his boots. Winged imps buzzed through the air, their bodies alight with faerie fire and the song of the trees was a gentle lilt on the air.

  Despite the pastoral scene, Leofric was acutely aware of the ancient power behind this part of the forest’s benign appearance. He followed Cairbre and Kyarno along the overgrown path, grateful for the chance to strike back at the creatures of Chaos that had unleashed the wild hunt on the world. Leofric still had no idea who this Beithir-Seun was, and no one seemed inclined to tell him.

  Lord Aldaeld had reluctantly agreed that Kyarno should lead the Hound of Winter to the chasm glades of Beithir-Seun and entreat him to aid the recovery of the waystone.

  “You have a chance to show me your worth, Kyarno,” Aldaeld had said. “Live up to this human’s faith in you.”

  “I will not fail you, Lord Aldaeld. You will yet see my worth,” promised Kyarno.

  Leofric had stepped forward, his sword drawn and said, “I too will accompany you. For it is my people who are dying and the Shadow-Gave threatens us all.”

  “Very well, human. May the blessing of Isha go with you all.”

  Now the three of them followed the prophetess deep into the secret glades of the forest, though if what he understood of the chasm glades was true, then they were in for a long journey.

  “Am I to understand the chasm glades are in the Grey Mountains?” asked Leofric.

  “They are,” agreed Cairbre. “If what Kyarno says is correct, then the cleft Beithir-Seun dwells within is in the Grey Mountains north of the river you call the Grismerie.”

  “But that is what, two hundred miles away? Are we to walk all the way?”

  Kyarno turned and said, “Have you learned nothing from your time in Athel Loren, Leofric? There are many secret paths through the forest and time and distance may mean different things along different paths.”

  The answer only served to confuse Leofric even more and he asked no further questions as they made their way deeper and deeper into the forest.

  The trees grew thicker and darker the further they went, branches overhanging like creepers and the sounds of life and song growing fainter and fainter until they travelled in silence, the only noise the snap of twigs and the rustle of leaves beneath Leofric’s feet.

  Leofric’s instinct for danger raised the hackles on the back of his neck as the light from above dimmed, obscured by the thickly growing branches of the leering hag trees. The scars on his cheek tingled and he reached up to touch one, his finger coming away bloody. He stopped in surprise and touched his other cheek, finding that it too wept a trickle of red.

  The others had not waited for him and he quickened his pace, not wanting to be left alone in this dark part of the forest. He heard voices from ahead and emerged into a gloomy glade of mist and cold. Kyarno and Cairbre stood warily beside one another while the prophetess spoke to someone or something he could not yet see.

  He moved to stand beside Kyarno and his heart skipped a beat as he saw Cu-Sith sitting cross-legged in the centre of the glade with Naieth’s owl on his shoulder. The Red Wolf was just as Leofric had last seen him, his flesh painted in vivid colours, the tattoo on his chest regarding him with a terrible hunger. The wardancer held a pair of swords crossed on his lap and as Leofric entered, he rose smoothly to his feet.

  “Cu-Sith wondered who would come,” he said.

  “Why are you here, Cu-Sith?” asked Cairbre.

  “Loec told me to come here,” answered the wardancer. “Why are you here?”

  “We travel the hidden path to the chasm glades.”

  The wardancer nodded, moving gracefully towards Leofric and he felt a tightening in his groin at the memory of Cu-Sith’s blade at his manhood. The wardancer raised his eyebrows and smiled crookedly at him.

  “You bring Cu-Sith’s pet with you,” he said, reaching up to dab his fingers in the blood on Leofric’s cheek. “His flesh remembers its place, even if he does not.”

  “Why did Loec tell you to come here?” asked Cairbre.

  “You should ask the prophetess. She told Cu-Sith that Loec speaks to her. Was that a lie?”

  “No,” said Naieth, “He does. But he does not tell me everything.”

  The Red Wolf laughed, “That is ever the Trickster’s way. Cu-Sith cares not anyway, he is here and Loec tells him to offer you his blades and dances of war.”

  “You are here to help us?” asked Kyarno.

  Cu-Sith slid over to Kyarno and circled him with a nodding smile. “Yes, Loec likes you very much, Kyarno of the Eadaoin kinband. You please him with your nature. Too bad for you.”

  Leofric released a tense breath, glad that the Red Wolf did not appear to be here to kill him or otherwise maim him.

  “Why should we need your help, Cu-Sith?” asked Naieth. “I can open the paths that lead through the secret heart of the forest myself. I need no help for that.”

  “No, but such paths can be dangerous. Does your band of heroes know the way?”

  “We will find a way,” growled Cairbre.

  “Spoken like a true warrior,” said Cu-Sith. “Brave, but stupid. The paths between worlds are not to be travelled lightly, warrior. The dark fey and the spirit guardians of the forest do not take kindly to mortals entering their domain.”

  “And you can show us the way?” asked Kyarno.

  “Cu-Sith can show you the way,” agreed the wardancer.

  Naieth said, “Then you shall do so, Cu-Sith. Now stand back while I open the doorway to the path you must travel.”

  The four warriors retreated from the prophetess as Othu flew from Cu-Sith’s shoulder to return to Naieth. The prophetess raised her staff of woven branches and began a musical chant that spoke to Leofric’s heart of yearning and powerful magic. The song of the trees echoed from the mists as though in answer to Naieth’s, and Leofric heard a crack and creak of twisting wood.

  He watched as the thick, gnarled trunk of a blackened tree at the edge of the glade groaned and twisted, its roots clawing the dark earth and reshaping itself into some new, unknown form.

  Its bark split and the sweet smell of sap wafted out, together with a cold so intense, Leofric shivered as though pierced by a spear of ice. The tree twisted in the grip of its transformation, swelling and growing until a glowing, mist-wreathed portal was revealed. Hissing voices, spiteful laughter and wicked cries of malice gusted from within and Leofric wanted nothing more than to turn from this frightful thing, but knew with heavy heart that this was exactly where they had to go.

  “The gateway is open,” breathed Naieth, “but I cannot maintain it for long. Hurry.”

  Leofric exchanged worried glances with Kyarno and Cairbre. They could all feel the malicious presences beyond the gateway and each felt some deep part of themselves recoil from them in terror.

  Cu-Sith leapt towards the portal, grinning wildly. “Come. Follow Cu-Sith’s lead and do not stray from the silver path. The dark fey will try to beguile you, terrify you and attempt to claim you for their own.
But believe them not, for they are lies designed to ensnare you in their world forever. You understand?”

  “Yes,” said Cairbre, impatiently, “we do.”

  “They all say that,” laughed Cu-Sith, “then they die. Do as Cu-Sith does and you will live. Do it not and every one of you will die.”

  “We understand,” said Kyarno.

  “We will see,” shrugged Cu-Sith, stepping into the glowing mist of the gateway and disappearing.

  Cairbre followed him without another word and Kyarno stepped carefully after his uncle, both elves vanishing in the light.

  “Go, Leofric,” said Naieth. “I will see you on your return. And remember the words of the Red Wolf.”

  Leofric nodded and, taking a deep breath, plunged into the gateway.

  Light blinded him and he cried out as his body told him that he was falling. He felt solid ground beneath his feet and dropped to his knees as the falling sensation seized him again. He opened his eyes slowly seeing the soft earth beneath him, veins of silver light threading the ground and casting a soft glow about him.

  Leofric’s breath came in short, panicked heaves, his body unable to shake the sensation of falling despite the evidence of his eyes. He tried to climb to his feet, but his terrified instinct for self-preservation kept him rooted to the spot.

  “What is wrong with him?” he heard Kyarno ask.

  “Humans were never meant to walk between worlds,” said Cu-Sith.

  Leofric’s resentment at Cu-Sith’s easy condescension fanned a flame in his heart and he angrily climbed to his feet, fighting the nauseous vertigo his body felt.

  “Maybe not,” he hissed, “but I will be damned if I will be left behind.”

  Cu-Sith bounded over to him and wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close until their eyes were inches apart. “You have spirit, human. It looks like Cu-Sith was right to let you keep your balls.”

  The wardancer released him and set off along the silver-veined pathway. Leofric fought to calm his breathing and adjust to his surroundings.

  The sky above was a ghostly grey colour, bleached of all life, and the landscape around them was one of glittering mist and twisted, dark trees as far as the eye could see. Laughter, cruel and hurtful, drifted from within the mists and a multitude of whispering voices chattered on the wind.