Calard ducked under the surface, but it was hard to see anything. As he came up, he glimpsed the body surging facedown towards the drop of the second falls. Risking being swept away himself, Calard launched himself towards it, and caught the figure under one arm.
For a moment he was locked in an impasse with the surging waters. He was unwilling to let go, yet unable to drag it to safety. Groaning with effort, he managed to pull it from the swift moving current and haul it into the shallows. By the time he got it to shore, his chest was heaving and he was soaked to the skin.
It was a man, clothed in little more than a loin-cloth of woven grass and twigs and a heavy cloak of tawny feathers. He was lean and slender, his limbs long and powerful. Broad antlers like those of a stag protruded from a helmet of dark leather, and hair the colour of sand hung past his waist, tied in intricate plaits and knots. Dozens of necklaces, torcs and bracelets encircled his neck and arms, and a huge hunting horn hung across his back. His pallid skin was covered in swirling tattoos and war paint. Lacerations criss-crossed his flesh, as if he had been whipped to the brink of death.
Calard rolled the figure over, shifting the massive hunting horn strapped across his back so he could lie flat. For a moment he stared at the man’s pale face in shock and wonder. His features were angular and long, and tall, pointed ears poked through his tangle of hair. The face was handsome, in a fashion, yet unutterably inhuman.
Many in Bretonnia spoke openly of their disbelief in those known as the fey – the woodland elves said to dwell within the Forest of Loren – yet here before Calard’s eyes was evidence of their existence.
Calard dropped to his knees and pressed one ear to the elf’s chest. The heartbeat was weak and faltering. The elf’s chest was not rising and falling. By holding his hand before his mouth he nose confirmed the elf was not breathing.
Gripping the slender figure’s jaw in one hand, Calard leant down and breathed air into the elf’s lungs.
After several breaths, the elf jolted convulsively. He coughed up a lungful of water, and his eyes flicked open. They were large and almond shaped, and the irises were golden.
‘Noth athel’marekh, taneth’url aran,’ said the elf, struggling and failing to rise. When he saw Calard, his eyes widened. He reached for a weapon, but the scabbard at his waist was empty.
‘I mean you no harm,’ said Calard, showing his palms.
The elf cocked his head to one side, studying the questing knight with narrowed eyes.
A piercing scream tore through the air, and Calard reached for his weapon. It was not human, nor was it the cry of any bird or beast. It was cruel, seething with malice, and the promise of pain.
The elf snarled, and using the water-slick rocks to help him, he dragged himself upright, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounds. He couldn’t stand unsupported, but he searched the forest edges. Calard was surprised the elf was even alive considering his wounds.
‘Drycha noth Kournos athos,’ said the elf, spitting the words out like a curse. His strength deserted him, and his eyes rolled backwards. Without a sound, he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Moving to him, Calard pressed his fingers to the elf’s throat. The heartbeat was erratic, and the skin was an unhealthy shade of blue. If his wounds were not tended soon, and warmth restored to his body, then the elf would surely not see out the night.
Another horrid cry echoed through the trees. This scream was nearer, and though it was hard to gauge, Calard judged it to be perhaps half a league away. It was followed almost instantly by another scream, slightly further off, coming from yet a third direction. It was the sound of predators coordinating a hunt, in the manner of a wolf pack, though these were no wolves; this was something infinitely more dangerous. Another cry sounded, closer still, and Calard realised that he was already surrounded.
Calard lifted the elf onto his shoulder, surprised at how light he was. He draped him over the warhorse’s saddle, and gripped Galibor by the bridle.
They needed shelter, and fast – somewhere to hide from whatever was hunting them, and a place where he could tend the elf’s injuries. Keeping close to the sheer rock face, Calard guided his warhorse back into the forest, judging the best chance they had was to find a hollow or an overhang in the cliff wall. There were dozens of cracks in the cliff face, but few extended far, and none offered much in the way of protection from the biting wind or prying eyes.
Another scream sounded, louder than any so far. The hunters were closing in fast.
Calard spied one crack in the cliff wall that looked marginally wider than the others, and in growing desperation, he scrambled forward to investigate, guiding Galibor towards the narrow chasm. It was barely wide enough for the armoured warhorse, but he pressed on, praying to the Lady. Water dripped down the sheer sides of this natural ravine, and ferns clung to its sides.
The passage narrowed, and Calard feared that he would have to turn back. Galibor snorted in displeasure, but did not resist as Calard continued on. After twenty paces, the ravine became a tunnel, a narrow passage delving deeper into the rock.
Sliding back past Galibor, Calard used a fallen branch to cover their tracks, obscuring their prints in the snow as best he could before leading the way deeper into the dark.
The roar of the waterfall echoed up through the tunnel, becoming louder the further they went. While the first few steps were through near total darkness, the way ahead brightened steadily; clusters of glowing crystal clung to the rock walls, radiating a pale phosphorescent glow.
Calard paused beside one of these formations. It was a mass of dagger-like shards, many as long as his forearm. The blue-white illumination they emitted pulsed like a heart-beat. Peering closely, he saw tiny spider-like creatures patrolling the crystal formation, swarming industriously, like bees within a hive. Their bodies were pearlescent and chitinous, and they too pulsed with inner luminosity.
Moving on, the crystal formations became ever more complex and impressive, until the winding tunnel opened to a broad, light-filled cavern. It was like walking into a cathedral of glass.
Grand pillars of crystal rose from floor to ceiling, and huge formations hung down like delicate chandeliers, glimmering coldly.
A hushed roar echoed through the cavern, and Calard wandered through its halls, awestruck, leading Galibor and the unconscious elf. He came to a gaping aperture, like a vast arched window, though in place of glass was a shimmering veil of water. They were behind the waterfall.
Others had recently used this place as a campsite. In a hollow in the floor he found ashes and charcoal, and in a nook in the wall was a pile of dry tinder and wood. Several low shelves extended from the walls around this fire pit, and pallets of tightly bound leaves upon them indicated that they were used as bedding.
He had no way of knowing who used this place as a refuge, nor if they would return, but he cast away any concern and thanked the Lady for leading him here. Easing the unconscious elf from Galibor’s saddle, he lowered him onto one of the pallets. His skin was cold and grey, and blood was leaking from his wounds. His heart beat was fluttering and faint, and his breathing shallow. Knowing he needed warmth, Calard set to building a fire.
Within minutes he had a blaze roaring, and turned his attentions to the elf’s injuries.
His tattooed flesh was covered in scratches and raking cuts. The majority of these wounds were focussed on his upper body and torso. There were few marks upon his back, suggesting the elf had been facing his assailant. His hands and forearms were shredded, as though he had tried to ward off the attacks.
Dozens of hooked thorns, some several inches long, were embedded in his body. They leaked a pungent, sticky green sap.
Some of the lacerations were superficial – no doubt painful, but not life threatening – but many were deep enough for serious concern. Calard winced as he probed at one particularly vicious injury.
Broken ribs protruded like snapped twigs from a serrated gash in the elf’s side, and blood wa
s flowing steadily from it. Left untended, he would certainly bleed to death. But even if the flow was stemmed survival was not certain.
Of greatest concern was a noxious discolouration surrounding each laceration. It spread out beneath the skin like the roots of a tree. These malign, creeping tendrils were dark-green in colour; poisoned.
Without delay, Calard set to removing the barbs. He concentrated his efforts on the serious torso wound first, cleaning and stitching it up as best he could. In a small bowl he ground up a mixture of herbs that he’d collected on his travels, mixing it with the last remnants of honey from a clay jar he had procured in the Empire six months earlier. The herbs were medicinal in nature, and combined with honey would aid in preventing infection. Calard applied the sticky poultice to the elf’s jagged wound. Cutting strips from a spare tunic, he bound it in place.
For an hour he ministered to the elf’s wounds. His patient cried out in his restless slumber, but his words were indecipherable. Several times he awoke, but his eyes were glazed and unfocussed, and he didn’t register Calard’s presence.
Still wearing his horned headdress, the elf projected a savage nobility even in unconsciousness. The inhuman cast to his features was emphasised by the cold light emitted by the walls, making his flesh appear luminous. It was impossible to guess his age – he might have twenty or two hundred and twenty – for the fey were thought to be long lived, perhaps even immortal. The span of their lives, so it was said, outstripped even those of dwarfen kind.
The cavern was warm now, the fire burning strong. Judging that he could do little more for the elf, Calard saw to his warhorse. He brushed her down and checked her legs and hooves for injury. Only when his steed was fed and watered did Calard allow himself to relax. He leaned his broadsword and shield against the wall and settled down upon one of the cave’s pallets. The Sword of Garamont sat across his lap. Its familiar weight was comforting. He watched the waterfall as he ate a meal of salted beef, and his mind drifted.
It had been seven years since he had set aside his lance and taken up the quest. Swearing his vow before the goddess, he had relinquished all his material wealth and instated his young cousin Orlando as his regent under the trusted guidance of Baron Montcadas. With nothing in the world to his name but that which he wore or was carried by Chlod, his manservant, Calard had ridden from Castle Garamont determined to succeed in his quest or die in the attempt.
The years on the road had hardened him, like a sword tempered in the forge. Through all the trials and hardships set against him he had emerged triumphant, and with every passing month his mind, body and soul had been strengthened.
Now, he prayed, his journey was coming to an end.
The vision had struck with all the force of a thunder bolt, taking his breath away and dropping him to his knees in the midst of battle. It has lasted just seconds, but the blinding series of images had been forever seared in his mind. Even now, he could see it whenever he closed his eyes.
He could not yet fathom the vision’s full meaning, but he had faith that all would become clear. The Lady had wished for him to follow the evening star into the east – and that had brought him here.
As loath as he had been to depart the cursed realm of Mousillon while the fiend Duke Merovech still walked, he could no more disobey the Lady’s command than choose for his heart to stop beating. And while he knew that even now Merovech and his blood-sucking seneschals were marching against Bretonnia at the head of a vast undead army, he could not ride to join the knights of the king until he had done as the Lady bid him.
Two others had ridden with Calard from the cursed realm; Chlod, his hunchbacked manservant, and Raben, a dishonoured rogue of a knight embarked upon the difficult road to redemption. Pursued by the nightmarish hounds of Duke Merovech, the three had fled Mousillon.
Knowing that haste was of the highest priority and that the path he now travelled was his alone, Calard had bid his companions farewell at Mousillon’s border and ridden hard into the east.
Chlod he had foresworn into Raben’s service, and the pair had ridden north into Lyonesse to raise the alarm. They had each seen the threat that Merovech posed, having glimpsed in the distance the army he had raised – literally – as they had fled the city. Thousands upon thousands of long dead warriors stood in serried ranks on the blasted fields to the north of Mousillon.
Calard’s gaze settled on the ashen-faced elf lying before the fire.
The Lady had led him here to save this warrior, of that he was certain. But why? Whatever the reason, he prayed that the elf would live to see the dawn. His fate was in the hands of the gods now.
The noise of the waterfall was soothing, and lulled by the sound of rushing water and the play of firelight on the crystal walls, Calard drifted into a fugue-like half-sleep. He imagined he saw slender women in the waterfall, staring in at him from the rushing waters, their naked flesh the colour of the ocean. He heard them singing, filling the crystal sanctuary with their hypnotic song.
The fire was low when he jolted awake.
The elf stood before him, holding Calard’s broadsword in a two-handed grip, the tip levelled at his throat. His golden eyes were unblinking.
The Sword of Garamont was still sheathed across Calard’s lap. With some effort he restrained himself from drawing it. He could see by the elf’s balanced stance that he was a warrior; he would be run through before he had the Sword of Garamont even half drawn.
Making no sudden or threatening moves, Calard lifted the sheathed sword from his lap and placed it beside him, flat on the pallet. He leant back against the stone wall and placed his hands behind his head.
‘Well?’ he said, his gaze steady. ‘What now?’
The elf’s eyes narrowed.
‘Aleth kegh-mon aeleth’os tark’a Loec-noth,’ said the elf. The cadence of his speech was lyrical, each unfamiliar word precisely enunciated and tinged with hostility.
‘If you were going to kill me, you would have done it by now.’
Calard could see that the elf was weak, though he was trying his best to conceal it. His limbs were lathered in sweat, and blood was leaking from several of his bindings.
The Bretonnian bastard sword was heavy, and Calard could see that the elf was straining to keep it aloft. It looked overly large and crude in his hands, which were surely used to more elegant weapons.
‘There is a poison in your flesh,’ said Calard. ‘You need healing. What was it that caused your injuries?’
‘Dae’eth Shael-Mara, noth,’ spat the elf.
‘You don’t understand me, do you?’ said Calard.
‘Kaelan noth kegh-mon,’ spat the elf.
They stared at each other for a time, neither willing to make a move. Calard shivered. The fire had reduced itself to embers, and the cavern was cold. Moving slowly, he reached for more wood.
The elf hissed through his teeth and tensed, the tip of the sword hovering like the barbed tail of a scorpion, ready to strike.
Moving cautiously, Calard lifted a chunk of wood from the pile and tossed it onto the embers. Tongues of flame rose almost instantly, licking at the dry, crackling timber.
Leaning forward, he poked at the fire, and a flurry of glowing cinders drifted into the air, dancing and crackling. Over the glow of the flames, he saw the elf sway as he fought to stay conscious. The tip of the sword wavered and dipped.
Seeing his opening, Calard flicked a scoop of embers up at the elf. In the same movement he sprang to his feet and leapt the fire pit, intending to slam the elf from his feet with his shoulder before he had a chance to strike.
Even in his weakened state the elf was far quicker than Calard had anticipated. Before he had cleared the fire pit the elf had already spun out of the way, side-stepping the tumble of glowing coals and bringing the heavy bastard sword around in a lethal arc that sliced for Calard’s neck. The blow was not a casual one; it was a killing stroke.
Calard threw himself to the side, and the blade hissed past, missing him by
inches. Still turning, the elf launched himself into the air like a dancer, using his momentum to bring the bastard sword around for a second strike. The elf moved with exquisite balance, and Calard felt clumsy and heavy as he reeled back, trying to put some distance between them.
He cursed himself for misjudging the situation; he had been sure that he could disarm the elf without any harm coming to either of them.
The elf landed in a low crouch. His breathing was laboured, and a growing red stain could be seen on the bindings around his chest. The wound in his side had re-opened.
The elf’s strength was fading. His golden eyes were clouded and his legs shook. Determined to end things quickly, before the elf regathered himself, Calard surged forward. But the elf was not done yet, and he swung at the questing knight as he came at him.
The elf’s speed was not what it had been at the start of the fight, and Calard caught the blade against the inside of his left vambrace, and while it cut deep, shearing through plate metal and the chainmail links beneath, it barely scratched his forearm. He grappled with the slender elf, and the two of them fought for control of the bastard sword.
The elf was Calard’s equal in height, yet was far slighter of frame. There was a wiry strength in the elf’s limbs, though, that defied his fragile appearance, and for a moment the pair were locked together, eye to eye.
Calard slammed his forehead into his opponent’s face, breaking the stalemate. The elf’s legs buckled, and the heavy bastard sword fell from his grasp with a clatter. Calard kicked it aside and muscled the elf to the ground, pinning him face down with a knee in the small of his back. The elf struggled against him, then went limp.
Calard lifted him from the ground and put him on one of the low palettes. The elf’s breathing was shallow, his heartbeat arrythmic. Calard loosened the blood-soaked bindings. The deep wound had reopened, and Calard worked to staunch the flow. There was little that he could do to halt the spread of the insidious poison, however, and he was shocked to see that the sickness had already advanced in the last hour. The vein-like tendrils under the skin were now creeping towards the elf’s heart.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 83