Calard swore. Without a healer, the elf would die, but he felt certain that he would never find his way back here if he left to search for help.
Calard’s eye fell upon the curved hunting-horn that he’d removed from around the elf’s shoulders. If the elf had friends nearby, they might be able to help. Calard took up the horn and moved towards the passage leading back out to the forest.
A faltering voice gave him pause.
‘No,’ said the elf. ‘You will draw the Shael-Mara to us.’
‘You speak Breton?’ said Calard.
‘Some.’
‘How did you come to learn it?’
‘One of... your people dwelled... for a time within the Halls of... Anaereth... my home.’
‘How long ago was that?’ said Calard in wonder. The elf spoke an archaic form of his language that had not been used in hundreds of years.
‘Many seasons.’
‘My name is Calard of Garamont, My quest for the Lady’s chalice brought me here, to your forested realm. It was she who led me to you.’
‘Then you are a fool,’ said the elf. ‘The forest... will claim you. You’ll not... see your lands again.’
‘Are you a seer?’
The wounded fey warrior glared at him, golden eyes blazing.
‘I do not... need to be a seer... to know the fate that awaits you.’
‘What is your name, elf?’
‘I am Cythaeros Mithra’kinn’daek of the Shenti’ae Arahain kindred,’ said the elf.
‘The Lady led me to your side, Cythaeros,’ said Calard, forming the elf’s name with some difficulty. ‘It was by her will that you were saved.’
The elven warrior was about to speak, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Blood flecked his lips when it had passed.
‘You said I would draw something to us if I used this horn,’ said Calard, handing the curved instrument to the elf. ‘What is out there? What manner of creature is hunting you?’
‘The Shael-Mara,’ said Cythaeros, taking the hunting horn and clutching it to his chest like a talisman. ‘Handmaidens of Winter. They will... be searching.’
‘Handmaidens of Winter?’
‘Betrayers... Pawns of the branchwraith, Drycha.’
Calard’s frowned, and he was about to voice his questions when he saw that Cythaeros had slipped into unconsciousness. He settled down next to him, wondering what the best course of action was.
With a gasp, the elf awoke again. He sat upright, grabbing Calard’s arm, his eyes shining with fever.
‘The compact... must be met. The King... in-the-Wood must rise.’
‘Lie back,’ said Calard. ‘Your wounds.’
‘No,’ said Cythaeros, his voice a hoarse whisper, but he sunk back onto the pallet, his strength waning. His eyes began to close.
Calard could see he was fading fast. He leant in close, taking hold of the elf by his shoulders.
‘There is a poison in you that is beyond my abilities to halt,’ said Calard. ‘You are in need of healing. Where are your people?’
‘The forest,’ breathed Cythaeros. ‘Take me… into… the forest.’
V
Snow crunched underfoot as Calard delved deeper into Athel Loren. He eyed his surroundings with both wariness and wonder, one hand resting upon the pommel of the Sword of Garamont. Cythaeros was slumped unconscious astride his armoured warhorse. Calard had tied him into the saddle to ensure that he did not slip sidewards, but he glanced back regularly to ensure he was still in place.
The elf’s condition was steadily worsening. It was still some hours before dawn, and Calard was unsure that he would ever regain consciousness. He needed help soon if he stood any chance of living.
Only hours ago, the forest had seemed impenetrable, dark and full of claustrophobic menace; now it was bright, and filled with space and air. Where before the forest had appeared to resent Calard’s presence, turning him around and hindering him at every step, now it opened up before him, as if hurrying him on. Though he did not know where he was going, he took this as a good sign.
As he walked, Calard’s gaze constantly drifted upwards. Immense trees rose all around him, soaring impossibly high, their silver-barked trunks glistening. Their scale was breathtaking, and he doubted their like existed anywhere in the world but here. Never would he have believed that any tree could grow so tall or straight; each must have been easily five-hundred feet tall. They were like vast pillars holding up the ceiling of the world.
The quality of the light was magical, with moonlight lancing down through the canopy above. Pristine, untouched snow glittered like crystal.
In the hours since leaving the safety of the cave, Calard had neither seen nor heard any sign of pursuit. Still, he remained alert, knowing that danger was assuredly all around, even if he could not perceive it.
Despite the unnatural winter, Calard glimpsed an abundance of life within the forest. He guessed it had been here before, but only now was he seeing it – or being allowed to see it.
Owls swooped through the trees, and rabbits and mink padded across the snow, oblivious to the danger above. He heard a lone fox barking in the distance, and glimpsed a pair of hawks roosting in the branches overheard. He saw a herd of deer grazing far away, though none of them came close to matching the sheer magnificence of the white hart that had led Calard into the forest. From afar, he saw the shuffling form of a great bear woken early from its winter slumber.
Once, Calard caught a glimpse of a huge white cat stalking through the trees some way off. Its body was sleek and powerful, and its ears were sharp and pointed like knives. It turned to regard him, violet eyes flashing in the moonlight, before melting with unhurried grace into the forest like a phantom.
All of those creatures were similar to ones Calard had seen outside the forest, yet there was something about them that was strange, an otherworldly quality that set them apart.
Other creatures were less familiar.
A host of glowing sprites had descended around him at one point. From a distance they looked like fireflies, but as they came close, he had seen that they were something altogether different.
Each was a tiny being of light, perfectly formed and held aloft by diaphanous, gossamer wings. They were curious of him, darting in close to look at him, then speeding away again when he turned towards them. They were irritating, however, tying knots in his hair and pulling Galibor’s ears, all the while filling the air with their high-pitched giggles. Calard had swatted at them as they flitted around him.
Most of them had soon grown bored and departed, but one of the tiny spirits stayed with him. He had given up trying to drive it off. At first it had darted frenetically, sticking out its tongue as he waved it away, but it appeared content now to sit on his shoulder, chattering away in its shrill, indecipherable voice.
Even the tiny sprite had finally fallen silent, however, and a reverential hush descended upon the forest. It began to snow. Each heavy flake fell in slow motion, descending with tranquil grace. The crunching of snow and the jangle of tack were the only sounds.
The attack came without warning.
Calard glanced back over his shoulder to ensure Cythaeros was still in the saddle, and a slender loop of rope slipped over his head. Before he had a chance to react, the rope was yanked tight around his neck and he was hauled into the air, legs kicking uselessly beneath him.
Struggling for breath, Calard clutched at the constricting noose, trying fruitlessly to get his fingers beneath the rope and ease its tension. It was crushing his windpipe, and his vision began to waver. The glowing sprite that had attached itself to him was flying frantically around him, tears of light falling down its cheeks.
As he spun helplessly ten feet above the ground, Calard saw shadowy figures in the branches of the trees. Their faces were hidden beneath deep hoods, and each levelled a nocked bow.
White spots were appearing before Calard’s eyes, and he fumbled for his knife. The glowing sprite’s tiny hands guided
him, and his fingers finally closed around the hilt. He drew it quickly and slashed through the choking rope.
Hitting the ground hard, Calard ripped off the noose, gasping. He staggered to his feet and drew the Sword of Garamont. A dozen figures armed with bows had risen from concealment beneath the snow around him. The sprite hovered at his shoulder, spitting and glaring at these newcomers. Glancing up, Calard saw that easily the same number as were on the ground were crouched in the branches overhead, arrows trained upon him.
‘Wood elves,’ said Calard.
The fey beings were slender and tall, clad in heavy cloaks the colour of winter. Most had their faces covered, leaving only their almond-shaped eyes exposed, glittering beneath their shadowed hoods. Their expressions gave away nothing.
One of them dropped from the branches overhead, landing lightly. The wood elf pushed the hood back from his face, revealing a strong, masculine profile, and ashen skin. He wore a curving black half-mask, and delicate tattoos in dark green were stencilled across his flesh.
His hair was gleaming black and tied in a series of braids. He moved with the supple grace of a dancer, and barely left an impression in the snow as he strode towards Calard. He halted ten paces away, and while his bow was lowered, he kept an arrow nocked to the string. His eyes were like chips of ice. Calard was in no doubt that the elf would kill him at the slightest provocation.
With slow and deliberate motions, Calard sheathed the Sword of Garamont.
‘I found one of your people – Cythaeros,’ Calard said, gesturing towards the unconscious elf. ‘He is hurt. I have done what I can for him, but he needs a healer.’
The elf barked an order but did not take his eyes off Calard. One of the hooded sentinels stepped forwards, easing the tension from its bowstring, and moved to the side of the Bretonnian warhorse. The elf was a woman, though she was garbed identically to her companions. She spoke softly under her breath, and placed a gentle hand upon Galibor’s nose. The proud warhorse accepted her touch, nuzzling into it.
The elven warrior-woman glanced in Calard’s direction. He saw disdain in her eyes, before she turned her attention towards the unconscious figure of Cythaeros slumped in Galibor’s saddle.
The leader of the elves spoke, his tone questioning. Calard saw the female warrior’s eyes widen as she lifted the wounded elf’s chin and looked upon his face.
She looked sharply at Calard.
‘Doth kail’enaeth,’ she said in a sharp voice. ‘Cythaeros Mithra’kinn’daek, Kournos-dae!’
Several of the elves began to speak at once, but they were silenced by the one Calard took to be their leader.
‘Kaela’Anara, vish’nu,’ he said.
The air shimmered and, as if a veil were parting, the white hart that had led Calard into the forest stepped into the moonlight, seemingly from nowhere.
‘Not a delusion of the mind, then,’ breathed Calard.
The proud creature walked towards him with unhurried majesty. Its broad rack of antlers gleamed. A rider sat astride the stag’s shoulders, a lady bedecked in a gown of overlapping gossamer layers, each so delicate that they appeared to float in the air.
A veil concealed her face, held in place by a circlet of ivy around her brow. A gentle aura surrounded the lady.
Cythaeros was lowered from Galibor’s saddle by a pair of elves. Calard made to help them, but the leader of the elves hissed between his teeth, raising his bow, and Calard froze.
The veiled lady slipped from the back of her mount. Although he could not see her eyes, hidden as they were, he could feel her gaze upon him, making his skin prickle. She was a sorceress then, Calard surmised; he had felt the strange, creeping sensation before.
Cythaeros was carried towards the white stag, which lowered itself in the snow to receive him. It had no bridle, reins or saddle and knelt of its own volition. The unconscious elf was placed over its broad back, leaning forward into its thick mane, and the veiled lady climbed behind him, putting her arms around his waist.
Calard’s gaze returned to the leader of the elves, and he realised that he now stood alone. Those elves that had been nearest to him had rejoined their brethren. They now encircled him, silent, their expressions cold. Hooded and cloaked, the elves all looked as one: grim and unforgiving.
‘If I have broken any law through my intrusion into your realm, then I apologise,’ said Calard.
The elves were silent, staring with unblinking eyes.
‘You have your man back,’ said Calard, gesturing towards Cythaeros. ‘My task here is done. I ask that I be allowed to leave safely, so I can join my kin in fighting the darkness assailing my lands.’
Still the elves made no response.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ said Calard, grasping the hilt of his sword.
The elven leader raised his powerful, recurved bow and drew back the string, arrow levelled at Calard’s chest. At this range, it would drive straight through his breastplate.
‘It is not the will of the Lady that I die here,’ Calard said.
The elven warleader’s eyes narrowed, but he did not loose his arrow.
Confronted with the prospect of being ignobly cut down by a coward’s weapon, Calard felt nothing but calm. It was as though a blindfold had been lifted from his eyes, a weight removed from his soul.
‘Lady of mercy,’ he whispered, ‘show me the path, and I shall walk it.’
A single black feather drifted into view, falling slowly between the elven leader and Calard, like a tainted snowflake.
The ugly cawing of crows sounded nearby, shattering the silence. The tiny sprite at Calard’s shoulder gave out a shriek, and blinked out of existence. Further off, Calard heard an inhuman scream, infused with bitterness and savagery.
As if that hateful cry were its cue, an icy wind howled through the forest. Branches whipped back and forth in the wake of the sudden tempest, and Calard’s tattered cloak rippled out behind him. Something was coming, and he readied his blade, his eyes slits against the gale.
The Handmaidens of Winter had found them.
VI
Riding on the wind of the storm, crows erupted from the forest depths. Calard heard them long before he saw them, moving fast and flying in a dense black cloud. They dipped and dived through the branches, moving at tremendous speed, coming straight for the elves and Calard.
‘Shael-Mara!’ shouted the elven warleader, arrow still pointing at Calard. Without warning, he loosed.
Calard did not flinch, even as the arrow came towards him. It hissed by his ear, missing him by less than an inch, and he heard it thud home somewhere behind him, accompanied by a feral howl of pain and anger.
Glancing over his shoulder, Calard saw a figure pinned to a tree some thirty feet away. It was thrashing like some deranged marionette as it sought to free itself. It screeched horribly, sounding more like some monstrous bird of prey than anything even vaguely elven or human.
Seeing that the elves were ignoring him completely, Calard drew the Sword of Garamont and swung the battered shield off his back. It was painted red and blue with a resplendent silver dragon rampant emblazoned upon its face, but that paint was now faded and scratched, the bare metal underneath shining through. It was heavily battle-worn, covered in dents, evidence of the countless battles he had survived. As the flock of birds hurled themselves towards him, their cries deafening, he secured the shield on his left arm and readied himself for their onslaught.
They were big, more the size of ravens than crows, yet sleeker than any Calard had seen before. Their bodies appeared elongated for speed and manoeuvrability, perfectly adapted to a life beneath the forest canopy. They were not at all slowed by the dense foliage, spinning and weaving through the skeletal branches with enviable grace and swiftness. Their black feathers had a blue sheen to them, he saw now, and their beaks and talons gleamed like daggers. A dozen were felled by arrows, but the rest came on, screaming and cawing.
Seeing that they were not swerving from their cou
rse, Calard ducked behind his shield, protecting his eyes. The flock broke upon him like the tide, flowing either side of him. He was momentarily blinded, surrounded by their blurred, black-feathered shapes. He felt several impacts upon his armour, as if he were being pelted with rocks, and he wondered if what he felt were stabbing beaks, or claws. There was a sharp pain in the side of his neck and the birds were past him. They reformed into a single mass, wheeling to make another pass.
Calard dislodged a tiny splinter that had been embedded in his neck.
‘What in the name of the Lady?’ he said, examining it between his fingers.
It was less than an inch in length, and as thin a blade of grass. It looked like a tiny sliver of slate, but its tip was barbed like a hunting spear, albeit on a miniscule scale. A bead of blood dripped from the tip.
The flock of crows came at him again, filling the air with ugly cries and the flapping of wings. It was all but impossible to focus on any of the darting birds, so swiftly did they move, but Calard caught a momentary glimpse of a tiny figure that blinked into existence, perched on the neck of one of the crows as it hurtled by.
He saw it only briefly, but in that moment he discerned savage glowing eyes glaring out of a pinched face the size of Calard’s thumbnail. Its features were pointed and as black as coal. It wore a red cap, and it snarled at him, exposing a plethora of tiny fangs. It hurled a tiny barbed dart towards his eyes before blinking out of sight, disappearing completely. It was only reflex that saved Calard from being blinded; the dart hit him on the cheek as he jerked away.
He lashed out, striking air. The birds darted around the weapon like smoke.
He brushed the dart from his cheek and plucked out another that had struck him in the chin. More were stuck in his cloak and between the links in his chainmail hauberk.
The wounds weren’t deep, but they were already beginning to throb. Calard’s vision swam, and he staggered.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 84