Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  Poisoned.

  The birds came at him again. This time the flock did not pass over, but instead swirled around him in a blinding whirlwind, a cyclone of feathers and stabbing beaks. In his peripheral vision, Calard saw dozens of tiny red-capped imps, their faces twisted in savage glee as they attacked him with poisoned shot. Most of the barrage pinged off his armour, but other darts stabbed into the exposed flesh of his neck and face.

  From out of nowhere, the tiny glowing sprite that had adopted Calard blinked back into existence, darting forward to rip one of the red-caps from its mount. The two diminutive nature-spirits tumbled through the air, fighting tooth and nail.

  Calard lashed out around him, feeling fragile bodies break against his shield, wings and slender bones snap like dry twigs. More were cut down by his blade, leaving a flutter of blood-specked feathers in its wake.

  The veiled lady appeared unaffected by the mayhem erupting around her, an oasis of calm in the maelstrom. Elves were falling in around her, forming a bodyguard to protect her and the unconscious elven warrior from harm.

  Galibor reared, hooves flailing as the crows whirled around her. Calard fought his way through the swirling cloud of feathers to grab the warhorse’s reins. The steed’s eyes were wide in fear, but she calmed under Calard’s firm hold.

  An elf fell from above and hit the ground hard nearby. Calard saw the elf’s face was peppered with tiny barbed darts. He was already convulsing as the poison spread though his veins.

  More arrows skewered several of the hateful carrion birds and the flock splintered. Calard swatted at them as they hurtled by him. Darts bounced off his armour, but then the birds were gone, disappearing into the forest. The tiny glowing sprite returned to him victorious. One of its wings was tattered, but it smiled and puffed out its chest.

  Calard’s lips and fingertips felt numb, and his throat was so dry that it was hard to swallow. The colours of the forest seemed too bright, and the trees rippled and wavered like reflections in a lake’s surface disturbed by a hurled rock. Blinking, his vision began to return to normal – thankfully, his armour had protected him from the worst of the arboreal barrage.

  Inhuman screams erupted around the glade, dangerously close. The elves were scanning the area, bow-strings taut, still ignoring Calard. Evidently, the crows were only the vanguard of whatever was now closing in.

  Snow was falling more heavily now, making it difficult to see. Stalking figures lurked at the edge of the questing knight’s vision, but he could make out little of their appearance except their outline, and even that was vague and shifting.

  Galibor whinnied, and Calard held her reins tightly.

  Snow fell silently as they waited for the attack to come. When it finally did, it was shocking in its speed and ferocity.

  Figures darted forwards and were met with a veritable storm of arrows, hissing like angry wasps as they sliced between the trees. Dozens of figures rushed from the shadows. They moved with preternatural speed, snarling and hissing like wildcats.

  Calard was about to haul himself into Galibor’s saddle when he felt an icy breath on the back of his neck, and he spun around, sword raised to strike.

  Like a wood-carving come spontaneously to life, a nymph was emerging from the trunk of the tree directly behind him. Struck by her naked beauty, Calard’s jaw dropped, and he held his blow.

  The creature’s skin was the silver-grey of the tree’s bark. Her features were fine and perfectly formed, with high cheek-bones, youthful, full lips and wide-spaced eyes that remained closed as if in slumber. Silken hair filled with leaves and ivy fell around her shoulders as she pulled herself free and stepped out onto the snow.

  Calard stared open-mouthed at this captivating nature spirit, but as its eyes flicked open, the spell of its allure was broken.

  Its elongated orbs were black and filled with cruelty. As its lascivious lips parted, beetles, worms, centipedes and other nameless crawling things writhed forth.

  Calard recoiled, and a sudden change came upon the nymph. Youthful features melted away, bark-like skin shrivelling and peeling back to expose a face of nightmare. Flakes of bark clung to its hollow cheeks, and its hair became a tangle of dead sticks and dry leaves. Swirling patterns were carved in its wooden flesh.

  Slender elven limbs became twisted and gnarled, and its delicate hands elongated, distending into sharp, branch-like talons. Its back became hunched and stick-like ribs protruded from its emaciated, bark-flesh.

  The creature resembled some ancient, spiteful crone of thorn and briar, as if the worst aspects of the winter forest had come to life and been granted physical form.

  The entire transformation took place in the blink of an eye, and with a piercing scream the hellish dryad lunged at Calard, talons extended.

  Calard lurched backwards, swinging his sword for its neck. The hideous creature came straight at him, raising one arm to deflect the blow. It was like striking a hunk of wood, and Calard’s blade stuck fast.

  The creature’s features melted back to those of a beautiful maiden, and it licked its lips before shifting back to its horrific war-aspect. It slashed Calard’s face, and while he turned away from the blow, avoiding the worst of it, its twig-like claws sliced across his left cheek.

  The wound was stinging, but Calard ignored it and planted one boot in the hollow of the dryad’s chest, shoving it back as he yanked his blade free. He felt dry stick-ribs snapping beneath his boot, and his sword came loose. Foul-smelling sap dripped from the blade. The creature recovered quickly and leapt at him again, seeking to drive its branch-like talons through his face.

  An arrow struck it as it came at him, knocking the dryad out of the air. It tumbled in the snow, screeching as it sought to dislodge the shaft embedded deep in its head. Stepping in close, Calard brought his sword blade crashing down upon its crown, and its skull came apart like a sodden log filled with worm-rot, splattering woodchips and crawling things.

  The dryad collapsed in upon itself, reduced to a stinking pile of rotting timber, sticks and mouldering leaf-mulch. Calard stepped away, covering his nose and mouth with the back of his hand.

  Dozens of the feral dryads were among the elves now, darting forward to impale them upon branch-limbs and tear them apart. Elves screamed, and blood showered the snow.

  Arrows sliced through the gloom, launched at a prodigious rate, and Calard saw scores of dryads scythed down. Still more of the vile nymphs were appearing, stepping out of the trees, their beauteous, temptress forms becoming twisted and vile as soon as they manifested fully.

  The fight was equally as savage in the forest vaults as on the ground. Dryads were leaping from tree to tree, chasing elves that were running along the branches, loosing arrows as they went.

  Sensing movement behind him, Calard turned. A hissing dryad was reaching for him, whipping vine-like tendrils around his sword arm.

  With his free hand, Calard drew his broadsword from his back and brought it slicing around towards the side of the creature’s head. It caught the blow mid-strike. Calard’s muscles strained, but the dryad was stronger, forcing his arm painfully backwards. It drew him in towards it, and the tangle of roots that were its hair reached towards him, like leeches questing for blood.

  He tried to fight it, but the horrid crone of winter was too powerful for him, and he was dragged into its embrace. Its mouth opened, exposing a feral array of predator’s teeth and writhing bugs, and the stink of rotting wood-mulch and worms filled his nostrils.

  The dryad jerked, and an arrowhead burst from its chest. The tip of the arrow was just inches from Calard’s own chest. The dryad, refusing to give up its grip on him even in death, dragged him towards it.

  Another arrow struck the dryad, this time in the back of its head. It collapsed, reduced to a lifeless husk that Calard kicked away in disgust.

  The warleader of the elves stood behind it, lowering his bow, and Calard gave him a nod of thanks. The warrior turned away to rejoin the fight, barking orders to his warri
ors.

  Dozens of dryads had been cut down, yet still more were emerging from the shadows, bursting from the trees. Reading the battlefield, Calard could see that this was not a fight that could be won.

  The elves were pulling back, smoothly loosing arrows as they retreated. Those overhead vaulted from branch to branch, moving almost as fast as those below, raining shafts down upon the baleful creatures.

  Calard ran to Galibor’s side, and hauled himself into the saddle. He could see the white stag galloping through the deep snow, surrounded by an escort of winter-clad elves.

  Urging Galibor into a gallop, Calard set off in pursuit. Trees streaked by, and glancing sidewards he saw the forms of winter dryads matching his speed, leaping and bounding like horrid puppets of wood come to life.

  The warhorse pounded through the snow, relishing the sudden release of energy. Calard tensed his muscles and leant forward in the saddle as Galibor leapt a fallen log. The sense of speed was exhilarating. He was amazed at how swift the elves were – he was having difficulty keeping pace with them, and they were travelling on foot. They darted through the trees like shadows.

  He saw the elven warleader throw a glance in his direction. The grim warrior mouthed what might have been a curse.

  Calard couldn’t suppress a wild grin. With a shout of encouragement, Calard urged Galibor on.

  VII

  The ride through the forest was like a dream. Calard urged Galibor between the towering silver-barked trees for hours, ducking low-hanging branches and leaning forward in the saddle as the mighty warhorse leapt fallen logs, red and blue caparison rippling.

  With cloaks billowing out behind them, the elves incredibly kept pace with them. For the time being they appeared to tolerate Calard, though they did not even so much as acknowledge his presence.

  The white hart was tireless and swift, galloping ever onward, leading a twisting and turning path through the forest. Huge firs gave way to glades of leafless birchwood and yew, which in turn gave way to wintery oaks and ash.

  They passed crumbling ruins overrun with ferns and twisted roots, and Calard marvelled at a pale stone tower that rose like a needle, disappearing into the canopy. They passed through a grand archway created by two enormous trees whose trunks had came together and entwined around each other, like lovers. At one point Calard glimpsed a wide and fast-flowing river, half-hidden by banks of weeping willow, but the stag’s path veered away from this, turning what might have been north, or south; Calard’s sense of direction was completely befuddled.

  On the occasions when the canopy opened up, he glimpsed the constellations overhead, but far from allowing him to regain his bearings, he became ever more confused. At some points, it seemed as though the silver moon Mannslieb was higher in the sky than it had been previously, as if they were going backwards in time, and at other times he could not even recognise the flickering celestial formations. For one who prided himself on his knowledge of the astral bodies of the heavens, and had navigated his way across the Old World by their guiding light, Calard found this perhaps more disturbing than any of the other wonders he had seen that night.

  Through water-slick ravines and narrow canyons they travelled, always at speed, as if the dryad hunters were still snapping at their heels, though Calard had seen no sign of them for many hours. The screams of the Handmaidens of Winter could be heard on occasion, echoing in the distance.

  They passed an immense green-grey statue of a bare-chested elf – easily a hundred feet tall – with cloven hooves and the horns of a stag jutting from its brow. It was carved from a rocky spur jutting up beside an icy spring, and covered in ivy and lichen. Calard saw each of the elven warriors avert their eyes as they passed by, making a gesture of warding, or perhaps of respect.

  Thousands of glowing sprites joined them for a time, emerging from the boles of trees and from beneath fern-fronds. The tiny pixie that had attached itself to Calard hovered at his shoulder, tattered wings a blur of movement. She was garbed in glowing plate armour in mimicry of Calard’s own, and she wore a serious expression upon her tiny, pinched face. She clutched a miniscule lance under one arm, a ribbon-like pennant fluttering from its tip, and on her left arm carried a shield with the device of a man spewing forth a torrent of leaves and ivy from his mouth.

  Finally, the white stag eased its relentless pace and drew to a halt in a protected glade along the banks of a frozen river. The elves spread out, many of them ghosting back into the trees. Others took up positions nearby, leaping lightly atop snow-covered boulders where they crouched, bows in hands, watchful for danger. As soon as they were still they became virtually invisible; even those in the open were almost impossible to see once their cloaks were drawn around their shoulders and their hoods lowered.

  The white stag knelt in the snow, allowing the veiled lady to slip from its shoulders. Cythaeros was eased off its back by the leader of the elven warparty and laid gently upon the leader’s cloak, which he had spread out upon the ground in the lee of a stand of rocks. The wounded elf still wore his antlered headdress.

  Calard reined in Galibor, and slipped from the saddle. He moved towards the elven leader, who was kneeling beside Cythaeros, inspecting his wounds.

  ‘How is he?’ he said as he approached.

  His words were ignored, but Calard could see that the green-black tendrils beneath the unconscious warrior’s skin had spread. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark rings. He still clutched his large, curved hunting horn to his chest, even in unconsciousness.

  For a moment Calard was unsure if the elf was still breathing, and he feared that the frantic ride had killed him. Then he saw the faintest of breaths misting the air around the elf’s nose. For now at least, the elf lived.

  ‘I will pray for him,’ said Calard. The elven warleader grunted in what might have been acquiescence, and Calard moved around to stand at the feet of the injured warrior.

  He drew the Sword of Garamont and reversed his grip on the hilt before driving its point into the snow and kneeling before it. Ignoring the pixie kneeling in the snow alongside him, mimicking his every move, he closed his eyes.

  Lost in prayer, he did not hear the veiled lady approach.

  ‘He is the Morning Star,’ she said in fluent Breton, interrupting his communion.

  Her voice was strange, like three voices overlapping and speaking as one, yet he recognised it – it was the voice that had spoken in his mind just before he had seen the Green Knight.

  Calard kissed the fleur-de-lys crossbar of his sword, and pushed himself back to his feet.

  The veiled lady stood nearby, looking down upon the unconscious elf. Of the elven warleader, there was no sign. The white hart and Galibor stood together, drinking melt-water from the lake.

  ‘The Lady of the Lake would not have brought me to him if he were not important,’ said Calard, sheathing his blade.

  ‘We are all of us important,’ said the lady in her trinity of voices. ‘And yet as insignificant as leaves on the wind.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Calard, to which the lady merely shrugged.

  ‘Those creatures,’ he went on, seeing that she was not going to offer any further explanation, ‘what were they?’

  ‘The Shael-Mara,’ said the veiled lady. ‘Handmaidens of Winter. Dryads. They are furies, as twisted and bitter as their mistress.’

  ‘Are they... daemons?’ said Calard, realising only now that the sky was brightening. Dawn was close at hand.

  ‘In a sense,’ said the lady. ‘They are of the forest. They are the forest.’

  ‘But the fey and the forest, are they not bound to each other? Why would the forest seek to harm its elven protectors?’

  The veiled lady laughed at that, the sound strange and unearthly.

  ‘Have you never thought that perhaps it is not the elves that protect the forest from intruders, but rather that they protect intruders from the forest?’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. And no.’


  Calard shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘He is dying, isn’t he?’ he said, looking down at Cythaeros, whom the lady had called the Morning Star.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Is it not in your power to save him, lady?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘but I cannot.’

  ‘Why? You said he was important.’

  ‘He is of the highest importance, but it is not allowed,’ said the veiled lady.

  ‘And what of me?’ said Calard.

  ‘You will do what is right for you to do.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The path you walk is yours to choose freely.’

  ‘My place is in Bretonnia,’ said Calard.

  ‘A great darkness has risen. It threatens to engulf your homeland in eternal twilight,’ said the lady. ‘I see a black grail, overflowing with blood.’

  ‘Merovech,’ said Calard.

  ‘The same,’ said the lady. ‘His legions are on the march.’

  ‘Have you the gift of far-sight, lady? Can you see how far from Couronne Merovech is?’

  ‘He is close,’ whispered the lady. ‘He will cross the Sannez within days.’

  ‘How can that be?’ said Calard in shock. ‘It would take him months to march through Lyonesse and L’Anguille!’

  ‘Time flows differently within the bounds of Athel Loren,’ said the lady. ‘It is like the river that you call the Upper Grismerie, and the Asrai call Frostwater – in places it runs swift and deep, while in other places it slows and pools, barely moving at all. Months have passed in the realms beyond the forest’s borders since you stepped foot within its bounds, Calard of Garamont.’

  ‘Months?’ said Calard. ‘My place is alongside the armies of the king! I must be away!’

  One of the elves standing sentinel cried a warning.

  ‘They come,’ said the veiled lady.

  The forest seethed with movement in every direction. They were surrounded.

  The warleader was shouting orders, and the elves formed a pocket of resistance upon the banks of the frozen river, facing outwards. He ushered the veiled lady into the protective cordon, and she remounted the proud white stag. Calard too slipped through the semi-circular arc of elves, who were preparing themselves for a final, last stand. They knelt in the snow, arranging their arrows point first in the ground within easy reach, and readied their bows.