[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest Read online

  “Spare me your riddles, elf. Answer the question.”

  “As you say, I am a witch and thus I know many things. Some I would wish not to know, but that is not for me to choose.”

  Leofric surged to his feet, the grey-cloaked elves raising their weapons before them as he did.

  “Damn you, woman, tell me where my wife is!” raged Leofric before sitting back down on the stump of wood. “Please…”

  “You will show respect, human,” said Cairbre, raising his spear towards him.

  “Leofric, your wife is with the forest now,” said Naieth softly. “I am sorry. We tried to come to your aid, but we were too late.”

  “With the forest? What does that mean?” demanded Leofric, sudden hope in his heart. “Can we get her back?”

  “It means that the spirits of the forest took her,” said Naieth, drawing up her robes to sit on a delicately curved swathe of branches that curled outwards from the walls as she lowered herself to sit upon them. “Dryads, branchwraiths and tree spirits. As winter draws in they become malicious and spiteful, taking all who cross into the forest as their victims.”

  “Victims…” whispered Leofric. “Then she is dead?”

  Naieth reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, but he pulled back, his face a mask of resentment and pain.

  “I am truly sorry Leofric, but the forest exacts its own vengeance on those who pass its borders.”

  “She harmed no one!” shouted Leofric. “She was an innocent.”

  “I know, but she is at peace now,” said Naieth. “This world is a dangerous place. Orcs and the beasts of the dark places of the world pillage and destroy, the warriors of the Dark Gods lay waste to the lands of your kind and the dead rise from their tombs to slay the living. She is spared that horror now and will live forever as part of Athel Loren. She will live on in your heart, your memories and through your bloodline.”

  “But I want her back, I need her!” cried Leofric.

  “I’m sorry, but it is not in my power to grant that wish.”

  Leofric took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself in the face of the elves. He was a knight of Bretonnia and it did not behoove a knight of the realm to comport himself in this manner.

  “She gave me her favour at the Couronne tournament,” he said slowly, “a silken scarf of blue, edged in white lace.”

  Cairbre leaned close to Naieth and she nodded as he whispered something to her.

  “I am told it was wrapped around the hilt of your sword,” she said.

  “It was,” agreed Leofric, “and it is precious to me.”

  “Then I will see that it is returned to you,” promised Naieth.

  He straightened his back and nodded his thanks through red-rimmed eyes at the elf-witch and her guardians as another thought occurred to him.

  “The knight who was with you, the one with the heraldry of a dragon, a green one I think. Who is he?” asked Leofric. “Is he here?”

  Naieth shook her head. “No, he is not. He has travelled beyond this place.”

  “Do you know his name? He is one of the holy few, is he not? A knight of the grail…”

  “Yes,” agreed Naieth, “he is that. He is a friend to the Asrai and that is all that need concern you of him. He is gone from Athel Loren and will not return for… some time.”

  “The Asrai? Who are they?”

  Naieth smiled. “It is an ancient elven word from across the seas that means ‘the blessed ones’. It is the word we use for our race, the kin of the forest.”

  “And how is it that a noble knight of the Lady rides with your people atop an elven steed and wielding an elven blade? Surely such a thing is unthinkable.”

  “He has done great service for my people and I would speak no more about him, for he is a warrior of great sorrow and he would not thank me for speaking of him.”

  Seeing he would get no more from Naieth about the mysterious grail knight, Leofric said, “So be it, but if I am to be held here, then surely I deserve at least to know where I am.”

  “Indeed you do,” agreed Naieth, waving her hand at the branch walls, which parted to reveal a glorious woodland landscape of golden browns and brilliant greens. Majestic trees soared upwards, their trunks thicker than a castle tower and older than the most ancient ruins Leofric had ever seen. Brilliant lights wreathed each canopy haunting melodies and laughter weaving through the greenery like a gentle breeze.

  Elves on foot and elves on horseback moved gracefully through the trees, and animals — white-furred wolves, sinuous cats and golden-feathered birds – meandered through the undergrowth or flitted between the trees without fear.

  “You are within the woodland realm of Athel Loren,” said Naieth, “a guest of Lord Aldaeld Eadaoin of the Asrai in the halls of Coeth-Mara. Lord Aldaeld rules this region of the forest in the name of Isha and Kurnous, and by your way of thinking, we are in the south-eastern part of the forest, near the foot of the mountains you call the Vaults.”

  “You say I am a guest,” commented Leofric. “Does that imply I am free to leave?”

  “No, I am afraid that it does not,” said Naieth reluctantly. “Normally intruders within Athel Loren are killed without mercy. You have lived in the shadow of our forest for enough years to know this.”

  “Aye,” agreed Leofric. “So the question then becomes why am I not dead?”

  “Indeed. You are alive only because I decreed it and Lord Aldaeld has consented not to slay you for the time being.”

  “So my position is what might be described as ‘precarious’,” stated Leofric.

  Naieth made a sound like the opening of a song and it was several seconds before Leofric realised that she was laughing.

  “Yes, Leofric, your situation is precarious… as is mine if it turns out I was wrong to save you. Your life depends now on the good graces of Lord Aldaeld, so walk warily in his realm, Leofric Carrard.”

  “So why did you save my life then?”

  “Not on a whim, I can assure you of that, there was method to my actions.”

  “Then I ask again, why did you save my life?”

  Naieth hesitated for the briefest of seconds and Leofric knew with sudden clarity that she would not tell him the truth.

  At last Naieth said, “I see many things, Leofric, and the future is not the impenetrable veil to me that it is to others. Nor is it fixed, there are many fates that await us, and not even the mightiest seers can know them all. There is a time of great moment approaching for the Asrai and in many of my waking nightmares of the future, I see you. What part you have to play in the coming days of blood and war I do not yet see, but that you are there is enough for me.”

  Leofric sensed that the elf-witch was holding something back, but knew better than to press her too much.

  “So what happens now?” he asked. “You keep me prisoner until this time draws near?”

  “No, of course not,” smiled Naieth. “Lord Aldaeld desires to speak with you before deciding your fate. Once he has made his decision we will resolve what is to be done with you.”

  Leofric looked down at his sweat and tear streaked robes, the stain on his hip where his stitches had torn now grown into a large patch of dried blood.

  “I am in no fit state to meet a lord,” he said.

  “I know,” agreed Naieth. “That is why I have arranged for someone to take you to the Crystal Mere where you will be cleansed and made presentable to Lord Aldaeld.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Naieth with a smile, though Leofric saw that it did not quite reach her eyes. “I’m sure you and Kyarno will get along famously.”

  This close to the forest of the elves, the Beastlord was cautious, having moved the herd slowly through the low, scrubby hills at the foot of the mountains. It knew full well the dangers inherent in being so near the woodland realm. Its senses were alive with the sensation of magic emanating from the trees and ground. It felt it as a sour taste in the back of its throat, a rank, bitter flavo
ur that fuelled its urge to despoil.

  A dark rain fell as the forest’s edge came into sight over a cold, windswept heath of tall, yellow grasses and stagnant pools of brackish water. The Beastlord waved its thick arms and the beasts of the herd dropped to the ground, crawling and stalking their way towards the edge of the heath. Claws of mist gathered about the dark and twisted oaks of the forest, their trunks and upper branches wreathed with skulls and hides of beasts, orcs and ratkin. Waving, leafy sprouts drooped from eye sockets and a low groaning issued from the depths of the forest.

  Drifting lights, sluggish and lazy, wafted between the shadowed trunks deeper in the woods, but the Beastlord paid them no heed, intent on the massive waystone that reared up from the ground at the treeline. Its surface was worn smooth by the elements, though the looping carvings and elven script that spiralled across its surface remained crisp and deep. The Beastlord felt the ancient power that saturated the waystone, reaching deep into the earth to the foundations of the world, and grunted in pleasure as it pictured the stone torn down then corrupted to become its herdstone.

  It raised its axe, waving forward a group of around twenty smaller creatures with thin, reddish brown fur and elongated, bestial skulls with small, budding horns. Each beast carried a short, iron-bladed axe and cast fearful glances towards the forest, unwilling to approach it too closely.

  The Beastlord sensed their fear and let loose a terrifying bellow, cowing the smaller creatures with its power.

  It swung its axe towards the forest once more and the beastmen loped towards the treeline, their instinctive fear of the woodland realm outweighed by the more immediate fear of the Beastlord.

  Their braying cries were strangely deadened as they charged, the Beastlord watching as they reached the edge of the forest and waved their axes in the air. Some chopped at low branches with their weapons, some defecated on the trees and others skulked deeper into the forest with low growls.

  The altered eyes of the Beastlord could see spiralling lines of magical energy seeping up from the ground and watched as the forest reacted to the intruders.

  A beast squatting over the roots of a tree was the first to die, its head torn from its shoulders in a fountain of blood by a looping noose of razor-sharp thorns that whipped down from the tree above. Another died as the earth opened beneath it and swallowed it whole. The ground erupted in rampant growth, slashing, tearing and ripping the beasts to bloody ruin. Soon the forest’s edge was a thrashing mass of screaming beasts, lashing branches and jagged bushes that tore at flesh and crushing boles that split skulls.

  Snaking branches and curling thorns spiralled from the ground at the edge of the forest and the trunks of the trees, an impenetrable barrier of lethally sharp barbs. A dark hiss and rustle of angered forest life crept across the heath, the sound of screaming beasts sending a ripple of fear through the warherd.

  The Beastlord nodded to itself. It had expected no less and the sacrifice of the smaller beasts had simply confirmed its suspicions. Turning from the carnage unleashed by the forest and the pitiful cries of the dying creatures, the Beastlord waved another of its herd forward, a withered, hunched figure swathed in rotted robes of patched leather and hides.

  Long, curling horns sprouted from its shaggy, bearlike skull and its hooded eyes held the spark of a dark, malicious intelligence. It carried a long staff of gnarled black wood, its substance slick and somehow alive. The breath of the gods surrounded the creature, a shaman whose powers not even the Beastlord could match.

  The shaman looked upon the tall stone that marked the boundary of the forest and nodded, stabbing its staff towards it, grunting and chanting in a language the Beastlord did not understand, although he felt its dark power in the depths of his bones. Powerful winds of magic were stirred and the Beastlord could feel the gathering energy being channelled into the shaman with each passing second.

  Another group of creatures stamped forward as the Beastlord again waved its massive axe: thickset centaurs with iron-clawed hooves, hard skins of vermillion and elongated shaggy rumps like powerful dray horses. The reek of powerful spirits was upon them and their snarling faces were flushed with its consumption. Each carried a long, stabbing spear and thick, goring horns curled from their fearsome skulls.

  The shaman nodded and the Beastlord ordered them forwards, the bellowing centaurs rearing in wild abandon before thundering towards the trees. As the centaurs charged, the shaman hauled its twisted bulk to its feet and pointed its writhing staff at the barrier of thorns and branches.

  Glittering blue flames leapt from the staff and the shaman braced its malformed legs to control the spurting fires. Smoke billowed from the edge of the forest as the magical flames consumed the woodland. White light flared as the magic of the waystone fought the raw power of the god’s breath. The barrier swiftly disintegrated under the relentless assault and the roaring centaurs leapt through the gap the shaman’s magic had created.

  Six of the powerful beasts made it through the barrier of thorns before the shaman’s spell was exhausted and it reared up once more. The other beasts turned back as the tearing wall of branches and thorns snatched at them. The forest dragged one down before it could halt its charge, ripping its belly open, breaking its legs and wrenching its limbs off before grinding its ravaged carcass to powder beneath the grasping roots of the trees.

  The shaman shook its thick, horned skull and pointed at the base of the waystone, snarling and grunting in pleasure. The Beastlord saw that the grasses surrounding the waystone were blackened and withered, twisting into new and unnatural forms — the influence of the Shadow-Gave reaching from its lair in the mountains…

  Once again the Beastlord pictured the waystone as it would soon be — toppled and dragged into the mountains to become the greatest herdstone of all the beasts of Chaos.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cairbre was waiting for Kyarno when he rode up to the hall where the prophetess had sequestered the human. The aged warrior wore an expression of faint disapproval, and his stance was guarded. As ever, he was ready to fight in an instant. Kyarno saw that he carried the Blades of Midnight unsheathed, and held the reins of a heavily muscled, human-bred horse with a wide chest and thick limbs.

  “Expecting trouble?” asked Kyarno, nodding towards the white-bladed spear as he vaulted from Eiderath’s back.

  “Where have you been?” said Cairbre, ignoring Kyarno’s question. “You were to be here at dawn.”

  “Good morning to you too, uncle,” replied Kyarno, giving the huge, snorting horse a wide berth. There was a crudity to the animal that no amount of grooming could erase; its bulk was powerful, but vulgar. Trust a human to ride something like this, he thought. Curious spites flickered around the beast. The horse’s eyes were wide and its ears were pressed flat against its skull.

  “That beast is very you,” he said.

  “I said you were to be—”

  “I heard what you said, Cairbre. I came as soon as Tarean Stormcrow came for me. What more do you want?”

  Cairbre nodded stiffly, biting back a response, and said, “The human is inside. The prophetess asks for him to be taken to the Crystal Mere and for him to be allowed to bathe. Once he is clean enough to be presented to Lord Aldaeld, bring him back.”

  “Yes, Tarean told me this,” said Kyarno. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all,” said Cairbre. “Do you think you can manage that without any trouble?”

  “I think so, yes,” snapped Kyarno, tilting his head back to look up into the crisp sunlight as it speared through the autumnal canopy high above. “It is a fine morning to take a filthy human to the healing waters of the Crystal Mere. I wonder if he will appreciate how privileged he is to see such a sight?”

  “I would doubt it.”

  “Then why show him, uncle?” asked Kyarno. “He will only speak of it if he is returned to his lands. And what he speaks of will draw others of his kind here like blights to the dying.”

  Cairbre nodded. “I
know, but it is Naieth’s wish that he be taken there.”

  “Has she seen something?”

  Cairbre shrugged, obviously reluctant to speak. “I do not know. Perhaps.”

  “She has been wrong before,” hissed Kyarno. “Have you forgotten?”

  “No, damn you, I have not,” said Cairbre, his pale features ashen. “And I do not need you to remind me! I see it every day I look at you.”

  Kyarno swallowed hard. “And I see it every time I close my eyes, uncle. Tell me again whose burden is the greater.”

  Cairbre was silent for long seconds before he said, “If I could change things I would, lad. I loved your mother and father, you know that.”

  “But you can’t change things, can you?” said Kyarno. “For all your skill at arms, you couldn’t save them, could you?”

  “I lost a brother that day,” whispered Cairbre.

  “No,” said Kyarno. “You lost a lot more than that.”

  Naieth listened with growing sadness to the harsh words spoken between the Hound of Winter and Kyarno. The youngster would never understand the choices she had had to make, the awful truths that woke her weeping in the night with visions of death and ruin. He would never understand that she had needed him to suffer in order to mould him into the weapon she required.

  He would never understand and he would never forgive her if he knew.

  She closed her eyes, seeing again the wooded glade, the stream that ran red with elven blood, the flames that burned, the guttural brays of the twisted beastkin and the agonised screams that haunted her every nightmare.

  What she had told Leofric was the truth: this world was a dangerous place and the Asrai had enemies all around. Every rhyme sung to elven youngsters taught them this cold, hard fact.

  The forest realm of Athel Loren was one of the last bastions of pure magic in the world, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect it.

  Even though the price was sometimes almost too high to bear.

  Dressed in fresh clothes — a fine silken shirt of pale cream, downy britches of auburn leather and soft boots that fitted as though they had been made specially for him — Leofric felt almost human again. The air here had a crisp, invigorating quality and, as much as he kept reminding himself that he was in the lair of the enemy, he found himself strangely energised. The ache of loss was still lodged in his heart like a splinter of ice, but he forced himself to maintain a composed exterior in the face of the elves.