He clambered over a half-buried log, but the way in front was blocked by an impenetrable tangle of branches. He turned back, intending to take a different route.
Impossibly, the log he had just climbed over had disappeared. Even his footprints were gone – the snow behind him was pristine.
‘This is madness.’
He heard a whisper of laughter behind him and turned quickly, searching. The forest was utterly still, giving nothing away.
Silence descended like a shroud, oppressive and all encompassing.
There was not a hint of movement in the undergrowth or in the canopy overhead, as if time itself was frozen. There was no breeze to cause even a ripple of movement or break the illusion. The air was charged with tension. It was the deceptive lull that came before a raging tempest was unleashed.
As silently as he was able, Calard drew his sword.
He forced himself to breathe evenly, emptying his mind of doubt and forcing the tension from his limbs. Whatever was coming would do so whether he wished it or not, and he would face it free of anxiety and hesitation.
Over the course of the last seven years he had battled hulking trolls in the blizzards of the northlands, and tracked and killed the dread Jabberslythe of Ostwald in the forests of the Empire. He had been hunted by pallid, blind ogre-kin through the labyrinths beneath the Mountains of Mourn and emerged triumphant, and had slain – several times – a monstrous wyvern that refused to stay dead. Most recently he had journeyed into the nightmare realm of Mousillon and fought the restless dead. He had been faced his own brother, twisted into a hateful vampiric creature of the night, and had not faltered, delivering him into Morr’s care.
And having quite literally travelled to hell and back – the burning heavens in the Realm of Chaos still haunted him – there were few things in the world that could truly unnerve him.
As he turned, his gaze swept across something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
A motionless figure was watching him, bathed in moonlight.
It was a knight, encased in ornate plate mail of archaic design. Utterly motionless, it stood atop a rocky outcrop that rose above the groundcover of snow and ferns. The towering figure was tinged the greenish-grey of weather-beaten rock, and Calard might have mistaken it for a statue but for the unnatural light of its eyes, burning coldly within the darkness of its helm.
Calard’s heart began to pound.
It was the Green Knight.
III
Calard stood frozen, his heart thumping.
The knight staring balefully down at him was a figure from myth and legend, and while it was the fervent hope of every boy and young knight of Bretonnia to face this supernatural avenger, few believed that they would ever be so blessed.
Calard had seen the Green Knight depicted a thousand times, in plays, illustrated manuscripts and stained glass, yet nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
Feared and revered in equal measure, some said that the Green Knight was the immortal spirit of Gilles the Uniter himself, founder of Bretonnia, and that he served the Lady even in death. Few claimed to have glimpsed the potent spectre, and those that did spoke little of their encounter.
It was said that the ancient being may appear to a questing knight nearing the conclusion of his ordeal, challenging him in order to test his resolve. Calard’s mouth went dry as he dared to think that perhaps this was his time.
The Green Knight’s gauntleted hands rested upon a broad-bladed sword – the Dolorous Blade – embedded in the earth before it. How many souls deemed unworthy had been cut down by that infamous weapon?
For years Calard had longed to face this potent being, but now that he did, he found himself transfixed, scarcely able to breathe. He felt a trembling thrill in his gut such as he had not experienced since he was a young knight errant. Sweat trickled down his back, despite the cold. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he forced himself to take a slow breath.
All the while, the Green Knight remained motionless, eyes searing through Calard’s soul, stripping him bare. Fog seeped up from the ground and billowed around the ethereal champion like a cloak.
In one smooth motion, the mythical figure drew its sword from the earth, and began to advance towards him.
Mist rolled out around the Green Knight, rushing towards Calard like a tide. It crashed over him in a soundless wave, and he was instantly chilled. Behind him, Galibor whinnied and reared, but Calard did not turn, unable to tear his gaze from the spectre bearing down on him.
Everything but this supernatural foe faded from view. The fog thickened, and the forest became vague and indistinct, then disappeared altogether. For a moment Calard heard haunting music, the refrain impossibly beautiful. He heard lyrical, inhuman voices rising in song, the sound so emotive and filled with longing that tears came unbidden to Calard’s eyes.
Roiling eddies of vapour curled and billowed around him on a sudden breeze. The Green Knight advanced, wading through the suffocating mist towards Calard, yet as it thickened, the distance between them seemed to grow. Calard hastened his pace towards his opponent, but the fog closed in.
The otherworldly figure was becoming increasingly hard to discern. Its terrible eyes and burning blade were growing faint, like the lights of a ship pulling away from port in the dead of night.
‘No,’ said Calard, hastening his step as he felt his opportunity to face the potent spirit slipping away. ‘No!’
Calard ran, straining to keep the Green Knight in view, but within heartbeats the spectre was gone, subsumed by the heavy fog. Calard was alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness.
He edged forwards, sword and shield at the ready, half expecting the Green Knight to loom up at any moment and cut him down. His steps were halting as he felt his way forward, wary of pitfalls and rocks.
The fog muffled all sound, but after a few moments, Calard realised that he could hear something: a dull roar, akin to rolling thunder or the pounding of waves on distant shores. It was impossible to gauge the direction that the sound came from, and with no point of reference, he quickly lost his bearings.
For long minutes Calard advanced blindly. The sound of rushing water echoed around him, and soft spray wet his cheeks. He was stepping through ankle-deep water. Tiny rapids swirled as it rushed over his boots.
He thought he saw something taking shape before him, a vague dancing light in the distance that might have been a lantern or torch. Again he heard that ethereal, haunting music. The light bobbed and weaved, mesmerising and strangely alluring, as if calling to him. Calard took an involuntary step towards it before he dragged himself back, recalling the tales of malevolent will-o-the-wisps leading unwary travellers to their doom.
No sooner had the thought registered than the dancing light disappeared. The fog began to retreat, rising like a curtain to reveal his surroundings.
Calard took a hasty step backwards as the forest took shape around him. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, hundreds of feet high. One more step forwards, and he would have walked out over the edge.
His senses reeled at the drop; he was looking down on the forest canopy below. It extended far into the distance, treetops glittering beneath the silver moon of Mannslieb.
Turning, he surveyed his surroundings. A second waterfall fell from above, crashing down over a sheer cliff face into a deep pool. The water’s surface was turbulent, and shimmered like liquid metal. The roar of the falls was deafening, and spray filled the air, glistening like rippling veils of diamond dust. Galibor stood nearby, drinking from the pool.
Trudging through the shallow water, Calard climbed the banks of the pool and peered into the forest. He could see no more than ten yards; it was almost impenetrable.
The sky was clear, allowing Calard to regain his bearings. He shook his head in wonder. From what he could make out, he was many miles from the forest border, closer in fact to the Grey Mountains in the east than the western fringes of Loren. He wa
s also many miles to the north of where he would have expected to be. Still, a day and a night of travel should see him to the northern edge of the forest.
He whistled, and Galibor’s eyes swivelled. The warhorse looked at him.
‘Come,’ Calard said, and the warhorse cantered obediently through the shallow water to its master.
Calard took Galibor’s reins, readying to enter the forest. He looked over his shoulder one last time, at the clouds of vapour coming off the waterfall.
Before he turned away, Calard saw something come over the falls. It disappeared from view a moment later, swallowed by the raging torrent, but for a brief few seconds he saw it clearly as it fell. It was a body, arms and legs flailing as it tumbled.
IV
Without hesitation, Calard plunged into the icy pool. The body had disappeared beneath the thunderous white water, but he waded in deep, fighting the strong currents. He was not certain anyone could have survived that drop, and when they didn’t surface, he began to fear they had become snagged by rocks or already been carried past him and over the second falls.
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 was 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.
Hammer and Bolter 6 Page 9
