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 course, 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.
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 warriors.
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.
Hammer and Bolter 6 Page 11
