[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill

  It could destroy this upstart beast without the help of its ever-hungry spawn.

  Howls and brays surrounded the combatants: monsters with bestial faces marked by the favour of the gods stamping in the mud washed down from the peaks. The snarling challenger howled, thick saliva spattering its grey, blood-spattered fur. The Beastlord answered with its own roar of challenge, hefting its massive axe and awaiting its opponent’s charge.

  The wolf-creature leapt towards it, clawed arms reaching for its throat, but the Beastlord sidestepped and hammered the axe into the rival beast’s midriff, hacking the creature in two in a spray of dark blood. The shorn halves dropped to the rocky shale of the mountainside, the remains twitching feebly as it died, and the warherd roared its approval of the kill.

  The Beastlord kicked the upper torso of the creature it had just killed over onto its back and hammered the axe into the wolf-creature’s chest. It dropped to one knee, reaching down and placing its thick fingers into the great wound, then heaving the beast’s chest open with a loud crack of splintering bone.

  It reached into the exposed chest cavity and tore out the challenger’s heart, rising to hold its axe and the gory organ high above its horned head for its followers to see. The Beastlord bellowed in triumph as the rest of the warherd saw the fate of the beast that had questioned its right to lead. It lowered the heart and swallowed the hot, dripping meat with one throaty gulp.

  The meaning of the gesture was clear: defy me and die.

  The nearest creatures, red-furred centaurs with long spears, backed away from the Beastlord, their heads bowed in supplication. Others let out a series of ululating cries in its honour, their loyalty assured… at least until another challenger arose.

  Such challenges made no sense to the Beastlord. None could doubt the blessings the gods had bestowed upon it, nor the favour they displayed by allowing it to stand in the presence of the Master of Skulls and live. The reasons for such behaviour were a mystery, but it did not let such trivial thoughts distract it from its duty. If other challengers arose it would fight them and it would kill them.

  The Beastlord turned from the carcass, allowing the scavengers to gather around the corpse and tear fresh meat from its body with great bites. Warm meat was a rarity and none were about to let such a morsel go uneaten. The weakest members of the herd had already been slaughtered for their flesh, but the Beastlord knew that he would need fresh meat if he hoped to keep the herd together, favour of the gods or not.

  The mountains were becoming less steep now that they had descended from the summits, the jagged black rock of the highest peaks giving way to the mossy, scrubby shale and powdered scree of the lower slopes. Their goal was now almost within their reach. Three times had the warherd rested since the Beastlord gathered it beneath its rule, the creatures’ loyalty maintained through fear and displays of sheer brutality.

  Below, the forest had gone from a greenish brown stain on the landscape to an undulating swathe of greenery that offended the Beastlord’s altered eyes. Tendrils of rain-soaked mist and dangerous magic snaked upwards from the vast expanse of forest below, trickling into the mountains like rivulets from a cracked dam. The Beastlord could feel the power stinging its flesh through its iron-hard hooves, though the power was weak and unfocussed. With its newly gifted senses, it could feel the glacial heartbeat of the woodland realm ahead of it, the rank purity filling its heart with the urge to destroy.

  Warm rain fell in dreary sheets from the corpse-grey sky, washing down the misty mountain in foaming waterfalls of silt and dark earth. The herd followed the Beastlord, its braying filling them with purpose and power; the Children of Chaos were its to command. The sacred task appointed to the Beastlord by the Master of Skulls now became clear as its gaze was drawn to a dark shape, barely visible as more than a tall, black shadow through the clammy mist.

  With a clarity it should not have possessed, the Beastlord saw the task appointed to it by the gods and roared in affirmation as the herd devoured the latest challenger.

  Kyarno loosed an arrow, a second nocked to his bow almost before the fletching of the first had passed his bowstave. A third followed the second and then a fourth. He pressed his left knee against Eiderath’s flanks, guiding his steed a winding course through the trees as he sent arrow after arrow thumping into the bole of a long-dead ash tree.

  His frustration grew with every arrow he loosed, picturing Cairbre’s face on the bole until at last his doeskin quiver was empty and he halted Eiderath with a gentle pressure of his knees. He vaulted from the back of his steed, a light sweat coating his chest and a pleasant burning sensation in his arms from hours spent practising with his bow.

  The bow was finely crafted from soft yew, a perfect six-foot stave offered directly from the trunk with the bark, sapwood and reddish, nut-brown heartwood intact. Kyarno had made an offering to the tree, seeking its permission to make use of its body and the tree had consented to grant him a portion of its precious wood.

  Taking the stave, thick with grain lines, he had placed it in the fast-flowing and pure waters of the forest river until the sap and resin were washed out before beginning the long process of crafting such an elegant weapon. He had taken no less care with his arrows, each finely wrought and deadly, crafted with a skill that would make the finest human fletcher’s work look shoddy and amateurish.

  He loosened the bowstring from the end of the bow, allowing the stave to relax, and placed the weapon on an oiled leather cloth. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and gathered up his arrows, not one having failed to find its mark in the wood of the dead tree.

  Though his anger at Cairbre was great, he knew there was no sense in angering the forest around him with his own woes. The creatures and spirits of the forest were restless and agitated, more so than was usual for this time of year, when, traditionally, the forest slowly slid into a quiet period of slumber.

  As he sheathed the last arrow, he cupped his right fist in his left palm and bowed to the tree.

  “Thank you, brother,” he whispered, “for allowing me to hone my skills to better protect your living brethren and the forest that shelters me.”

  He hung the quiver from a branch next to Eiderath, rubbing a hand down the magnificent animal’s lathered chest. Taking out a brush, Kyarno rubbed the horse’s silver flanks down and said, “And thank you, my friend. As ever you are my companion in all things.”

  Eiderath whinnied, nuzzling him gently before Kyarno moved towards the small, gurgling stream that meandered its way along the edge of the glade. Stripping off, he waded into the knee-deep stream and lay down, allowing the icy waters to cleanse the sweat from his body and massage the tension from his shoulders and arms.

  As the waters rushed over his flesh, he angrily recalled his meeting with Lord Aldaeld the previous evening. Though he had travelled back through the shadow paths of the forest, it had still taken him the best part of three hours to reach the warmth and safety of Coeth-Mara.

  The towering oaks that formed the great, arched processional were wreathed in the ghostly light of flitting spites, their capricious laughter echoing from the boughs high above as he made his way towards the halls of Lord Aldaeld Eadaoin.

  Grey-cloaked Eternal Guard with their twin-bladed spears parted to allow him access to the great hall. Its magnificence was wasted on Kyarno, who had seen it many times, though usually only briefly before once again being banished from its glory.

  The lord of the Eadaoin kinband was flanked by more of his Eternal Guard, seated before them upon a throne of pale wood sung from the roots of the hall’s trees. His cloak of leaves and feathers was swept over his shoulders, revealing his bare chest, slender yet powerful and covered with looped tattoos of dragons and winged serpents.

  A longsword with a flaring, leaf-shaped blade lay across his lap, its pommel glowing with a faint green light and the blade an exquisite blue steel.

  Cairbre paced the hall like a caged wolf, having obviously returned some time ago v
ia the paths known only to his warriors and the wild and dangerous wardancers.

  “Kyarno,” began Aldaeld, “Cairbre tells me you have been with my daughter once again.”

  Kyarno shot a venomous look towards the Hound of Winter, but said nothing, knowing it would do no good to deny the accusation.

  “Is that true?” demanded Aldaeld.

  “Yes,” nodded Kyarno, defiantly meeting the lord of the Eadaoin kinband’s eyes.

  “Even though I forbade you to do so?”

  “Even though,” agreed Kyarno.

  “You are a troublemaker, Daelanu, and you would be gone from my lands forever, but for the counsel of your uncle.”

  Kyarno gave Cairbre another look, puzzled as to why he should speak on his behalf.

  “I am not to be banished?”

  Lord Aldaeld shook his head. “No, though my every instinct is to hurl you to Valas Laithu and be done with you.”

  “Valas Laithu is coming to Coeth-Mara?” asked Kyarno, a cold dread settling in his belly. “Why?”

  “You know fine well why,” said Aldaeld. “He and his sons will be here for the Winter Feast and though I do not know what season he carries in his heart, I do not think it will be summer.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I will keep my own counsel on that, stripling,” growled Aldaeld, and Kyarno bristled at being branded so. “But your uncle seems to think that you may yet earn your place in my kinband by more than an accident of birth. It is now time for you to prove him right.”

  Now Kyarno understood. Lord Aldaeld had some menial task that Cairbre had volunteered him for and he felt his resentment flare once more.

  “What would you have me do?” he said at last.

  “Naieth has need of you,” said Lord Aldaeld. “She brings a human amongst us and though he should be dead, she believes he may yet be of use to us.”

  “What use could a human be to the kindreds of the forest?”

  “That is for her to know,” said Aldaeld, and Kyarno caught the elven lord’s irritation at his ignorance of the Prophetess’ motives. “But you will attend upon her come the morn.”

  “It demeans an elf to nursemaid a human, my lord,” protested Kyarno.

  Lord Aldaeld nodded. “Indeed it does, but I do not offer this task to you as a choice, Kyarno Daelanu. You will do this duty or I will hand you over to Valas Laithu.”

  Faced with such a destiny, Kyarno knew that he had no choice but to agree and bowed curtly, saying, “Then I will do as you bid, my lord,” before striding from the hall with his head held high.

  His anger had not dimmed with his distance from Coeth-Mara, rather it had swelled until he felt his hatred for this human grow like a weed within his heart. Trust his uncle to have convinced Aldaeld to curse him with such a duty; the aged warrior hated him and seemed to bend his every effort to seeing Kyarno humiliated.

  As the first rays of dawn had spilled over the treetops, he had ridden hard into the forest to take out his frustrations with some archery, though, in truth, it had done little to ease his bitterness.

  He leaned his head back into the stream, holding his breath and letting the water cover his face. Its chill touch numbed his skin and he surrendered to the cold, staying beneath the water until his lungs were on fire before finally sitting bolt upright in a wash of cold water and heaving breaths.

  “One of these days you’ll not come up in time and I’ll have to drag your body back to Coeth-Mara,” said a voice.

  Kyarno shook his head free of water and smiled humourlessly at the newcomer, “And tell me, Tarean Stormcrow, who would mourn for Kyarno Daelanu?”

  “Well, no one, obviously,” said Tarean, brightly, “after all, you’re nothing but an inconvenience to us.”

  “Is that so?” said Kyarno, not bothering to conceal his hostility and climbing from the stream to pull on his clothes.

  “Almost certainly,” nodded Tarean, stroking Kyarno’s steed’s mane. “Though Morvhen seems to like you, so perhaps you should think of her the next time you play your dangerous games.”

  Kyarno shrugged on his overshirt, warily watching Tarean as he strolled around the glade, reading the tracks of where he had been training.

  Tarean Stormcrow was tall and physically resembled him, in that they were the same age and shared the same lithe, supple physique common to most of the Glade Riders of the Eadaoin kinband, but his features had an easy confidence to them that Kyarno knew his did not. Tarean’s golden hair was held in place by a silver circlet, upon which was set a sapphire gem and his clothes spoke of an elf not given to living alone in the forest. A long-bladed sword was buckled at his waist, and he carried a short, recurved bow slung over one shoulder.

  Kyarno knew that Tarean’s appearance was deceptive, for though he might look as though he were more at home in the comfortable confines of Coeth-Mara, he had fought many battles to defend Athel Loren against intruders.

  “You use that bow well, Kyarno and that steed of yours is a fine beast.”

  “His name is Eiderath, and he is the finest steed I have ever ridden,” agreed Kyarno.

  “Better even than those of the Laithu kinband?” laughed Tarean.

  “Ah…” said Kyarno, “then that is what this is about.”

  “What?” replied Tarean. “Can’t I offer a friendly word without there being an ulterior motive?”

  “You and I are not friends, Tarean,” said Kyarno, gathering up his bow and sheathing it over Eiderath’s back. “You are Lord Aldaeld’s herald and kin to him.”

  “And that precludes us from being friends?”

  “Say what it is you are here to say and be gone,” said Kyarno. “I do not wish your company.”

  Tarean sighed and said, “Your words are needlessly barbed, Kyarno Daelanu. I offer you friendship, but you do not see it.”

  “I need no friends,” snapped Kyarno.

  “You are wrong,” said Tarean, grasping Kyarno’s arm. “We all need friends, now, in these dark times more than ever.”

  Kyarno shrugged off Tarean’s grip and swung onto Eiderath’s back. “And you would be my friend?”

  “I would, yes,” said Tarean, offering his hand with a grin, “though Isha alone knows why, you’re a hard one to like.”

  “You mock me!” spat Kyarno.

  “No,” said Tarean, “I was merely making a poor jest and if I offended you, then I am sorry. If you wish me to go then I will go, but you are right, I do have a message for you.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Lord Aldaeld bids me command you that it is time for you to fulfil your duty to your kinband and take the human to the Crystal Mere.”

  “To nanny a human,” cursed Kyarno. “He mocks me in all things.”

  Tarean shook his head. “No, Lord Aldaeld honours you with this charge. See this duty for what it is and you will see no slight in its issue.”

  “What good can it possibly do to have a human within Athel Loren? They are nothing but firestarters and fellers of trees. They are not to be trusted.”

  “For what it is worth, I agree with you, my friend, but Lord Aldaeld has made his desire in this matter plain.”

  “Then Kyarno the troublemaker will see it done,” said Kyarno bitterly.

  Tarean shook his head and said, “I feel sorry for you, Kyarno, you could be part of this kinband, but you won’t let yourself.”

  “I don’t need your pity, Tarean,” said Kyarno, digging his heels into Eiderath’s flanks and riding away, leaving Lord Aldaeld’s herald alone in the glade.

  Leofric watched the elf named Cairbre as he spoke quietly with the two who had prevented him from leaving this place. Their voices were clear and song-like, but Leofric knew not to put his faith in such false beauty. Though the words were unknown to him, it was no leap of imagination to surmise they were speaking of him and whatever terrible fate they had in mind for him.

  As the adrenaline of his brief fight with the elves wore off, the pain of loss returne
d to him as he pictured Helene’s smiling face, her laugh and her beauty. He had sat on the shaped stump of a tree and wept as the sunlight dappling in from overhead changed from the strong, clear light of dawn to the soft, warmth of midmorning.

  What was left to him now that Helene was gone? Assuming he was able to escape this place, how would he tell Beren?

  Leofric felt hollow, as though his spirit, so nearly crushed on the east causeway of Middenheim, had now been shattered into a thousand pieces. The dark shadow that had settled upon his soul since facing the lord of daemons and the rout at the hands of the Lord of the End Times once more threatened to swallow him completely.

  He heard the sound of voices once more, the rich tones of the males accompanied by the soft, feminine lilt of a woman’s voice. For the briefest moment, his soul was soothed by the sweet, musical sound, before he reminded himself that this was the beguiling voice of an elf and therefore not to be trusted.

  His fists clenched as he saw the hawk-faced elf-witch who he had seen in the forest enter the chamber of branches, her movements as graceful as those of the young elf-maids that had attended him earlier. She wore the same dress of spun gold and carried her staff of intertwined branches, her hair still bound in an elaborate headpiece of leaves, pins and feathers. A faint corona of light surrounded her and Leofric could sense the unwholesome aftertaste of faerie magic.

  “Good day, Leofric,” said the elf-witch. “My name is Naieth. Do you recall me from our meeting in the forest?”

  “You are a witch,” spat Leofric.

  “Your kind have called me worse than that before now,” said Naieth without apparent offence. “But that is unimportant. What is important is that you listen to me, Leofric.”

  “Why should I? I am held prisoner while my wife may lie dead somewhere in your forest!” stormed Leofric. “And how is it that you know my name and speak it as though we are friends?”

  “The answer to that is complex, Leofric, I know a great deal about you. More than you do yourself.”