[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  No matter how many times he had come to enact the traditional family ritual, the sight of this ancient battlefield always unsettled him, as though restless spirits of the dead still haunted this bleak landscape.

  “It’s not like I imagined it to be,” said Helene, her voice just a little too shrill.

  “No?”

  “No, it’s… it’s, well, I don’t know, but I thought it would look different. Given what you’ve told me I expected something more… unnatural.”

  “Trust me, my dear,” said Leofric, “there is nothing natural about this place.”

  “I don’t like it though,” said Helene, pulling her cloak tighter about herself. “It feels like death here.”

  “Aye,” agreed Leofric, “it is a place of darkness.”

  “What are those?” asked Helene, pointing to the raised mounds of earth and stone.

  Riding alongside Leofric’s wife, Baudel said, “They say that those mounds are burial cairns, raised by the first tribes of men to come this way.”

  “Really?” asked Helene, ignoring Leofric’s disapproving gaze. “What else do they say?”

  “Well,” continued Baudel, warming to his theme. “My old da used to tell us that an evil necromancer once raised the dead from their tombs and tried to destroy Athel Loren itself.”

  “I know that story!” nodded Helene. “His army entered the forest and was never seen again. Do you know what happened?”

  “It was the forest, milady,” said Baudel, lowering his voice theatrically. “My old da said that it was the forest what came alive and destroyed his skeleton army.”

  “Hush, Baudel!” snapped Leofric. “Do not be filling my wife’s head with such nonsense. If this necromancer existed at all, then no doubt he was killed by the elves of the forest. That’s what they are good at, killing and fighting what is not theirs!”

  “Sorry, my lord,” said Baudel, suitably chastened.

  “Oh, come now, husband, surely it’s just a story,” said Helene.

  Leofric stopped and turned his horse to face his wife, his face drawn and serious. He shook his head and said, “Helene, I love you with all my heart, but you are from Lyonesse, not Quenelles.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “It means you have not grown up in the shadow of the faerie forest, not had to lock and bolt your doors on certain nights to be sure that elven princelings do not come and steal away your children. You have never had to spend days with every gate and shutter drawn as the wild hunt thunders through the sky, killing everything in its path. Trust me on this, we will find no welcome here.”

  Helene opened her mouth to let fly a witty riposte, but saw a familiar look she had come to know all too well in her husband’s eyes and the quip died in her throat. She nodded and said, “Then let us be about our business.”

  Leofric nodded curtly and turned his horse back towards the forest. The mist thinned as they drew near the forest’s edge and he saw the familiar sight of the waystone within the passing of an hour. It reared up atop a flowering mound of grass, its smooth grey surface carved and painted with symbols and spirals, meaningless to him, but which nevertheless raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  He looked left and right, knowing that there were other stones spread evenly along the edge of the forest, but unable to see them due to the clammy mist that the sun seemed unable to burn away.

  The knight guided his horse into a hollow depression in the earth with an icy pool at its base and a low cluster of rocks and bushes gathered around its ragged circumference. The top of the looming waystone was still visible, but the majority of its unsettling form was hidden from sight by the lay of the land.

  “Halt!” he shouted as he reached the base of the hollow, dragging on his reins and bringing his horse to a halt. He rose in his stirrup and swung his leg over the fine saddle, its leather the colour of polished mahogany. As he dismounted, he saw that the tasselled ends of the yellow and scarlet caparison were muddy and stained, but it couldn’t be helped. The gelding was named Taschen, standing seventeen hands high with wide shoulders and powerful muscles that could carry his armoured weight into battle without effort. King Leoncoeur himself had presented the magnificent animal to Leofric after he had saved the king’s life during the charge against the daemon prince at Middenheim…

  Leofric pushed the thought away, unwilling to relive the terrible memories of the horrific days defending the great northern city of the Empire from the traitor knight Archaon.

  He handed Taschen’s reins to his squire, a lad whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn after his previous squire, Lauder, had died screaming with a beastman’s spear in his gut.

  The rest of his soldiers drew up in a circle around their lord, dismounting and walking their horses before brushing them down and loosening their girths. Compared to Leofric’s steed, the men-at-arms’ mounts were poor specimens indeed, and did not bear any heraldic devices or caparison, their riders’ lowborn status prohibiting them from doing so.

  Leofric marched over to his wife’s horse, the reddish brown coat of which was silky and well cared for. He reached up and helped her dismount gracefully from the saddle, smiling as she hitched up her long red robes to avoid the worst of the autumnal mud.

  “I warned you that your dress would get muddy,” he said gently.

  “And I told you that I didn’t care,” she said with a smile. “I’ve grown tired of this gown anyway. My ladies tell me that red is very passé for this time of year and that you should be buying me something in lavender next season.”

  “Oh they do, do they?” said Leofric. “Then the peasantry must work harder next year to pay for it.”

  “Indeed they shall,” said Helene and they laughed, not noticing the pained looks on the men-at-arms’ faces at their overheard conversation.

  Leofric turned from Helene and removed the canvas sack from his saddle, shouting orders to his men and directing them to the ice-covered pool at the base of the hollow. The men began breaking the thinner ice at the edge of the pool with, the butts of their spears, taking it in turns to lead the horses to drink.

  Leofric and Helene’s horses drank their fill first as was only right and proper.

  The knight of Quenelles moved to the far side of the icy pool as his squire struggled to lift a gilt-edged reliquary adorned with woodcuts from the back of his dray horse and carried it over towards Leofric.

  “Set it down there,” ordered Leofric, pointing to a flat rock before him and drawing his sword, a magnificent blade as long as the butt of a lance and fully three fingers wide. Though it was stronger than steel, the sword weighed less than the wooden swords the peasants trained with and could cut through armour with lethal ease. Its blade was silver steel and shone as though captured starlight had somehow been trapped in its forging. The sword had been touched by the Lady of the Lake herself many centuries ago and had been passed down the line of Carrard since time before memory, Leofric knew that it was a great honour to bear such a blessed weapon and that when he could no longer carry out his duty to defend his lands and people, he would pass it to Beren, his only son and heir.

  Leofric’s squire gently set down the reliquary before his master. The box was crafted from young saplings hewn from the Forest of Chalons and carved with stirring scenes that told of the heroic battles of Gilles le Breton, legendary founder of Bretonnia.

  Atop the box, an image of the Lady of the Lake, goddess of the Bretonnians, was picked out in silver and rendered with swirling golden tresses. Leofric dropped to his knees as his squire closed his unworthy eyes and opened the winged doors of the reliquary.

  The insides of the reliquary were painted with scenes of wondrous lakes and pools of reflective water, with the image of a breathtakingly beautiful woman rising from the depths. A deep cushion of sumptuous red velvet sat within the reliquary, together with the broken hilt of a sword and a faded scrap of cloth, its golden edges frayed and torn.

  Leofric closed his eyes, feeli
ng the peace of the Lady’s presence wash over him at the sight of such holy relics: the faerie flag, a scrap of shimmering material supposedly torn from the cloak of an elven princeling by Leofric’s great grandfather after he chased him from Castle Carrard, and the hilt of a Carrard sword that had cut down the orc warlord, Skargor of the Massif Orcal.

  Leofric reached out and ran his gauntleted fingers along the broken hilt and folded cloth as he began his prayers to the Lady.

  “Lady, bless me your humble servant, grant me the strength to confront those who ignore the wisdom and beauty of your holy light. You, whose bounty is with me all the days of my life, grant the lands I defend in your name the peace that this appeasement might bring…”

  As Leofric began his prayers to the Lady, Helene sat upon a rock at the edge of the cold pool, gathering her skirts beneath her to make it marginally less uncomfort­able. She felt a coldness here, and not just the coldness of the coming winter — something deeper chilled her. She looked back over her shoulder, seeing the gently swaying treetops of Athel Loren and the very tip of the tall waystone that marked the edge of the elven realm.

  Strange that the forest did not grow beyond the stones. Idly, Helene wondered why, but then put the thought from her mind as Baudel approached with a pewter plate laden with cuts of cold beef, apples and a wedge of pungent cheese.

  “Some lunch, milady?”

  “No thank you, Baudel,” she said. “I’m not really feel­ing hungry at the moment.”

  “I’d ask you to reconsider, milady. It’ll be a good few hours before we get back to the castle. Nice cheese, fresh beef to keep you going till then?”

  “Very well, Baudel,” said Helene, accepting the plate.

  Baudel turned to leave, but Helene looked over at Leofric with a concerned expression and said, “Sit with me awhile. I want to talk.”

  “Milady,” nodded the man-at-arms and sat on a nearby rock, his spear still held upright.

  “Baudel, does Leofric seem different to you?”

  “I’m not sure I follow, milady,” replied Baudel, guard­edly.

  “Yes you do,” said Helene. “Ever since he came back from the Empire and the battles against the northern tribes I’ve felt a distance between us. You were there too, Baudel, does he seem changed… after the war, I mean?”

  “War changes a man, milady.”

  “I know that, Baudel, I’m not some milkmaid from Belonne. He’s gone off to fight before, but he’s never come back like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Withdrawn and unwilling to talk about what happened.”

  Baudel sighed and glanced over the pool at Leofric who was still kneeling before the Carrard reliquary, deep in his prayers. “It wouldn’t be right, me speaking out of turn about my lord and master, milady.”

  “It’s all right, I give you leave to speak your mind.”

  “I appreciate that, milady, but it still wouldn’t be right.”

  Seeing the defensive look in the man-at-arms’ eyes, Helene nodded and said, “Very well, Baudel, your loyalty to your master is commendable.”

  “Thank you, milady.”

  “If you won’t tell me what happened, at least tell me of Middenheim, it sounds like a magnificent place.”

  “Aye,” nodded Baudel, “it’s grand all right, you’ve never seen nothing like it, milady, perched on top of a great rock they call the Ulricsberg, higher than the lighthouse of l’Anguille by a long ways. To look at it you’d think nothing could take it, not man, not monster or nothing. But them northmen had wizards, dragons and other flyin’ things that tore the place up with fire and magic, and they damn near won.”

  “But they didn’t, did they,” stated Helene.

  “No, they didn’t, but it was a close run thing, let me tell you,” said Baudel, darkly. “The king himself led a hundred knights in the charge that faced a great daemon lord. Leofric rode in that charge and only the king and a handful of his knights rode out from that battle and… and you’re a clever one aren’t you, milady, getting me to spill my guts like that.”

  Helene shrugged, realising that she would get no more from Baudel this day. She nibbled on a cut of meat and broke off a piece of cheese.

  “It was devious of me wasn’t it?” she admitted with a smile.

  “Downright cunning,” agreed Baudel, rising from his seat.

  “One last thing before you go,” said Helene.

  “Yes?” asked Baudel, warily.

  “Why can’t I hear any birds or animals here? It’s all very quiet apart from us.”

  “The forest sleeps milady. It’s waiting, just waiting for spring. As for the animals, well I think that perhaps they’re all getting ready to sleep away the winter.”

  “Yes, that must be it, Baudel. Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome, milady,” said the man-at-arms, making an extravagant bow before turning and making his way back down to the pool where the rest of the soldiers looked to their mounts or ate hunks of hard bread moistened by a thin gruel.

  Helene watched him go, frowning and cursing herself for being too obvious. Baudel might be a peasant, but he was cleverer than most and had seen through her, admittedly clumsy, gambit.

  She shivered again, feeling a crawling sensation up her spine and the ghostly caress of something unseen. Nothing stirred the air or broke the unnatural silence around her, save the hushed conversations of Leofric’s soldiers. The cold was seeping through her furs and she wished to be away from this place, back in the castle with little Beren clutched close to her as she read him tales of heroic knights who slew evil dragons.

  She missed her little boy and hoped that this strange ritual of the Carrard family would not take too long.

  Helene still didn’t understand the full significance of the ritual Leofric was here to perform, something to do with planting a seedling before the waystone and making an offering to the faerie folk. Apparently, the practice had begun eighty years ago when family legend told that a much loved ancestor of Leofric’s had been taken by the elves as a young boy and had never been seen again. Carrards had been coming to the edge of Athel Loren every five years since then to enact its quaint traditions.

  She knew that Leofric begrudged such entreaties to the elven realm, though understood that he would never think of leaving the ritual unperformed, as such a stain upon the family honour would be unthinkable to a knight of Bretonnia.

  As she watched her husband pray, she smiled, feeling the love she had for him as a contented warmth in her heart. She remembered the sun-drenched tilting fields outside Couronne where she had first met Leofric, picturing the dashing young knight errant with his scarlet unicorn pennant streaming from his lance as he unhorsed Chilfroy of Artois, a feat none of the gathered knights and dukes ever expected to see in their lifetimes.

  Leofric had had the pick of the ladies that day, all wishing him to carry their favour upon his lance, but he had knelt before her, Helene du Reyne, sweat-streaked hair plastered across his forehead and a mischievous grin creasing his face.

  “It would honour me greatly if you would consent to grant me your favour,” he’d said.

  “Why should I do such a thing?” she had replied, straining for a regal aloofness.

  “Lady, I have unhorsed my opponent in the glory of the joust!” he said. “None other than the Duke of Artois himself. I am the greatest warrior here!”

  “You are arrogant, young man, and have not the humility of a knight.”

  “It is not arrogance if it is the truth,” he had pointed out.

  “How do I know that for sure?”

  “Tell me how I may prove it to you, my lady, for I love you and would ride to every corner of Bretonnia if you would but grant me a kiss.”

  “Only the corners of Bretonnia? Is that all?”

  “Not at all, I would ride to far Araby and drag back the greatest sultan were you to look favourably my way.”

  “Just to Araby?” she had teased.

  “Only to b
egin with,” he had continued with a smile. “Then I would sail to the far jungles of Lustria and bring back the treasures of the heathen gods if you might consent to speak my name.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I’m only just getting started,” he said. “I’ve the rest of the world to travel yet!”

  Deciding she had teased him enough, Helene had laughed and handed him a silken blue scarf, edged in white lace, and said, “Here, you may carry my favour, sir knight. Win me this tourney and I might let you attempt to make me happy…”

  “I shall, my lady! I will unhorse every man here if it will make you happy!”

  And he had. Leofric had defeated every knight at the tournament before courting her as diligently and as wonderfully as any young woman could want. They were wed in the grail chapel in Quenelles a year later, and ten months after that, Helene had borne Leofric a strong son, whom they had named Beren, after one of the heroic Companions of Gilles.

  Beren was so like his father, proud and with the haughty arrogance of noble youth. Though since Leofric had come back from the Errantry Wars in the north, a knight errant no more, but a knight of the realm, he had lost much of his former boisterousness.

  Such was only to be expected, for a knight of the realm was tempered in battle, the fiery impetuosity of a knight errant moulded into a dutiful warrior.

  But there was more to it than that. Helene knew her husband well enough to know that something more terrible than a bloody charge had happened in the war that had engulfed the Empire. What had turned her fiery husband into a melancholy warrior who saw the cloud rather than the silver lining, the rain, not the nourished crops?

  She finished the last of the beef and cheese and set down the plate on the rock beside her, feeling a shiver tipple its way along her spine.

  “Colder than a Mousillon night,” she whispered to herself, as the sound of a soft, mournful weeping drifted on the air from above.