[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Branches whipped them, fanged, darting lights befuddled their senses, but ever onwards they charged, guided by an image that burned with an all-consuming clarity in their minds.

  One beast was brought low, slashing roots scything its legs out from under it in a flurry of leaves and mud. It crashed down with a mighty roar, its legs flailing as it skidded to a halt. The beast bellowed in pain, the gleam of bone jutting from torn flesh where its back legs had been broken. Ravening spites swarmed from the undergrowth, ripping and tearing and biting and the monster’s blood ran in thick rivulets into the ground.

  Its companions did not stop to come to its aid or even acknowledge that it had had been caught by the vengeful spirits of the forest. Thrashing bursts of light obscured its form and its roars of pain were muffled and gurgling as it died.

  The remaining beasts continued onwards, leaping grasping roots and lashing branches as the forest fought to halt the progress of these bestial intruders, carrying words of warning through the root networks of the trees, the leaves that waved in the air and in the cries of the beasts and spirits of Athel Loren.

  The forest closed in around them, pathways shifting and reshaping themselves, but such was the speed of the charge that the monsters outpaced the forest’s enchantments and hurtled onwards.

  Their nostrils burned with the scent of the choicest meat.

  Human flesh.

  The water was chill, having its origin high in the Grey Mountains, and as he waded deeper into the Crystal Mere its touch felt like cold silk wrapping around his limbs. As the water rose, Leofric felt a pleasant lethargy suffuse his limbs and took a deep, cleansing breath as he lowered himself.

  “This water is incredible,” he whispered as it slipped and slid around his flesh, flowing like a living thing, the glittering spites that flitted like underwater fireflies spinning around him with ticklish bursts of speed.

  Immediately the pain in his hip lessened and the ache in his head vanished like morning mist as the water rose to his neck. He spread his arms, enjoying the bracing cold of the water and the susurration of spites around his flesh, strangely untroubled by the darting creatures below the surface. Holding his breath, Leofric ducked his head under the water, and swam towards the churning mass of foaming water that marked the base of the waterfall.

  The floor of the pool was of the same pale sand that marked the beach, shaped like a gentle bowl and dotted with gently waving fronds. Glittering crystals drifted across the base of the pool and sparkled in the streaks of sunbeams. Sand and water foamed ahead and Leofric swam with powerful strokes towards the mass of bubbles, feeling fresh vigour course through his body with every second.

  He surfaced within the deafening torrent of falling water, closing his eyes against the thunderous spray. Water hammered his shoulders, massaging the tension from his body and easing his muscles with its power.

  Leofric lowered his head, taking a fleeting breath as the sound of musical laughter drifted through the air, hazy and indistinct over the roaring water. Within the crystal waterfall, Leofric could hear little but the impact of the falling water and had only the vaguest impression of shifting white shapes as they slid gracefully through his field of vision.

  He leaned his head back, relishing the incredibly invigorating sensation as he felt years fall from him and the waters cleansed away the dirt and pain of the last few days. Leofric felt a detached quality descend upon him, the rhythmic sound of the waterfall lulling him into a fugue-like state.

  He pictured Helene’s face, the image of her blonde hair and soft eyes leaping unbidden to his mind, and he smiled as he remembered her sweet laughter, feeling her loss as something less harsh. Instead of the ache that filled his soul with despair, a sense of warmth and gratitude swept through him as he knew he was incredibly lucky to have had any time with Helene at all. This world stood on the brink of falling to Chaos and to have snatched any such happiness was a victory.

  He smiled as he heard her laughter in the sound of the waterfall, seeing her pale face in the patterns formed in the spray, a nimbus of soft light playing about her almond eyes and blonde tresses. A dreamlike smile touched him as he realised she had come back to him, her love for him reaching beyond the veil of death.

  Nor had she come alone, he saw, as a host of similarly beautiful women ghosted through the misting water, naked and with expressions of faint amusement. He wanted to feel the touch of Helene’s ivory skin and reached out to her, trailing his eyes along the soft curves of her shoulders and the fullness of her breasts.

  “Helene…” he whispered, but the woman before him shook her head, and Leofric saw that Helene’s companions had spread out to surround him. Their slender arms reached out and touched his broad shoulders and muscled arms, stroking them with an unfamiliar hesitancy.

  Their touch was light, but intense, as though his every nerve ending were suddenly drawn to the surface of his skin. Hands stroked his chest, running along the nape of his neck and through his dark, soaking hair. Laughter filled the air and he laughed along with it, the magical sensation of her nearness filling him with light and joy.

  The woman before him drew nearer, gliding through the foaming spray of the waterfall without a single lock of her hair displaced by the torrent. She smiled and Leofric’s heart broke as he finally saw that this was not Helene at all, but some sylvan nymph with eyes of gold and ringlets of hair the colour of ripened corn. Her features were beautiful, ethereal and haunting beyond anything Leofric had ever imagined. The water played over her alabaster skin, the rivulets speckled with light as they trickled down her naked body.

  The others were as varied as any other group of elves he had seen, with hair colours varying from flame-red to midnight-black and features with a subtlety of difference that was beguiling and unearthly at the same time.

  “Who are you?” he managed at last.

  They laughed at him and though he sensed an edge of condescension to it, a wave of desire washed through him.

  As they circled him they sang in the silken tones of their native tongue, musical language spinning through his head and enchanting him with its beauty.

  He felt their hands upon him, touching, stroking and though he knew it was wrong, he did not want it to stop, the idea of betrayal pushed from his mind by the exquisiteness of sensation coursing through him at the touch of these beautiful women.

  All was peace and beauty in Leofric’s mind when a discordant, jagged sound intruded on his bliss — a shouting voice and splashes of noise. The women scattered with squeals of false terror and Leofric’s eyes suddenly snapped back into focus as an armoured gauntlet reached through the falling water and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

  “What—” was all he could manage before he was hauled unceremoniously from beneath the waterfall. A powerful grip had him fast, and as he shook off the last of the dreamlike fatigue that had enveloped him, Leofric looked up to see the furious face of Cairbre as he was frogmarched from the water.

  The women swam in gracefully lazy circles around them, their hair like great coloured slicks on the surface of the clear water as they pointed and laughed at him.

  “Wait!” shouted Leofric, between mouthfuls of water.

  Cairbre unleashed a torrent of elvish at him, which, though he knew not what was being said, left him in no doubt as to the mood of the cold-eyed warrior. He splashed and stumbled into the shallows of the pool, suddenly very conscious of his nakedness as the elven women continued to laugh and gawp at him like buyers at a horse fair.

  Shame and anger burned hot in Leofric’s breast as he saw that these women looked upon him as nothing more than a plaything for their amusement or some sort of savage curio. Cairbre shoved him forward to land in an ungainly heap on the pale sand of the beach.

  He heard the whinny of horses and turned to see six grey-cloaked elven riders, their armour and twin-bladed spears brilliant in the sunshine. Thankfully, these were not the wild riders he and Kyarno had encountered earlier that day, but appe
ared to be the same as those he had seen in Coeth-Mara when he had first awoken. One rider carried a silver banner set with gemstones and fluttering azure blossoms. Kyarno’s steed nuzzled one of the newcomers’ horses, while Leofric’s horse grazed on the rich grass at the edge of the glade.

  “Get up!” stormed Cairbre. “You dare to molest the handmaidens of Lady Morvhen Eadaoin! You are nothing but a base animal, human.”

  “Molest? What? No!” coughed Leofric, rolling onto his back and spitting water.

  “Then what was it you were doing in there?” shouted Cairbre. “And get some clothes on! Your hairy body is unsightly to me.”

  Leofric pushed himself to his knees and said, “I was doing what was asked of me. Kyarno brought me here to bathe and clean myself. That’s what I was doing when these women came to me. Then you dragged me out here.”

  “Morvhen…” said Cairbre angrily, his eyes scanning the glade for something or someone he could not see. “He must have sent word to her somehow. I knew it.”

  “Knew what?” asked Leofric as he reached over to lift his clothes, feeling the warm sunlight swiftly drying his skin. Cairbre marched onto the grassy bank surrounding the waters of the Crystal Mere, his anger a terrible thing to behold.

  “Loec’s spite! A curse upon that boy!” snapped Cairbre, rounding on Leofric, and unsheathing his twin-bladed spear. “Where is my nephew?”

  “Who?” asked Leofric, nonplussed.

  “Kyarno!” roared Cairbre. “Where is Kyarno?”

  Leofric looked around the glade for his surly travelling companion.

  But Kyarno was nowhere to be seen.

  “Eternal Guard!” shouted Cairbre. “With me!”

  Kyarno laughed as he and Morvhen ran hand in hand through the twilight beneath the trees, overjoyed that she had received his message to meet him here. Her dress billowed like a great crimson sail, though Kyarno had only ever imagined what an ocean-going vessel might look like.

  Her face was alive with the illicit thrill of this tryst and Kyarno felt fierce joy as she let out an exultant, whooping yell like a battle cry.

  He was sure to be disciplined by Lord Aldaeld for this, but did not much care anymore. He had suffered too many punishments at the hands of Morvhen’s father for one more to matter.

  And looking at Morvhen’s finely sculpted features, the sweeping cheekbones, the chestnut hair, the sparkling eyes and the seductive mouth, Kyarno knew she was worth all the torments that Lord Aldaeld might heap upon him.

  Eventually they stopped running, chests heaving and breath hot in their lungs as they circled one another with lustful eyes.

  “You got my message then?” chuckled Kyarno.

  “Indeed I did,” smiled Morvhen, glancing over her shoulder for any signs of pursuit from the Eternal Guard. “You are a bad influence on me, Kyarno Daelanu.”

  “I know,” nodded Kyarno. “But that is why you like me.”

  “True, but I cannot tarry long. Cairbre will notice I am gone soon and he was suspicious enough on the way here.”

  “How did you get away from him?”

  Morvhen giggled with wicked glee and said, “I sent my handmaids into the water to cavort with the human. Cairbre and the others were so mortified that they did not notice me slip into the woods. I can be quite stealthy when the mood suits me, you know.”

  “You let your handmaids get into the water with a human?” said Kyarno, aghast.

  “Of course! I think they quite enjoyed the opportunity to have a look at one up close,” replied Morvhen. “For all their graceless thickness of limb, there is a certain savage vitality to humans.”

  “They are brutish oafs with all the poise of a wounded bear.”

  “A particularly clumsy bear,” added Morvhen, leaning back on the tilted bole of a weeping willow and beckoning Kyarno to come closer with an impish smile.

  “A wounded, clumsy and blind bear,” finished Kyarno, leaning in and kissing her as her arms slid around his neck and pulled him into her.

  Leofric pulled up his britches, averting his gaze from the beautiful elf maids swimming leisurely in the Crystal Mere and trying to shut out their beautiful, but mocking laughter. The warriors on horseback showed no such compunction, openly watching the naked women as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for them it was, mused Leofric, wondering again at the alien ways of these woodland folk.

  Though he knew he had been little more than a plaything to the women, he felt soothed, as though their touch had imparted some serene acceptance to him.

  He saw again Helene’s face, but this time the sense of love and wonder she had given him far outweighed the pain of her loss. More than ever he was resolved to leave this place, though how that might be achieved was sure to be problematic. Those held in the realm of the elves did not return unchanged, if they were able to return at all.

  Leofric remembered the tale of Duke Melmon, a knight who ruled the Dukedom of Quenelles in the year three hundred and fifty-eight, who was said to have vanished on a night when the wild hunt stormed the skies. The mystery of his disappearance was never solved, though Leofric remembered when he was but a child, the stooped elders of Quenelles once speaking of a knight who was said to have emerged from Athel Loren in the time of their great grandfathers, who presented himself at the doors of the duke’s castle. This knight had been brought before the court of the current duke where he had claimed to be none other than Duke Melmon himself, lost these last thousand years.

  Of course, the court had scoffed at such a claim, but upon finishing his tale the knight had supposedly crumbled to naught but dust and ashes before their very eyes. Leofric had never really believed the tale of Duke Melmon, thinking it to be no more than the fanciful tale spun by old men who wanted to scare a little boy.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure, but he had a son to raise, lands to defend and a king to serve — and a knight of Bretonnia did not shirk such duties while he still drew breath and his sword arm was strong.

  He ran his hands through his dark hair, feeling more refreshed than he had done for as long as he could remember. The rigours of war and a life of dedication to land and king was a demanding one and took its toll, but here, Leofric felt as though he could defeat almost any foe.

  Almost any foe, he reminded himself, again seeing the horror of the battle against the Swords of Chaos and the daemons of the northern tribes. Could anything stand against such warriors, he wondered? When the power of the Dark Gods waxed strong the lands of men were ravaged by war and blood, and each time brought the final victory of Chaos closer.

  Trying to banish such melancholy thoughts, he took another breath of the honeysuckle-scented air and awaited the return of Cairbre.

  The warrior had ridden off into the forest to search for Kyarno with two of his warriors — the Eternal Guard, presumed Leofric — leaving the remaining four to watch over the elven maids. Elven curses that were no less vile for the beauty of the language had spat from his mouth as he damned his nephew.

  Leofric had not noticed the familial resemblance before, but once revealed, it was patently obvious: both elves shared the same confident poise and had the same cruel, warrior features.

  Leofric pulled on his overshirt and removed the silk scarf from the pocket, twining the smooth material around his fingers as he knelt on the moist grass.

  He closed his eyes and offered a short prayer to the Lady of the Lake, entreating her to guide the spirit of his wife to its final rest. Tears coursed down his cheeks, but they were not shed in bitterness, but fond remembrance.

  “Why do you weep?” asked a lilting female voice as he finished his prayers.

  Leofric started in surprise, not having heard the elven woman approach. He tucked Helene’s scarf back into his pocket and turned to address her, blushing as he saw she was completely naked, water running from her willowy body in glistening droplets.

  “I… uh… that is,” stammered Leofric, turning away as the elf circled around to stand before him o
nce again, her head tilted coquettishly to one side and a curious, confused look in her eye.

  “Why do you not look at me?” asked the elf. “Am I not beautiful?”

  “Yes, yes you are,” confirmed Leofric, keeping his eyes cast down. “You are indeed beautiful, but it would be wrong of me to see you like this.”

  “Like what?” said the elf, reaching out and lifting his head.

  “Without clothes,” finished Leofric, drinking in the vision of grace and beauty before him.

  The elven woman tilted her head, puzzled by his answer and spun gracefully before him, “What is wrong with that? Beauty is a precious thing and should be savoured at all times. You should not deny yourself that pleasure.”

  Her body was slender and artfully shaped, though her waist was waspish and too narrow for his tastes. Thick hair the colour of flame hung wetly around her long neck and arched shoulders and her skin was smooth and pale like virgin snow. As she completed her pirouette, oval eyes of a red-gold colour examined him with curious amusement, but no malice, and he kept his gaze firmly locked with hers, lest his eyes stray lower and catch a glimpse of something more libidinous.

  “Be that as it may,” said Leofric with embarrassment. “But it is against my chivalric code to see you thus.”

  “You humans are a strange race,” said the elf, shaking her head and sweeping up a diaphanous white gown of a strange, shimmering fabric that slid over her body with the barest shrug of effort. “Bloodshed and death are second nature to your people, yet the sight of naked flesh leaves you tongue-tied. Baffling.”

  Leofric shrugged. “Yes, it is odd I suppose.”

  “Do you have a name, human?”

  “Of course I do,” replied Leofric with a deep bow. “I am Leofric Carrard of Quenelles.”

  The elf bowed back to him. “I am Tiphaine of the Eadaoin kinband, handmaid to Lady Morvhen Eadaoin.”

  “It is an honour and a privilege to make your acquaintance,” said Leofric, bowing once more. “Tell me, is Lady Eadaoin the wife of Lord Aldaeld?”