[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  The shaman held himself upright with his staff. Its battle with the magic of the waystone had exhausted it to the point of collapse. The power of the gods had given it the strength it needed to drag the waystone down, but had left it precious little to sustain its life, and it knew that its last breath was upon it.

  The Beastlord beat its chest with the flat of its mighty axe, the weapon ringing from its brazen hide as it sent the massive forms of its largest followers forward to gather up the waystone. A pack of hulking trolls, their massive muscles swollen by dark energies, grunted and roared as they lifted the enormous stone onto their backs.

  Even the smallest of the trolls was twice the size of the Beastlord, their leathery skin a mottled green and brown. Their thick skulls and stupid features marked them as creatures of Chaos, but the shaman knew that they were not the chosen children of the Dark Gods; such a vaunted position was that of the beastmen.

  The shaman turned a milky, distended eye back to the forest, grunting in satisfaction as it saw the raw wound in the ground where the waystone had once stood. The forest writhed as though in pain, roots and rapidly growing shoots of greenery bursting from the ground.

  As though spilling outwards, the edge of the forest appeared to be drawing nearer, expanding beyond its previous boundary. The shaman slid down its staff as its life force faded, looking up as a wild horn blast echoed over the treetops.

  The trolls bearing the waystone lurched back towards the mountains, their steps slow and ponderous, but they were easily outpacing the encroachments of the forest. Dark shapes moved within the forest’s edge, wild, monstrous things and the shaman shuddered in fear as the horn blast sounded again and the breath of something impossibly ancient roared from the trees.

  Like the last breath of winter, the wind gusted over the assembled beastmen, carrying with it the promise of death, blood and the huntsman’s spear. A low bray of fear rose from the herd at the sound and sent many fleeing for the mountains.

  The shaman’s last sight was of the Beastlord standing firm against the power of the forest’s magic, roaring its defiance and mastery. It had taken one of the fabled waystones of Athel Loren and no mere wind was going to frighten it.

  It had taken what it had come for and with the way stone well on its way towards the mountains, the Beastlord led its herd from Athel Loren.

  Leofric and Kyarno rode off into the forest once more, willing their horses to greater speed as the charge of the wild hunt drew nearer with each passing second.

  Leofric could feel the hot breath of the hunting hounds on his neck, the claws of the battle raven on his flesh and the gaze of the mighty King of the Wood upon his soul, but told himself they were but fearful illusions. They galloped a weaving course between the trees, the ghostly mists clawing from the trees once more as Leofric began to recognise parts of the forest from the times he had spent riding around Coeth-Mara.

  Though in that recognition was strangeness, a sense that even though individual parts of the forest were familiar, they were gathered oddly, as though different parts of the forest had shifted and moved.

  Nor were they challenged as they rode beneath the woven arch of leaves, branches and gem-encrusted belts of gold and silver that marked the edge of Lord Aldaeld’s halls.

  “Come on!” shouted Kyarno as Leofric heard the crash of something huge emerging from the trees and felt a lustful wave of aggression and power wash over him. Ahead he saw Kyarno stiffen in the grip of this power, his eyes alight with its energies.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder and cried out in fear as he saw something huge and muscular, its antlered flesh green hued and daubed with runic symbols. Fiery-eyed riders surrounded it, whooping and yelling as scores of baying hounds loped through the thoroughfares and tree-lined avenues of Coeth-Mara.

  Branches and leaves obscured Leofric’s sight of the massive King of the Wood as he and Kyarno altered course and rode into the hall of Lord Aldaeld, passing into a high, vaulted chamber filled with the inhabitants of Coeth-Mara, their faces fearful and wary.

  Shouts and cries of alarm followed them as they entered, warriors with spears and swords rushing to surround them. Leofric slumped across the neck of his horse, laughing and crying in relief to have escaped the charge of the wild hunt as it thundered past.

  “You dare return in defiance of your banishment?” shouted a voice.

  “Lord Aldaeld will have your head for this!” said another and Leofric looked up to see grey-cloaked warriors of the Eternal Guard drag Kyarno from his horse.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “No! Kyarno saved us both in the forest.”

  The elven warriors ignored him and Leofric felt his fury build at them. Kyarno had saved his life. He dropped from Aeneor’s back, lurching towards the struggling elves. A crowd gathered to watch the unfolding drama in their midst, grateful for the chance to take their minds from the danger beyond the hall.

  “Release him!” shouted Leofric, his voice laden with anger and authority.

  None of the Eternal Guard bothered to take notice of him and he ran towards them, gripping the cloak of the nearest one and hauling him off Kyarno. Leofric hurled the warrior aside and reached for the next, but the fallen warrior was upon him a second later and, within moments, both he and Kyarno were held fast.

  “Get off me!” yelled Leofric.

  “Be silent!” shouted the Hound of Winter, emerging from the press of bodies surrounding them. Cairbre carried the Blades of Midnight in one hand and his helm in the other. Behind him came Lord Aldaeld, Morvhen and Naieth.

  Cairbre marched towards them, his face an unreadable mask, though Leofric could see a flicker of emotion cross his stoic features as he spoke to Kyarno.

  “You know you are forbidden to return to Coeth-Mara,” he said.

  “I know,” replied his nephew.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “He saved my life!” shouted Leofric. “Without Kyarno, the wild hunt would have caught me. He risked his own life to save mine. That is why he is here.”

  Cairbre turned from Kyarno as Lord Aldaeld approached, his power and strength undeniable, though Leofric saw he still bore a faint white scar where Valas Laithu’s dagger had pierced his heart. His cloak of leaves and his tattoos writhed with motion, and his face spoke of great anger, but also great regret.

  “Is this true, Kyarno?” asked Lord Aldaeld.

  Kyarno nodded, shrugging off the restraining arms of the Eternal Guard. Leofric felt the grip of the warriors holding him relax and threw them off angrily. In the silence that followed, he could clearly hear the howling hounds and the crash of the wild hunt as it passed through Coeth-Mara.

  Behind Aldaeld, Morvhen looked on fearfully and Leofric’s heart went out to her. Her lost love stood before her, yet she could not reach out and touch him for fear of her father’s banishment, and the absurdity of this roused Leofric to speak out.

  “Lord Aldaeld,” he said. “May I speak?”

  “I don’t need you to speak for me,” snapped Kyarno.

  “I do not speak for you, Kyarno,” said Leofric. “I speak for the Lady Morvhen.”

  Lord Aldaeld spun at the mention of Morvhen’s name and his eyes narrowed. “You speak for Morvhen? Why would you speak for her?”

  “Because no one else will speak for her or Kyarno,” answered Leofric. “She loves Kyarno, and he loves her. Why will you not allow them to be together?”

  “Because he will lead her to ruin,” growled Aldaeld. “Kyarno has had every chance to prove himself to me and each time he has thrown it away. I will tolerate him no more.”

  “Then you are a fool!” said Leofric to a gasp of shock. “For you do not see what you throw away for the sake of spite.”

  Lord Aldaeld’s face twisted in anger and his sword flashed into his hand as he stepped close to Leofric. “I should kill you where you stand, human! You think to speak to me thus in my own halls!”

  “I apologise for such harsh words, Lord Aldaeld, but I speak from t
he heart.”

  “Your kind always thinks it knows better than any other,” sneered Aldaeld. “You meddle and you throw your might around like children, heedless of the cultures of others, always thinking in your blinkered way that only you can know the will of the world.”

  “What you say has truth to it, but give me a chance. That’s all I ask.”

  “Say what it is you want to say, but my course is set.”

  Leofric stood before the lord of Coeth-Mara, but addressed his words to the assembled throng, raising his voice so that all could hear him over the howling and thunder of hooves from beyond the hall.

  “I come from the land that borders Athel Loren. It is called Bretonnia and I am a knight of that realm. I serve my king and defend his lands when he calls me. I am a warrior and my path to earn my knighthood has been long and arduous. I began as a young man, what we Bretonnians call a knight errant. I was young, impetuous and ready to fight the world if it would mean I could become a knight of the realm. There are many young men of my land who aspire to this great height, but only a few who reach it. A knight errant is the very image of bravado — arrogant and haughty, brave to the point of recklessness. In battle they charge heedlessly towards the enemy, earning either great glory or a heroic death.”

  “What has this to do with anything?” demanded Lord Aldaeld.

  “Bear with me,” cautioned Leofric. “Most of these knights errant do not survive and many a mother of Bretonnia has mourned a son before her time.”

  “Then they are fools,” said Aldaeld. “Recklessness has no place on the battlefield.”

  “You are of course correct, Lord Aldaeld, but think on this — those who survive know that. While reckless bravery has its place, courage is at its best when tempered with duty. This is the lesson they learn.”

  “You would throw the lives of your young away for this lesson?”

  “To do otherwise would be to deny a young knight his destiny,” said Leofric. “And by such means are the knights of Bretonnia kept mighty, for those who have not experienced such passions cannot truly understand the nobility of courage.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That Kyarno is young and has made many foolish choices, but that he is alive and he is brave. I believe he has learned the lesson of courage and duty and is fit to take his place within your halls.”

  Aldaeld shook his head. “His actions caused the death of many of my people. I have a responsibility to my kinband and I cannot trust him.”

  “I know that, and so does he,” said Leofric. “He will carry the knowledge of what he has done to his dying day and no punishment of yours can make that any worse. All you will do is break your daughter’s heart.”

  “Do not think to manipulate me by recourse to my daughter,” warned Aldaeld.

  “I do not, I swear. I am a knight of Bretonnia and I never lie. I speak only what I know to be true.”

  Aldaeld did not reply, switching his gaze from Kyarno to Morvhen before turning to Cairbre and asking, “What say you, Hound of Winter? Can your nephew be trusted?”

  Cairbre took a step towards Kyarno and looked him square in the eye, daring him to look away. They stared deep into one another for long moments before Cairbre said, “His heart is true, my lord. I have known that since he was born.”

  “But can he be trusted?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” confessed Cairbre. “I want to believe he can, but I do not know for sure.”

  “You have your answer, sir knight,” said Aldaeld, turning away from Leofric. “Kyarno can stay until the wild hunt passes. Then I want him gone again.”

  “No!” said Leofric. “Did you hear nothing of what I said?”

  “I heard, human,” snapped Aldaeld, turning and marching back towards him, “but it changes nothing. I am lord of this domain, not you or your king, and I do what is necessary to protect it. I do not care for the traditions of your lands, for they are not mine. Did you think to come into my halls, make a pretty speech and return everything to normal? You should know your place, human, for life is not that simple in Athel Loren. For your kind it might be, but you are not among your kind now. Do not ever forget that.”

  In the sudden silence that followed, Leofric became aware that the thunderous noise beyond the hall had vanished.

  “Prophetess…” hissed Aldaeld, realising the satin thing. “The wild hunt… what has become of it?”

  Naieth closed her eyes and Leofric watched as a dim glow built behind her eyelids, feeling the prickling sensation of magic nearby.

  “It moves on,” said Naieth, her voice taking on the dreamlike quality of a sleepwalker.

  “Where does it go?” demanded Aldaeld.

  “It goes beyond,” cried Naieth, gasping and dropping to her knees. Cairbre rushed to help her and she sagged against him, opening her eyes and staring directly at Leofric.

  “It goes beyond,” she repeated, tears streaming down her face. “The waystones are breached!”

  “Breached?” cried Aldaeld. “How?”

  “I do not know,” wept Naieth. “I did not see. I did not see…”

  “You said the wild hunt had gone beyond,” said Leofric, fearful of what the prophetess might say. “Where do you mean?”

  “I am so sorry…” whispered Naieth. “It rides for your lands now.”

  * * *

  Satisfied that his animals were bedded down for the night, Varus Martel closed the latch on the gate that separated the byre where he kept his three pigs from where he and his family slept. He circled the low-burning fire to reach his threadbare jerkin where it lay beside the simple pallet bed he shared with his wife and two children.

  The hard-packed mud floor of their hovel was damp and cold, the thin soles of his boots keeping in not a shred of warmth. He lifted his jerkin from beside the fire, pulling out a carved wooden pipe from within, and began tamping what little weed he had left into the bowl. He jammed the pipe between his teeth and pulled on his leather skullcap, tying the thin cords beneath his chin before leaning in towards the fire and lifting out a lighted taper.

  Varus lit the pipe and took a hefty drag before making his way outside. The night was chill, but not cold, the winter having done its worst already. It had been hard on the villagers of Chabaon, many of the local families suffering sad losses amongst their children or elderly. Varus himself had lost a prime sow to the cold, and while it had meant they had had enough to eat for a few weeks, there would be no more piglets until he could afford to buy another at market.

  The thought depressed him and he tried not to think about the future as he heard a distant rumble, like approaching thunder. He looked up into the sky, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement as he saw nothing but the pale face of Mannslieb as it shone down upon the little village.

  The rumble grew louder and he saw several other doors open and inquisitive faces appear.

  “Varus,” shouted Ballard from the hovel across the way. “What d’you think that is?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” said Varus. “Ain’t likely thunder. Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Peculiar is what it is,” said Ballard, nodding sagely at his own pronouncement and taking out a pipe of his own.

  “Aye, peculiar right enough,” agreed Varus, blowing a ragged smoke ring. He scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of horsemen, for the noise sounded a lot like riders. Lots of them too. The only riders round these parts were knights and suchlike from Castle Carrard and that was a good many miles away. Not like riders to be out this late so far from home…

  Then he realised that the noise wasn’t coming from the north, but the east, He looked up at the sky once more, the pipe falling from his hand as he saw spectral clouds slip across the face of the moon and heard an echoing horn blast carried on the wind.

  “Oh no…” he whispered. “Oh no, no, no…”

  He saw the same realisation strike Ballard and hauled open the door to his hovel with a cry of alarm.

  “Up! Up!” he cr
ied. “For the love of the Lady, up!”

  His wife sat bolt upright, already frightened by his tone, his children still groggy with sleep. He shut the door behind him and threw the locking bar into place, hoping that it would be enough.

  “What’s the matter, Varus?” screamed his wife as he dropped to his knees before the badly painted statuette of the Lady that sat in a small alcove in the wall.

  “Lady, please save us from the wrath of the faerie folk!” shouted Varus as the mounting wind rattled the ill-fitting door in its frame. The rumble of hooves beat the air, growing louder each second and the first peal of thunder shook the hovel with its booming violence.

  His children screamed as a terrible, bloodcurdling horn echoed across the cold landscape. A shuddering tremor shook the hovel and the howls of wild hounds drifted across the bleak moorland. Plates and cups fell to the floor and the squeals of his pigs added to the din.

  Varus rushed over to his family, holding them tightly as the terrible sound of the wild hunt closed in on the village of Chabaon. They huddled on the bed, weeping in terror at the sound of their approaching doom, praying to the Lady of the Lake that it would pass them by.

  Howling winds tore through the village and Varus screamed as the roof of the hovel was ripped off, the lightning-streaked sky thick with shrieking ravens and ghostly riders on pale horses. Wild laughter and horns followed the charging huntsmen of the sky and thunder boomed in the wake of their charge.

  The walls of his hovel blew inwards, but Varus Martel and his family had already been carried up into the sky by the wild hunt as it laid waste to the village of Chabaon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ancient ancestral fear clutched at Leofric as he heard Naieth tell him that the wild hunt now wreaked havoc in Bretonnia. The dread of the howling gale of destruction and the terrible carnage it left in its wake surged through his body and he felt hollow, as though he had been winded by a fall from a horse.