[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Cu-Sith swayed aside from its attack, hacking its head from its shoulders as it writhed with rampant mutation at its proximity to the Corruptor. But the momentary distraction was all the opening the beastman lord needed, its mighty staff hammering into Cu-Sith’s temple and driving him to his knees.

  The great wolf tattoo on his chest howled in anger and the wardancer looked in amazement at the red liquid pouring from his head.

  “You made Cu-Sith bleed his own blood…” he said in shock. Cairbre pushed himself forward, but he already knew he would be too late as the Corrupter’s staff swung back around and smashed the Red Wolfs skull to splinters.

  Leofric sliced his sword across the Beastlord’s side, drawing a spray of dark blood, but not slowing the beast at all. Elves were dying every second; the monstrous beast’s axe slaying them with an unnatural savagery. Dark magic pulsed in the blades and Leofric knew that with such power, even their skill and courage could not triumph.

  Kyarno jumped back, barely avoiding a deadly stroke of the creature’s axe as yet another arrow loosed by Morvhen thudded into its flesh. There seemed to be no stopping the monster, but Leofric attacked again regardless. Kyarno stumbled, his left leg bloody where it had been gashed from hip to knee by one of the Beastlord’s followers.

  Only Leofric stood before the terrifying creature, his silver sword glowing with a faint light as he faced the Beastlord. Its blood hissed and spat where it dripped from its body onto the rocks and its mighty chest heaved with exertion. It may have nearly defeated them, but it had not been an easy battle.

  The two combatants circled one another as he heard a scream of rage from the ledge above, but Leofric dared not risk tearing his gaze from the monster before him. It growled and its chest hiked, giving voice to a low, growling bray. Leofric was confused for a moment before he realised that the creature was laughing at him. Laughing at him for daring to stand against such a monstrously powerful avatar of the Dark Gods.

  Leofric’s fury lent his tired limbs strength and he charged the monster with a cry of rage, “Lady guide my hand!”

  He swung his sword towards the beast’s midriff, feeling the hilt of his weapon grow hot as the blade leapt with silver fire, outshining the sun with its brilliance. The Beastlord’s axe came round to block the blow and the two weapons met in a shower of dazzling sparks and fire.

  The gigantic axe exploded into fragments of dark iron and wood, a flaring after-image of some malevolent shadow erupting from the shattered weapon. Leofric fell back, reeling and numb from the impact, blinking to clear his vision from the glaring after-images of the explosion.

  He dropped to one knee, still clutching his glowing sword, amazed and thankful for its hidden power when a shadow swept over him and a powerful voice shouted, “Human! Down!”

  Leofric threw himself flat as the golden form of Lord Aldaeld atop his magnificent eagle swooped low across the battlefield and streaked towards the stunned Beastlord. He looked up in time to see Lord Aldaeld ram the blade of his silver lance into the creature’s chest, the shaft plunging deep into its body and ripping out through its back in a fountain of blood and fragmented bone. Lord Aldaeld angled the flight of his eagle back into the air and, skewered like an insect on the needle of an academic, the Beastlord was carried high above the battle.

  It fought to drag the weapon from its body, its flesh smoking where the faerie lance of Athel Loren seared it with its purity, but it could not escape as Lord Aldaeld lifted it higher and higher.

  Only when both figures were little more than dots of black against the sky, did Lord Aldaeld finally allow the creature to slide from his lance, the tumbling figure of the Beastlord falling thousands of feet to smash on the jagged rocks of the mountains.

  Leofric bowed his head and gave thanks to the Lady of the Lake as clouds of dust were blown skyward and another huge shadow enveloped the plateau. He squinted through the clouds of swirling dust, seeing the mighty form of Beithir-Seun hovering just above the plateau, his green, scaled flesh torn and bloody, but triumphant. Warhawk riders circled him, their faces alight with the savage joy of victory.

  The great dragon reached down with his claws and ripped the waystone from the pile of skulls, weapons and armour that surrounded it and slowly began to climb into the sky. Riderless warhawks set down on the bloody field of battle to collect the few surviving warriors of Coeth-Mara.

  Kyarno limped over to a scarred bird and said, “Come on. We have the stone, now let’s get Cairbre and Cu-Sith and get out of here.”

  Leofric nodded and breathlessly staggered over to Kyarno, climbing onto the back of the mighty bird.

  “We won,” he said, hardly able to believe it.

  “Oh, no…” gasped Kyarno, looking at something above them.

  Leofric turned on the warhawk’s back in time to see a battle he would remember to his dying day.

  The Corruptor’s staff again thwarted Cairbre’s every attempt to breach his defences and the Hound of Winter knew that he could not defeat this monster alone. The Red Wolf was dead, and as he watched Beithir-Seun lift into the sky with the waystone clutched in its claws, he smiled as he realised they had succeeded.

  Blood ran from his mouth and his breath rasped in his throat. But he was the Hound of Winter and he never gave up, never stopped fighting and never took a backwards step in the face of the enemy.

  “Come on then, you monster,” he snarled. “Time for you to die.”

  He lunged forward, the Blades of Midnight spinning in a whirling arc of white blades. Though pain stabbed through him with every movement, he shut himself off from it, focussing all his thoughts on slaying the monster before him.

  The skulls woven into the fur of its back and horns screamed at him, promising death in all manner of uncounted ways, the dark miasma of change that surrounded the Corruptor straining at the bounds of his will to rupture his flesh with mutation.

  “You shall not have me!” shouted Cairbre, swaying aside from a scything blow and spinning close to the stinking, shaggy monster. His left blade slashed across the beast’s stomach, a spray of black blood gushing from the wound and ripping a bellowing roar of pain from its jaws.

  Its writhing staff slashed down, hooking under Caibre’s legs and sending him flying backwards to land atop the corpse of Cu-Sith. He rolled from the body of the Red Wolf and felt a fresh vigour course through him.

  Loec is not done with Cu-Sith…

  Cairbre cried out in amazement as the voice of the wardancer echoed in his head and he looked down to see that the great, snarling tattoo of the Red Wolf now adorned his chest, its fangs slavering for blood and vengeance.

  He heard a bestial roar and looked up in time to see the Corruptor’s staff arcing towards his head. He leapt into the air, somersaulting over its head with a maniacal laugh that was not his own.

  As he leapt through the air, he twisted the haft of the Blades of Midnight, separating them into his twin swords and drove them straight down into the shoulders of the Corrupter.

  The terrible beast shook the mountains with its roar of agony, its unclean flesh seething at the touch of faerie magic. Cairbre landed behind the beast, dropping lightly on the balls of his feet and pulled his swords clear with a wild yell of fierce anger. The Corrupter spun, its flesh burned, and its insane gaze settled on Cairbre once more.

  The Hound of Winter felt his new found strength wither before its gaze, dropping to his knees as agonising pain returned to swamp him.

  The Corrupter staggered away from him, blood flooding from its body and the dark, smoky trails of its vile, magical essence pouring into the air. It let out a howl of outrage and pain, before turning and limping back into its cave to recover its strength before the power that sustained it was undone forever.

  Cairbre watched it go with a mixture of regret and exultation. Regret that he had not rid the world of its foulness, and exultation in the atavistic glory of victory.

  He looked down and smiled weakly as the snarling tattoo of the red wo
lf on his chest began to fade and nodded in thanks to the departed Cu-Sith as the wardancer’s voice echoed in his head one last time.

  Not bad for an old man and a wild one, eh, Hound?

  “No,” agreed Cairbre, watching as the vengeful followers of the Corrupter closed in on him now that the mutating influence of their master had withdrawn. “Not bad at all.”

  He counted at least forty, and while, in his prime, he could have taken them on with some chance of success, he was far from in his prime. Slotting the Blades of Midnight together again to form the twin-bladed spear, the Hound of Winter painfully pushed himself to his feet, watching as the warhawks took to the air alongside Beithir-Seun.

  He smiled as he saw that Kyarno still lived, his nephew’s bird racing towards him in a futile attempt to save him. No, the Hound of Winter’s season had passed and with it his stewardship of the Blades of Midnight.

  As the creatures of Chaos closed on him with axes and swords raised to cut him down, he shouted Kyarno’s name, drew back his arm and hurled his spear into the clear blue of the sky.

  “Cairbre, no!” screamed Kyarno as he saw what his uncle intended. But Cairbre’s course was set and the white-bladed spear streaked into the air like a glittering comet. Its arcing course cut the air above them and Kyarno leapt onto the warhawk’s back to catch the spinning spear as it began to curve downwards.

  “Go back!” shouted Kyarno as the warhawk began to turn away from the mountain and back to Athel Loren, but the bird could see the outcome of the battle below, even if he would not.

  Both he and Leofric could only watch helplessly as the beastmen surrounded Cairbre, clubbing him and stabbing him with their crude weapons. Though he fought bravely, killing over a dozen with a short sword taken from a dead foe, he could not defeat them all, and soon his body was lost to sight beneath a mound of thrashing, stabbing beasts.

  Kyarno sobbed in loss as his uncle was finally overwhelmed, unable to believe that so mighty a warrior as the Hound of Winter could have been bested.

  The warhawk dipped its wings in sadness at the passing of a great warrior and beneath the shadow of mourning they flew back to Athel Loren.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saddened but victorious, the warriors of Coeth-Mara descended towards the forest in the wake of Beithir-Seun, welcomed home by the same host of birds that had seen them on their way Too many had died and too much had been lost for there to be any kind of celebration at this battle’s end, but it would be remembered in song and tale for centuries to come as one of the great battles against Cyanathair.

  The waystone had been saved by the might and strength of the Hound of Winter and the Red Wolf, and their names would live forever in the glory of the forest, remembered by all the Asrai in their dreams and their songs.

  The mighty dragon hovered above the ground, weeds and thorny branches reaching up to try and snag its limbs as it gently lowered the waystone back into its rightful place. Leofric and the survivors of the battle watched the dragon return the waystone to the ground from a rocky hillock, an island of grey amid a seething carpet of verdant greenery.

  Leofric had taken it for beautiful from the air, but upon landing, he saw it for the wild, savage glory of nature unbound that it truly was. Everywhere the greenery smothered all other life, destroying it and replacing it with its own. Kyarno stood next to him, still clutching the Blades of Midnight, with Morvhen’s arm around his shoulders as they wept for the lost Cairbre. Leofric had shed no tears for the old elf; after all, they were not friends, but even so, he was saddened to see such a noble warrior fall to such base creatures as beastmen.

  Lord Aldaeld and Naieth stood before them, knee deep in the swaying undergrowth that swirled around them with questing fronds and curious flowers. The greenery parted before Naieth, her staff held before her and her owl once again perched on her shoulder now that she had returned to the forest.

  “What are they doing?” asked Leofric. “Is it over? Is the wild hunt over?”

  “Not yet, no,” said Morvhen. “Terrible violence was done here, dark magicks have been unleashed, and it has tainted the forest.”

  “Tainted it?” said Leofric, horrified at the thought of all they had fought and bled for being snatched away and that his people might still be dying. “No, that cannot be.”

  He took a faltering step from the hillock, stepping through the rising greenery and calling out to Naieth. “Prophetess! The waystone is returned. Why does the wild hunt still lay waste to my lands?”

  Aldaeld and Naieth turned to face Leofric as the waving strands of growth slithered around him, curious and hostile to this human within their domain. As he drew nearer to them, his armoured boot crunched bone and he looked down to see the leather-wrapped skeleton of a beastman, its bony hands clutching a staff of dark wood. Not a scrap of flesh remained on its bones, but whether they had been picked clean by insects or the ravages of time and the elements, Leofric could not say.

  “The healing magic will take time to undo the damage done here, Leofric,” said Naieth. “You must be patient.”

  “Patient?” he yelled, turning his attention to the lord of Coeth-Mara. “My people may be dying even now! I beseech you, allow me to travel upon one of these mighty birds to my lands. I have fought beside your kinband and I ask this boon of you as one warrior to another.”

  Lord Aldaeld nodded and said, “So be it… Leofric. We have much to work against here, the foulness of the children of Chaos runs deep and I know what it is to lose those under your care. If there is a warhawk willing to bear you back to your lands, then you may go with my blessing.”

  “Thank you, Lord Aldaeld,” said Leofric, bowing deeply before the elven lord.

  “Go in peace, Leofric Carrard,” nodded Aldaeld slowly. He turned back to Naieth then said. “You will be welcome in Coeth-Mara again, human.”

  Leofric said, “I would be glad to visit here again someday,” and turned back to the rocky hillock he had come from.

  “I will come with you,” said Kyarno. “I wish to see this land you call home.”

  Leofric smiled, “And I would be glad to show it to you.”

  “I will come too,” added Morvhen. “I may never have another chance.”

  Leofric and Kyarno climbed atop the warhawk that had borne them from the battle, its proud head held high as they settled upon its back. Morvhen mounted the bird that had saved her life upon leaping from the winged beast she had killed, and together they leapt into the sky, both warhawks climbing rapidly into the west as they flew towards Bretonnia.

  Naieth watched the birds rise into the sky with a great sense of sadness for the armoured form carried on the back of the second warhawk. As they vanished over the treetops, Lord Aldaeld asked, “Does he know?”

  “No,” said Naieth quietly, “but he will soon enough.”

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  “Regrets? No. I did what I had to do to guide my people, Aldaeld. You of all people should understand that.”

  “I do,” nodded Aldaeld, “but I thought that you had perhaps developed an affection for the human. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” admitted Naieth. “He has many admirable qualities, but in the end, he is still only human.”

  “Very well,” said Aldaeld. “I will accept that for now. But next time there is a threat to Athel Loren, speak to me of it first.”

  “You know I could not,” cautioned Naieth as a shimmering white light built from within the trees and the waystone finally groaned into place.

  She smiled in welcome and both she and Aldaeld dropped to their knees before the radiance of the goddess before them, her beauteous form indistinct in the haze of brilliant sunlight that enveloped her.

  As the light spread before her, the dark greenery that reached beyond the forest’s edge lightened, becoming thinner and more lush, the darkened branches and malignant mosses vanishing before the incredible power of her compassion and love.

  Everywhere her light touched, the dark s
orcery of the enemies of Athel Loren was undone, the foulness and corruption that had touched the land leeched from the ground in a dark mist that dissipated in the face of such radiance.

  Naieth and Aldaeld watched in wonder as the balance of the world was restored and the beauty of the forest surged in their blood.

  The light of Isha flowed through the Lady Ariel and both elves felt their hearts lifted as they heard her soft words in their heads.

  The healing of Athel Loren must begin anew…

  Blood and screams filled the air. Men-at-arms fell like wheat before the scythe, unable to stand against the primal ferocity of the forest king. Arrows peppered his flesh and lances shattered upon his great muscles, but his mighty form was impervious to such things.

  Teoderic raised his lance as his knights circled back to the fray after yet another desperate charge and shouted, “Once more for the Lady! Once more for honour!”

  Barely a handful of his knights still lived, the charge of the wild hunt crashing into their numbers like a thunderbolt. Each charge of the knights had smashed deep into the enemy lines, creatures of branch and thorn splintering and crumbling beneath their might. But each time the momentum of the charge had faltered, they had risen up once more, stinking of sap and fresh-cut wood as they tore warriors from the saddle.

  Clovis still fought beside him, his lance splintered and useless, his sword clutched in his bloody gauntlet. Theudegar fought on the left flank, his knights surrounded by the whooping riders on the dark steeds who hung the skulls of those they had slain from their belts.

  The forest king stood in the centre of the field, bellowing in fury and blowing deafening blasts of his hunting horn. Those who came near him died, and everywhere his long spear reached, blood was shed. There was no shape to the battle now, simply wild charges and furious combats as the muster of Bretonnia fought for honour.