‘If I have caused offence, it was unintentional, and I apologise,’ Calard had said, unsure if he had broken some local protocol.
Eldecar had waved away his apology, but his eyebrows were knotted in concern.
‘No, of course not,’ Eldecar had said, finally breaking the awkward silence, ‘but you do know, sir knight, that it is the eve of the vernal tide?’
Calard had frowned and shrugged.
‘You have not lived your life in the shadow of the forest, so can be forgiven for not understanding,’ said Eldecar. ‘Even in Bastonne, you must have heard tell of the wild hunt?’
‘When the barriers to the otherworld fall, and the faerie court rides across the night sky? Surely that is merely superstition?’
Eldecar’s expression remained grim.
‘As old as I am, I would cut down any man that called me coward,’ said Eldecar, ‘and yet I would not dare venture out of doors after nightfall on the Spring Equinox. Nor would any sane man of Quenelles.’
‘It is by the Lady’s will that I must go,’ said Calard. ‘My faith shall be my shield against any fey witchery.’
‘Then I shall pray for your soul, Calard of Garamont.’
The words came back to Calard now as he stood at the edge of the forest, and an involuntary shiver passed up his spine.
‘Superstitions, nothing more.’
Walking towards the slender stone marker, he drew the Sword of Garamont. Reversing his grip on the ancient weapon, he plunged its blade into the moist earth. Dropping to one knee, he pressed his forehead against the fleur-de-lys hilt of his blessed sword.
‘You have called, my Lady, and I have answered,’ he said. ‘Grant me the vision to know what it is you would have me do, and I shall gladly do it.’
Falling silent, Calard remained motionless, eyes closed in prayer. As his breathing evened out and deepened, he felt a profound sense of peace descend over him. All his concerns and doubts washed away.
It was not long before he felt a presence nearby. Opening his eyes, his saw a majestic stag at the very edge of the forest, watching him. It was huge, larger even than Galibor, and its branching antlers were easily ten feet from tip to tip. Its thick winter coat shone, ghost-like amidst the shadows of the forest.
Never had Calard seen such a regal creature, and he scarce dared to breathe, unsure if it was real or imagined.
With unhurried movements it walked into the forest. About ten paces in it stopped and turned to stare back at him. Its intent was clear; it wanted him to follow.
Was this the Lady’s will, or some trick of the forest, attempting to lure him within its borders?
Not for the first time Calard felt the desire to ride from this place, to join the king and face the undead legions of Mousillon that were marching, even now, against his homeland. Surely that was where he belonged?
He shook his head to throw off these doubts. No, the Lady had brought him here for a reason, and he was honour bound to see that through to the end.
Rising, he sheathed his sword and took the reins of his steed. Galibor did not resist as he led her towards the edge of the forest, though he could feel her trembling. He paused at the tree-line. The stag continued to look back towards him, waiting.
‘Blessed Lady, protect your servant,’ he said, and entered the forest.
II
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold passed through Calard as he crossed the threshold of Athel Loren. The air felt instantly different, clear and crisp like a mid-winter morning, and the temperature dropped markedly. The biting chill filled his lungs, bringing with it the rich scent of the forest – a heady mix of soil, rain, rotting leaves and other less identifiable but not unpleasant aromas. His breath fogged the air. A low mist coiled around the twisted roots of the trees.
Movement flickered on the periphery of Calard’s vision, and unseen things rustled in the undergrowth. He heard fluttering and chattering in the boughs overhead, and a tumble of twigs, dead foliage and disturbed snow fell around him, but he was not quick enough to locate the source.
Massive oaks reared up, their trunks gnarled and old, their limbs heavy with lichen. Stars flickered in and out of view overhead, obscured by the criss-crossing canopy of skeletal branches. No new leaves or buds were in evidence; it seemed that winter still reigned here.
The forest was painted monochrome in the deepening twilight, as if all colour and life had been leeched away in the winter months. The leafless trees were the colour of unyielding stone, and the blanket of ferns were shining silver, as if their fronds had been dipped in molten metal. It was a coldly beautiful realm, ghostly and silent.
The white stag waited for him close by, half obscured by the low fog. It regarded him steadily, only turning and leading the way further into the forest once it was sure that Calard was following.
While the creature moved effortlessly through the woodland, Calard stumbled over rocks and roots, and twigs scratched at his face and caught in his hair. It was as if the forest were purposefully making his progress difficult, hindering his every step. Even as he discounted the notion as foolish, his foot caught between a tangle of roots that seemed to tighten around his leg like a trap. He fell to his knees with a curse. He thought he heard high-pitched, childish laughter from nearby, but it was gone in an instant, and might have been nothing more than a trick of the wind.
A glint of metal in the undergrowth caught his eye. Disentangling himself from the grasping roots, he parted the ferns for a clearer view.
A corpse lay encoiled beneath the roots of a broad oak. It appeared to be slowly dragging it down into the earth, as if swallowing it whole, yet even half-buried Calard saw enough to recognise a knight of Bretonnia.
The knight was long dead, his armour rusted and encrusted with dirt. There was not a skerrick of flesh left upon his skull, though tufts of matted reddish hair still clung to his scalp and chin.
A slender arrow protruded from his left eye-socket.
A hand on the hilt of his sword, Calard scanned the area for danger. Beams of silver moonlight speared down through the canopy, lending the forest a dream-like quality. Shadows danced around him and the trees creaked and strained like ships at sea, though there was no wind to stir their branches.
Briefly, he considered digging the corpse free in order to give it a proper burial, for no knight of Bretonnia deserved such ignominy in death. He discounted the notion with some reluctance – the roots of the tree were wrapped tight, and would not easily relinquish their prize. He spoke a brief prayer, willing the knight’s spirit on to Morr’s kingdom.
Looking back the way he had come, Calard expected to see the waystone marking the forest’s edge and the open land beyond. He had ventured no more than twenty yards into the woods, after all. The way behind him now looked as impenetrable as the way forward.
‘What in the name of the Lady?’
He turned around on the spot, wondering if he had somehow lost his bearings. The forest stretched out in every direction, dark and claustrophobic. Its edge was nowhere to be seen. Calard’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognise a single tree or rock that looked familiar, nothing providing any clue to the way back out.
The white stag too was gone. Forcing back his rising unease, Calard scoured the ground in a wide arc, but could not find its tracks. It had disappeared without a trace, as if it had been nothing but an apparition all along.
Recalling the tales that spoke of the forest luring the unwary within its boundaries, and the inevitably grim fate that awaited them, Calard cursed himself for a fool. He had been so certain that it was the Lady’s will that he followed the noble creature, but now, alone and lost in the Forest of Loren as night descended, he was not so sure.
Calard turned back. Perhaps it was just some trick of the light, he thought, and he would stumble out of the forest any moment.
The woods became increasingly dense and oppressive the further he went, and within minutes he knew that this was not the way back. It was gettin
g colder as well, the isolated patches of snow on the ground becoming an ever-thickening layer that crunched beneath his boots.
Turning back in the face of this unnatural winter, Calard retraced his steps, intending to return to the corpse of the knight and pick another direction.
Thankfully, the snowfall thinned as he backtracked. But there was still no sign he had passed this way before.
Calard was an accomplished tracker and huntsman, and had lived for long periods in the wilds of the Old World. He was self-reliant and comfortable in such situations, confident in his own abilities. But here in the shadowy realm of Athel Loren he felt like a child lost in the woods, vulnerable and unsure which way to turn. His usually faultless sense of direction had deserted him, but he trusted his instincts enough to know that this was not some failing on his part, but rather that something was actively working to disorient him. It was as if the forest itself were conspiring to confound his senses.
He clambered over a half-buried log, but the way in front was blocked by an impenetrable tangle of branches. He turned back, intending to take a different route.
Impossibly, the log he had just climbed over had disappeared. Even his footprints were gone – the snow behind him was pristine.
‘This is madness.’
He heard a whisper of laughter behind him and turned quickly, searching. The forest was utterly still, giving nothing away.
Silence descended like a shroud, oppressive and all encompassing.
There was not a hint of movement in the undergrowth or in the canopy overhead, as if time itself was frozen. There was no breeze to cause even a ripple of movement or break the illusion. The air was charged with tension. It was the deceptive lull that came before a raging tempest was unleashed.
As silently as he was able, Calard drew his sword.
He forced himself to breathe evenly, emptying his mind of doubt and forcing the tension from his limbs. Whatever was coming would do so whether he wished it or not, and he would face it free of anxiety and hesitation.
Over the course of the last seven years he had battled hulking trolls in the blizzards of the northlands, and tracked and killed the dread Jabberslythe of Ostwald in the forests of the Empire. He had been hunted by pallid, blind ogre-kin through the labyrinths beneath the Mountains of Mourn and emerged triumphant, and had slain – several times – a monstrous wyvern that refused to stay dead. Most recently he had journeyed into the nightmare realm of Mousillon and fought the restless dead. He had been faced his own brother, twisted into a hateful vampiric creature of the night, and had not faltered, delivering him into Morr’s care.
And having quite literally travelled to hell and back – the burning heavens in the Realm of Chaos still haunted him – there were few things in the world that could truly unnerve him.
As he turned, his gaze swept across something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
A motionless figure was watching him, bathed in moonlight.
It was a knight, encased in ornate plate mail of archaic design. Utterly motionless, it stood atop a rocky outcrop that rose above the groundcover of snow and ferns. The towering figure was tinged the greenish-grey of weather-beaten rock, and Calard might have mistaken it for a statue but for the unnatural light of its eyes, burning coldly within the darkness of its helm.
Calard’s heart began to pound.
It was the Green Knight.
III
Calard stood frozen, his heart thumping.
The knight staring balefully down at him was a figure from myth and legend, and while it was the fervent hope of every boy and young knight of Bretonnia to face this supernatural avenger, few believed that they would ever be so blessed.
Calard had seen the Green Knight depicted a thousand times, in plays, illustrated manuscripts and stained glass, yet nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
Feared and revered in equal measure, some said that the Green Knight was the immortal spirit of Gilles the Uniter himself, founder of Bretonnia, and that he served the Lady even in death. Few claimed to have glimpsed the potent spectre, and those that did spoke little of their encounter.
It was said that the ancient being may appear to a questing knight nearing the conclusion of his ordeal, challenging him in order to test his resolve. Calard’s mouth went dry as he dared to think that perhaps this was his time.
The Green Knight’s gauntleted hands rested upon a broad-bladed sword – the Dolorous Blade – embedded in the earth before it. How many souls deemed unworthy had been cut down by that infamous weapon?
For years Calard had longed to face this potent being, but now that he did, he found himself transfixed, scarcely able to breathe. He felt a trembling thrill in his gut such as he had not experienced since he was a young knight errant. Sweat trickled down his back, despite the cold. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he forced himself to take a slow breath.
All the while, the Green Knight remained motionless, eyes searing through Calard’s soul, stripping him bare. Fog seeped up from the ground and billowed around the ethereal champion like a cloak.
In one smooth motion, the mythical figure drew its sword from the earth, and began to advance towards him.
Mist rolled out around the Green Knight, rushing towards Calard like a tide. It crashed over him in a soundless wave, and he was instantly chilled. Behind him, Galibor whinnied and reared, but Calard did not turn, unable to tear his gaze from the spectre bearing down on him.
Everything but this supernatural foe faded from view. The fog thickened, and the forest became vague and indistinct, then disappeared altogether. For a moment Calard heard haunting music, the refrain impossibly beautiful. He heard lyrical, inhuman voices rising in song, the sound so emotive and filled with longing that tears came unbidden to Calard’s eyes.
Roiling eddies of vapour curled and billowed around him on a sudden breeze. The Green Knight advanced, wading through the suffocating mist towards Calard, yet as it thickened, the distance between them seemed to grow. Calard hastened his pace towards his opponent, but the fog closed in.
The otherworldly figure was becoming increasingly hard to discern. Its terrible eyes and burning blade were growing faint, like the lights of a ship pulling away from port in the dead of night.
‘No,’ said Calard, hastening his step as he felt his opportunity to face the potent spirit slipping away. ‘No!’
Calard ran, straining to keep the Green Knight in view, but within heartbeats the spectre was gone, subsumed by the heavy fog. Calard was alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness.
He edged forwards, sword and shield at the ready, half expecting the Green Knight to loom up at any moment and cut him down. His steps were halting as he felt his way forward, wary of pitfalls and rocks.
The fog muffled all sound, but after a few moments, Calard realised that he could hear something: a dull roar, akin to rolling thunder or the pounding of waves on distant shores. It was impossible to gauge the direction that the sound came from, and with no point of reference, he quickly lost his bearings.
For long minutes Calard advanced blindly. The sound of rushing water echoed around him, and soft spray wet his cheeks. He was stepping through ankle-deep water. Tiny rapids swirled as it rushed over his boots.
He thought he saw something taking shape before him, a vague dancing light in the distance that might have been a lantern or torch. Again he heard that ethereal, haunting music. The light bobbed and weaved, mesmerising and strangely alluring, as if calling to him. Calard took an involuntary step towards it before he dragged himself back, recalling the tales of malevolent will-o-the-wisps leading unwary travellers to their doom.
No sooner had the thought registered than the dancing light disappeared. The fog began to retreat, rising like a curtain to reveal his surroundings.
Calard took a hasty step backwards as the forest took shape around him. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, hundreds of feet high. One more step forwards, and he
would have walked out over the edge.
His senses reeled at the drop; he was looking down on the forest canopy below. It extended far into the distance, treetops glittering beneath the silver moon of Mannslieb.
Turning, he surveyed his surroundings. A second waterfall fell from above, crashing down over a sheer cliff face into a deep pool. The water’s surface was turbulent, and shimmered like liquid metal. The roar of the falls was deafening, and spray filled the air, glistening like rippling veils of diamond dust. Galibor stood nearby, drinking from the pool.
Trudging through the shallow water, Calard climbed the banks of the pool and peered into the forest. He could see no more than ten yards; it was almost impenetrable.
The sky was clear, allowing Calard to regain his bearings. He shook his head in wonder. From what he could make out, he was many miles from the forest border, closer in fact to the Grey Mountains in the east than the western fringes of Loren. He was also many miles to the north of where he would have expected to be. Still, a day and a night of travel should see him to the northern edge of the forest.
He whistled, and Galibor’s eyes swivelled. The warhorse looked at him.
‘Come,’ Calard said, and the warhorse cantered obediently through the shallow water to its master.
Calard took Galibor’s reins, readying to enter the forest. He looked over his shoulder one last time, at the clouds of vapour coming off the waterfall.
Before he turned away, Calard saw something come over the falls. It disappeared from view a moment later, swallowed by the raging torrent, but for a brief few seconds he saw it clearly as it fell. It was a body, arms and legs flailing as it tumbled.
IV
Without hesitation, Calard plunged into the icy pool. The body had disappeared beneath the thunderous white water, but he waded in deep, fighting the strong currents. He was not certain anyone could have survived that drop, and when they didn’t surface, he began to fear they had become snagged by rocks or already been carried past him and over the second falls.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 82
