Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  The sheer range of wildwood creatures that surrounded the Oak of Ages was staggering. Calard even glimpsed a small band of elves among the dark forest’s ranks, outcasts who had blackened their faces with soot and bore twisted spider-web tattoos upon their flesh.

  Towering over them all strode a creature fifty feet tall, an ancient and twisted oak come to life, its gnarled hide blackened by fire. Roots burrowed into the earth as each immense leg came crashing down into the snow, making the ground shudder and shake, and huge branch-arms capable of pounding a castle to dust swung heavily at its sides. Clusters of vindictive spites hid within the knots and hollows that pocked its charred bark-flesh, and a gaping maw filled with splinter-like teeth opened halfway up the monster’s trunk. Above this vicious mouth, a pair of tiny, deep set eyes blinked.

  ‘Ancient Coeddil walks among us, freed from the glamourweave’s prison,’ came Drycha’s voice, hissing forth from within the Oak of Ages. ‘Know fear, petty lordling mortals; the time of reckoning is come.’

  With a booming roar, the gigantic tree-lord, Coeddil, thrust its arms into the ground. The earth shivered and bulged, as if things were burrowing beneath it, shooting towards Calard and the elven host. A heartbeat later, and a forest of roots burst up through the snow. They whipped around the legs of elves and horses alike, gripping tight and pulling them down.

  They clutched at the white stag, reaching up to ensnare the kingly beast and its riders. White light flared and the clawing tendrils turned to ash, falling harmlessly to the ground.

  Others were not so protected, and there were shouts of pain and fear as elves were yanked down by the clutching vines. Calard saw a dozen Wild Riders fall as their steeds were dragged to the ground, whinnying in panic. They fell hard, and were instantly covered by a tangle of roots that wrapped around arms, bodies and necks. The savage warriors strained against the living bindings, but could do little as they were dragged to their graves beneath the icy soil.

  Galibor reared to avoid a cluster of worm-like tendrils that burst up through the snow beneath her, and Calard slashed at them as they coiled upwards, reaching blindly.

  ‘Ride!’ shouted the veiled lady.

  Dozens of hunting horns echoed across the glade, and the elves surged forward to meet the dark host of forest spirits in battle, whooping and howling as they charged. Arrows darkened the sky, which was now the subtle grey-blue of pre-dawn, and formations of warhawk riders screamed down through the canopy from above, the huge hunting birds tucking their wings in tight. Painted elven warriors cart-wheeled forwards, their dance of blades both elegant and deadly, and fur-cloaked elves ran to join the fray, spinning their double-bladed staff-spears deftly.

  The white stag galloped forward, surrounded by wild riders, and Calard felt himself pulled along with them. The veiled lady turned, and he felt her eyes boring into him, even though her face was obscured by her veil.

  The branchwraith Drycha must be expelled from the Oak of Ages before the king-to-be can be reborn, she said, her strange triad of voices speaking in his mind. Yet such is the geas that Drycha has woven upon the oak that no forest born creature nor one of elven blood can enter.

  ‘This is my task,’ said Calard. ‘This is why the Lady brought me here.’

  Perhaps, brother.

  Calard’s eyes widened.

  ‘Anara?’

  ‘Ride, Calard!’ cried the veiled lady, his twin sister, and the white stag leapt forwards.

  The battle was savage, each side fighting with fury and passion.

  Dryads cut down elves and impaled them upon their blade-like limbs, while others were ripped apart by towering monsters of the forest. Slender warriors were pounded into the ground by heavy wooden arms and set upon by swarms of dark faeries, wings fluttering and knives glittering. Ancient Coeddil sent elves flying with each sweep of his massive arms, and he dragged dozens more to their deaths, his clawing roots reaching up beneath them to ensnare them.

  Through the confusion, the unearthly wild riders cleared a path for Calard and the white stag, selling their lives dearly. They were only fifty yards from the immense tree when Calard spurred Galibor on, breaking free of the entourage of savage warriors, riding hard for the shadowy archway.

  Dryads screamed their fury and leapt into his path, their raking talons slashing at him, but he cut them down and was past them, galloping on.

  He kicked Galibor into a leap, and they sailed through the huge archway. A wave of vertigo assailed him, and he felt his skin tingle strangely.

  Then he was falling, surrounded by blinding, icy mist, and then... nothing.

  IX

  With a gasp, Calard awoke.

  He lay upon a plush four-poster bed and could hear birds singing their morning chorus outside. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, and the scent of spring wafted through the high-ceilinged bed-chamber borne on a warm breeze.

  He swung his legs from the bed and looked around in confusion. An open chest at the foot of his bed was overflowing with clothes – his clothes – and a half-eaten meal of quail and duck lay on silver platters on a side-table. His armour hung from a wooden stand in one corner of the room, and his sword leant against the unlit fireplace.

  He was within his bed-chamber in Garamont. He was home.

  Strange, half-remembered images flickered through his mind. He saw a forest filled with malign spirits, and trees that walked like men. He saw one of the fey folk, with slanted golden eyes and pointed ears, and he shivered, remembering an unnatural winter that had blanketed the land in snow.

  His dreams were fading fast, dissipating like lake mist under a rising sun. He knew there was something important he had to do, something important that he had to remember, but he could not recall what it was.

  With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and padded towards his washbasin. The familiar sounds of the castle reached his ears. He could hear peasants in the fields, and the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchens downstairs. He heard weapons clashing and a yeoman bellowing orders as he put his men-at-arms through their training drills, and he could hear the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer upon an anvil. He heard a dog barking, and from somewhere, he heard a washer woman singing tunelessly as she went about her chores.

  Calard filled the basin with a jug of water and splashed cold water across his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was smooth and youthful.

  The door burst open, and he turned to see his brother Bertelis stagger into the room. He threw himself down upon Calard’s bed, groaning theatrically.

  ‘I’ll never drink again,’ said Bertelis. ‘What a night!’

  Calard grinned.

  ‘My head feels like it is going to explode,’ said Bertelis. ‘Make it stop!’

  ‘I had the strangest dreams,’ said Calard, turning back to his wash basin and staring into the mirror. His reflection seemed almost like a stranger...

  ‘Oh?’ said Bertelis. ‘Did you dream you could beat me at the joust? Because that would be strange.’

  ‘No,’ said Calard. ‘I was embarked on the quest. My clothes were torn and covered in dirt, and my armour battered and worn. I had a beard, and my hair was long and streaked with grey. I was tired. So tired.’

  Bertelis snorted.

  ‘You have such boring fantasies, my brother,’ he said. ‘Now mine, on the other hand...’

  ‘I came home after many years of questing, but Garamont was in ruin,’ said Calard. ‘And Elisabet was dead. You killed her, my brother. It was an accident, but I was angry and grief-stricken. A distance grew between us, and you left. I had not seen you for many years.’

  ‘Enough, Calard,’ said Bertelis, sitting up. ‘As you can see, Garamont is as intact as it ever was. I am here, and Elisabet is alive and well. The wedding is next week, after all.’

  ‘The wedding?’ said Calard.

  Bertelis laughed.

  ‘Your wedding, yes, you dolt,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot.’

  ‘No, of
course not,’ said Calard.

  ‘Forget the dream. This is all that is real,’ said Bertelis, gesturing around the room. ‘This is all that you need.’

  ‘I... I think I went to Mousillon, in my nightmare,’ said Calard. ‘Yes, it is coming back to me now.’

  ‘Ranald’s balls, man! It was a dream, nothing more. Forget it!’

  Calard could not understand why his brother was getting so angry, but he gave it little thought. He shivered, casting his mind back, struggling to latch onto the elusive memories. It had all been so real.

  ‘Merovech,’ he whispered. ‘Duke Merovech the Mad. He had returned. He had raised an army of the living dead, and was preparing to launch an attack against the king. A great battle was coming. I wanted to fight, but something called me away – a vision, I think. It led me far away, to the haunted forest of Loren...’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Bertelis. ‘I don’t want to hear it, brother.’

  ‘You were there in Mousillon, brother,’ said Calard, frowning as he remembered. ‘You were there, but you were not yourself. You were... You were–’

  ‘I was what, brother?’ said Bertelis, his voice hostile and cold.

  ‘Dead,’ said Calard, flatly.

  ‘Yes, dead,’ said Bertelis. ‘You killed me, remember?’

  He was suddenly standing close behind Calard, though he made no reflection in the mirror. The hair on the back of Calard’s neck stood on end. This wasn’t his brother at all, Calard realised.

  ‘You cast me aside, brother,’ said Bertelis. ‘You cast me aside to assuage your own guilt. You drove me to into Merovech’s arms. It was your fault. And then you killed me. Now it is your time to die.’

  Calard had a blade in his hands, and he spun around as the thing masquerading as his brother attacked.

  He saw a horrific snarling face that seemed to be carved from wood coming at him, and the scent of rotting leaves filled his nose. Blade-like talons lashed for his face, but he fended them off with the Sword of Garamont, which blazed with white light.

  He felt the blade bite deep into woody flesh, and the creature screeched. Claws raked across his face. He was knocked flying by the strength behind the blow and hit the ground hard. For a moment he thought he felt snow beneath his hands. Blood was running down his cheek, but he pushed himself back to his feet, bringing his blade around to defend himself.

  His attacker was gone, and a cold wind was blowing through the blackened ruins of Castle Garamont.

  ‘What in the name of the Lady?’ he whispered, turning around on the spot.

  He stood within his old bedchamber, but its walls had crumbled. The sky was dark overhead.

  A movement behind him made his spin. A figure came forward from the shadows, and Calard’s eyes widened in horror.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  The figure glided into the moonlight, looking up at him with pleading, sorrowful eyes.

  It was Elisabet, the young noblewoman whom he had given his heart to so long ago, and who had betrayed him. Her face was pale, and she was dressed in a flowing mortuary shroud that billowed around her. She reached for him, silently imploring for forgiveness.

  ‘You’re dead,’ said Calard, backing away.

  She nodded sadly, and blood began to flow down the side of her head, gushing from the wound in her temple, where her skull had cracked. He remembered the horrible sound as she hit the cold marble steps of Lyonesse. The blood began to soak her flowing gown, making it cling to her body. Tears ran down her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Calard as he backed away further, only stopping when he was pressed up against the fire-blackened wall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again as she drifted towards him. Her feet were hovering an inch above the ground. In trembling hands, he lifted the Sword of Garamont before him.

  ‘Her death is on your conscience,’ said a hollow, familiar voice.

  ‘Father?’ said Calard, looking around.

  His surroundings had shifted again, and he found himself standing within the crypt below his family castle. Garbed in the deathly robes, his father stood motionless, staring at him with cold, dead eyes. His skin was grey.

  ‘That poor, restless spirit wanders lost in the between worlds because of you,’ said the former castellan of Garamont, Calard’s father.

  ‘She was poisoning you, father,’ said Calard.

  ‘Not a bad likeness,’ said Lutheure, glancing down at the carved stone sarcophagus that held his own remains. The marble top had been crafted to look as Lutheure had in his prime, strong and proud, arms crossed upon his broad, armoured chest. ‘She did what she thought was the best thing for her, and for you. She didn’t deserve the cruelty that befell her.’

  ‘It was not my fault, father,’ said Calard.

  ‘You are no son of mine,’ said Lutheure. ‘Not anymore. I had but one son I could be proud of, and you destroyed him. Had I not been so weak, I would have strangled you at birth, you and that witch of a sister. I should have seen your mother burn in the cleansing flames. Her tainted bloodline has destroyed Garamont.’

  ‘No,’ said Calard.

  ‘If you had any courage yourself, you would have taken your own life,’ said Lutheure. ‘But in your craven cowardice, you could not even do that.’

  ‘Father, please,’ said Calard.

  Again, his surroundings shifted. He stood outside the ruin of Castle Garamont, only now the shades of a hundred knights and peasants stood amongst the devastation, staring at him forlornly. They were as insubstantial as mist, and their eyes were filled with accusation.

  ‘They all died because of you,’ came his father’s voice. ‘If you had been here, doing your duty, they would yet live.’

  ‘I was embarked upon the quest,’ said Calard weakly.

  ‘You swore an oath to protect them. Your place was here.’

  Two figures pressed through the crowd of restless spirits, and Calard felt his heart wrench.

  A slender adolescent, little more than a boy, led a barrel-chested bear of a man towards him. The youngster had wavy, shoulder-length hair and was garbed in the rich clothes of a nobleman. His face was honest and open, and he had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. The older man had a thick beard that was running to grey, and wore a scarf tied over his eyes.

  The boy was Calard’s heir, his nephew Orlando, whom he had named castelan of Garamont when he had set aside his duties to take up the quest. He had been a child when last he had seen him. The older figure was Baron Montcadas, who had pledged to look after Orlando while Calard was away. Both had been slain in one bloody night, a night that had seen Castle Garamont razed to the ground.

  ‘You never came back,’ said Orlando. His voice was empty, as if all his youthful joy and mirth had been sucked out of him. ‘You should have been here.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Calard. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen.’

  ‘Your empty platitudes don’t count for anything here, lad,’ said Montcadas in his rumbling voice. ‘This boy was an innocent. His blood stains your hands.’

  Calard clenched his eyes shut, despairing, feeling the weight of guilt pressing down upon him. When he opened his eyes, his surroundings were once again altered.

  He stood within a chirurgeon’s tent, surrounded by the dead and dying. Laid out upon a table before him was the corpse of a grey-haired knight. His armour was rent in dozens of places, and tattered chainmail hung where it had been sundered. Broken spear-tips protruded from his body, and an axe was still embedded deep in the flesh above his hip.

  ‘Gunthar,’ said Calard, staring down at the body of his old weapon master and friend.

  Gunthar had been more of a father to him than Lutheure ever had. The guilt of Gunthar’s death still plagued him.

  Foolishly, Calard had become embroiled in a challenge with Maloric of Sangasse when he had been just a young knight errant. Maloric had appointed a champion, as was his right – Ganelon, a murderous knight that had never been bested. Calar
d knew that he could never win, but Gunthar had stepped in as his own champion, and though he had slain Ganelon, he had been fatally wounded in the process.

  Gunthar’s lifeless head rolled to the side and his eyes flickered open.

  ‘I died that you might live, Calard,’ he said, ‘but you have brought nothing but dishonour upon your household.’

  Tears of shame rose to Calard’s eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  He stood on an island, surrounded by fog. He could hear the roar of the ocean, crashing against the rocks just off the coast. The pebbled beach was strewn with corpses of knights and savage Norscans.

  Amidst the devastation walked a single figure; a knight, tall and proud, striding towards Calard. A regal blue cloaked whipped behind him, and his blue tabard was edged in silver. His armour was ornate, and he wore a tall unicorn-crested helm, surrounded by candles. None of them were lit.

  ‘Reolus,’ he said.

  ‘He was the best of men, the most chivalrous and noble of paladins,’ said a voice behind him. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was that was speaking; he recognised his sister Anara’s voice. ‘He was my lover and companion, and he died needlessly.’

  ‘He died an honourable death,’ said Calard, eyes locked on the silent figure of the grail knight making his steady progress towards him.

  ‘There is nothing honourable about death,’ said Anara. ‘We are born alone and we die alone. Death cares not whether we are good and noble and just in our brief time upon this world, nor if we are murdering savages. We are all just dirt in the ground in the end. You say he died a noble death. It means nothing. He is still dead, and the world is the poorer for it. His death was meaningless. It changed nothing.’

  ‘He did not believe that.’

  Reolus came to a halt before Calard, who dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

  The ocean boomed, and sea birds screamed.