Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  ‘He died because of you, my brother,’ said Anara.

  ‘No,’ said Calard, shaking his head.

  ‘Think of it, brother. There would have been no war with the Norscans had you died in place of Gunthar, on the fields of Bordeleaux, as things should have played out. It should have been you who fell beneath Ganelon’s blade. Elisabet would have ceased poisoning our father – he would have lived to see grandsons taught under Gunthar’s tutorage. Action and consequence.’

  ‘Grandsons?’ said Calard.

  ‘Bertelis’s children,’ said Anara. ‘They would have grown up to be strong and proud, with none of our mother’s taint in their blood.’

  ‘You could not know any of this would come to pass,’ said Calard.

  ‘I am a prophetess of the Lady, my brother. I speak the truth. Had you died in Gunthar’s place, Garamont would have flourished. The Lady Elisabet would have had no reason to seek out the witch-crone Haegtesse. She would have mourned your death, but lived a happy, fulfilled life. She would have grown old gracefully and passed away peacefully in her sleep, without regrets. Without her, the Norscan warlord Styrbjorn would never have come to our shores. He and his kinsmen would have perished in a meaningless feud with a neighbouring tribe, and his name would have been forgotten.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Calard. ‘Please stop.’

  Anara ignored him, stepping in close to continue her tirade.

  ‘No daemon-child would have been spawned in Elisabet’s womb. There would have been no war fought in Lyonesse to save her. Tens of thousands of lives would have been spared. That unborn child meant everything to the Norscan warlord – when you stole Elisabet from him, he would have torn the world apart to get her back. And in a noble attempt to save further bloodshed, my Reolus accepted the Skaeling’s challenge – and paid the ultimate price.’

  Calard was shaking his head, trying to blot out his sister’s voice.

  ‘Action and consequence, my brother,’ said Anara. ‘He died because of you. They all died because of you.’

  Calard found himself upon a windswept plain beneath a featureless heaven, utterly devoid of colour. The dead stood in serried ranks as far as the eye could see, motionless. They were all there: his father, Elisabet, Gunthar, Reolus, Orlando, Montcadas, and tens of thousands of others. They stood in silence, staring, and the weight of accusation crushed down upon him. Bertelis stood nearest of all. Calard could not look him in the eye.

  ‘It should have been you,’ they said as one.

  Without knowing how, Calard found himself holding the Sword of Garamont reversed in his hands, its point touching his throat. Tears were running freely down his cheeks. All he had to do was press forward, and all this pain, all this misery would end. A moment of pain, and then... nothing. All his guilt would be washed away, like a leaf on a stream...

  ‘Do it, my brother,’ urged Bertelis.

  ‘Prove that you are indeed my son,’ said Lutheure. ‘Finish it now!’

  ‘Do it!’ brayed a thousand deafening voices.

  Calard tensed, closing his eyes as he prepared to end his own life.

  ‘Lady of mercy, forgive me,’ he breathed. ‘I have failed you.’

  An unpleasant, cloying scent gave him pause. An earthy smell of rotting woodwork and leaf-mulch filled his nostrils, confusing him for a moment.

  ‘Do it!’ screamed the army of the dead, but Calard ignored them as his memories flooded back and the illusions woven by the branchwraith Drycha began to unravel around him.

  He remembered that it was the Lady that had led him to the Forest of Loren, and that is was by her divine will that he was here at this place, at this moment in time.

  Calard’s eyes flicked open and he surged to his feet. The Sword of Garamont burst into white flame, and he heard Drycha scream in frustration.

  The illusion of the endless plain of the underworld shattered like crystal beneath a hammer, and the frozen heart of the Oak of Ages was revealed.

  It was unlike anything Calard could have imagined. He stood within a vast, subterranean hall, a magical, frozen realm that stretched in all directions. Spheres of light bobbed gently through the air, radiating a diffuse glow akin to predawn. The earthen roof curved far overhead, and the vast roots of the Oak of Ages hung down low, entwined together to form pillars that came down to the ground. Other roots wove down the sloping, distant walls, forming archways leading off into other halls, deep beneath the forest.

  The strange realm was like a small version of the world above. The crust of snow crunched beneath Calard’s boots as he turned, gazing around in wonder. Gently sloping hills rose to meet the walls on every side, forming a natural valley in the centre of the otherworldy hall. A wide, frozen lake spread out in this depression, its surface mirror-like and gleaming, and in its centre rose a small island.

  Calard found himself drawn towards the lake. Sheathing the Sword of Garamont, he began to walk, trudging through the powdery snow. His eyes were locked on the island. It was lightly wooded, its trees leafless and barren, and a winding path led to a low rocky headland jutting out from the ice.

  The snow was knee-deep, but Calard picked up his pace, urged on by some ethereal impulse. He hurried down the powdery slope, passing through icy woods. The land levelled out as he came to the lake’s edge, and without delay he stepped out upon its frozen surface.

  The air was cold and crisp and still as he reached the island. He climbed a twisting path through ice-shawled trees, and passed through a stone archway carved with ivy and spiralling runes. He walked slowly out onto the low rocky headland, the highest point on the little island.

  A circular dais was situated there, and it was to this that Calard was drawn. He hardly dared breathe as he approached. An elegantly designed stone plinth was carved into the dais, and lying upon it was a goddess.

  Tall and slender, and so coldly beautiful that it made Calard’s heart ache, the elven goddess slumbered. She might have been carved from marble, so perfect was her countenance and so porcelain-pale was her skin. Her hair was the deep blue-black of a midnight sky, matching her dress that spilt down the sides of the altar on which she lay and spread out over the dais. Frozen leaves encircled her slender waist and brow, and tendrils of ivy wound around her flawless, alabaster arms. Frost glittered upon her cheeks, and ice-crystals had formed upon her eye-lashes.

  She was a vision of ethereal perfection, a frozen deity locked in the deathly sleep of winter.

  Calard felt the presence of Drycha before he saw her. She ghosted up behind him, materialising like vapour. He tensed, grip tightening around the Sword of Garamont, and turned to face her.

  He saw her talons hastily retract, and she came towards him wearing her most appealing form. Her emerald eyes were unblinking. She passed through the archway, moving with unhurried, feline grace, slender fingers trailing across the carved stone.

  She was naked. All that protected her modesty was the serpentine flow of her hair, wrapping around her willowy form. Filled with twigs and ivy, her hair was like a living mass, caressing her body. Her feet were bare yet she walked through the snow as if untouched by the cold.

  Calard felt no lust or desire stir within him as he watched the otherworldy creature approach. She was physical perfection beyond any earthly being, but nevertheless, he remained unaffected. He knew what vileness lurked beneath her veneer of beauty and grace.

  ‘You should not be here, mortal,’ said Drycha. Her voice was throaty and seductive. ‘This is a sacred place.’

  ‘You are the source of this unnatural winter,’ said Calard. ‘Can you keep spring at bay forever? Will your goddess not be displeased with you for having imprisoned her so?’

  ‘She is no goddess. And with the compact sundered, she will be no faerie queen, either. You are not of the forest, and have no understanding of what you speak,’ said Drycha, stalking closer, eyes glittering. Her hair began to writhe.

  ‘I know enough to know that your heart is rotten,’ said Calard.

  �
��I walked this earth long before the birth of your short-lived race,’ snarled Drycha, her full lips curling. ‘And I shall walk it still when you and all your wretched kind are but a forgotten memory.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Calard.

  ‘I remember the arrival of the elves, long before they became the Asrai,’ continued Drycha. ‘I watched as they first ventured into the green. They were so full of fear. I laughed as their blood was spilt upon the forest floor. I screamed my fury when our fate became entwined with theirs. It was a mistake, but their time among us has come to an end.’

  Drycha paced back and forth before Calard, and her voice grew bitter. Her fingers elongated into thorny claws, and her hair whipped around her.

  ‘It was foolishness to have ever granted them the aegis of the forest. It was wrong to have put such faith in them. What could they offer us? We did not need their protection; they needed ours. We did not fear the bearded mountainfolk and their axes, nor the savage greenskins and their fire – it was the elves who needed us.’

  Calard watched Drycha warily, his hand still clasped around the hilt of his sword. He had witnessed the speed and agility of Drycha’s handmaidens, and knew that she could turn on him in an instant. He would not be taken unawares.

  ‘They were ever weak-willed beings, filled with slyness and tricks. It was wrong to have trusted them as we did. They ingratiated themselves with us, taking from us what knowledge could be gleaned, giving back little. They stole our magicks and our secrets. They caged us, fencing us in with their wicked stones. The forest rages to be free,’ said Drycha, ‘and with the foolish compact between elf and forest finally annulled it shall be unleashed, and the world shall tremble.’

  Drycha ceased her pacing. She stared at Calard with unmasked venom, her hands clenching.

  ‘Leave this place, mortal,’ said Drycha, her voice filled with ice. ‘You are not welcome here. This is none of your concern.’

  ‘No,’ said Calard. ‘It is by the Lady’s will that I am here, and I shall not fail her.’

  ‘I know all your hopes and desires, mortal,’ said Drycha. ‘Nothing is hidden from me. I can give you what it is you want. I can guide you along the darkling paths that wend and twine. You can stand alongside your kinsmen to face the darkness that threatens, even now.’

  ‘No,’ said Calard.

  ‘Would you like to see the battle for your homeland? It is already underway. Why are you here, when that is where you ought to be? Is that not part of your duty? Is that not part of your sworn oath? “To defend the honour and life of the king, above your own”?’

  ‘Get out of my head,’ said Calard.

  ‘The dead surround the stone prison you call Couronne, even now. The battle has been raging for many hours – its outcome hangs in the balance.’

  ‘Silence, witch,’ said Calard.

  ‘I do not lie, Calard of Garamont,’ hissed Drycha. ‘The battle is close to lost.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ he said.

  ‘Look there,’ said Drycha, pointing.

  ‘I see nothing,’ said Calard.

  ‘Look again, Calard of Garamont.’

  A wave of vertigo passed over him, but soon he realised that he could see something. The carved stone archway was dark now. He ought to have been able to see the trees and snow through it, but as he blinked he saw that it led into a shadowy tunnel. Torches burst into life, lighting the way. The passageway stretched on and on, and at its end he could just make out...

  ‘Couronne!’

  He could see the towering outer walls of Bretonnia’s capital, pennants fluttering in a wind Calard could not feel. Stormy skies roiled above the white towers and battlements, and lightning flashed. Tens of thousands of warriors were embroiled in desperate battle, and Calard’s eyes widened. Scores of trebuchets were firing from atop Couronne’s walls, hurling great chunks of masonry into the endless horde, and the sky was dark with arrows. Thousand-strong formations of knights sallied forth in glorious charges, only to be surrounded and dragged down by the endless ranks of the dead.

  Calard’s breath caught in his throat. He was witnessing the death of his nation.

  ‘How...?’ he gasped.

  ‘You know in your heart that what you see is true,’ said Drycha, and he did, though he railed against it. ‘Go. Join your people. Die with them. That is your wish, is it not?’

  ‘What difference could I make?’ said Calard, despairing. ‘What effect could I alone have on the battle’s outcome?’

  ‘Go or stay, the choice is yours.’

  The tunnel stretched out before him, and he thought he could hear the sound of the distant battle. That was where he ought to be, fighting and dying in the defence of his king. That was his duty.

  It was with considerable reluctance that he turned away.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘My place is here.’

  ‘Then you are a fool,’ said Drycha. ‘I’ll flay the skin from your bones and feed your entrails to the ban-sidhe. An eternity of torment awaits you.’

  ‘You are a pitiful creature,’ Calard said. ‘You are nothing but a slave to malice and resentment, consumed with bitterness and poison. Your heart is rotten. You bring nothing but shame to this ancient and magical forest. You failed to destroy me with your lies and your illusions. Your threats mean nothing to me. You fear me, or why would you bother with temptations? You fear me, and you know that my path is true.’

  Drycha’s alluring beauty sloughed away, replaced with a mask of vileness and fury. Her cracked, wooden lips slid back to reveal green needle-like teeth and oily black gums, and her slender, nubile body became a wasted cadaver of wood and thorn. She leapt at him, fingers fusing into points, and drew her branch-like arms back to impale him.

  Calard had drawn the Sword of Garmont as soon as the change had come upon her. The light of the Lady filled him, guiding his arm and eliminating all doubt.

  He stepped in to meet her as she hurtled through the air towards him, and taking hold of his sword in both hands, he thrust it up into her body, skewering her upon its flaming blade. The blow stopped her momentum dead, and she hung there transfixed, her face inches from his own. Black, sap-like ichor slid down over the hilt of his sword.

  ‘It is over,’ said Calard.

  ‘Only for you,’ hissed the branchwraith, breathing the stink of wormwood and rot into his face.

  Calard looked down, frowning. Both of the branchwraith’s thorn-ridged arms had punched through his breastplate.

  Drycha’s blade-edged arms had driven straight through him, and three feet of their lengths protruded from his back. He felt no pain, but blood was flowing freely from the twin wounds in his chest. It looked incredibly bright and vibrant as it ran down his armoured body and legs.

  For a moment the two were locked together – Drycha impaled and held aloft by Calard’s sword, and he run through by her. Then she slid her arms free, gnarled talons becoming slender elven hands, thorned bark becoming smooth skin. Her slender arms were coated in gore, from fingertip to elbow, and Calard gasped as they were extracted from his body. Blood gushed from his wounds in a torrent, and choking red foam rose in his throat.

  The white flame of his sword flickered and died as he relinquished his grasp upon the grip, and Drycha fell. She dropped to her knees in the snow, now wearing her elven form. Calard’s blade was still embedded to the hilt in her belly, and she seized it in both hands, attempting to pull it free. Still, even through her pain, she smiled cruelly at Calard, enjoying his suffering.

  Calard staggered, his lifeblood rushing from his body. His wounds were mortal. He tried to speak but blood filled his throat, making his words incomprehensible. Dimly, he registered that Drycha had become as insubstantial as mist, her eyes glittering as she faded away, leaving the Sword of Garamont lying on the ground. He tried to move to towards it, but reeled, stumbling and falling in the snow. He hauled himself back to his feet, determined to retrieve the blade, but staggered over the edge of the low headland. Turning as he fell,
he reached forlornly towards the sleeping goddess.

  Cold air rushed by him. He hit the ice hard and lay there on his back, blood pooling beneath him.

  He knew he had to get up, but he felt so tired. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He lay there on the ice, his lifeblood forming an ever-widening circle around him. He didn’t feel cold, and while dimly he knew that was a bad sign, he could not muster the energy to rise.

  Calard turned his head, struggling to maintain consciousness.

  He could see the plinth on which the goddess slept, and a ghost of smile touched his blue lips. He blinked, seeing a second figure standing beside her, but he was having trouble focussing and could not make it out. It wasn’t Drycha, for she was gone. He had banished her from this realm. It looked as though the second figure had horns. No, he realised a moment later, it was a helmet. Cythaeros.

  He saw the elven warrior kneel down besides the sleeping goddess, kissing her ice-cold lips.

  A sudden transformation came upon Calard’s surroundings. The unnatural winter broke, and spring began to flourish. Grass-shoots and saplings pressed up through the rapidly diminishing crust of snow, and buds sprouted and unfurled upon the branches of the trees. Bluebells burst into spontaneous colour, and butterflies filled the air. The ice beneath Calard melted, and he plunged into the lake below.

  The weight of his armour dragged him down, and he had not the strength to fight his descent. He felt no fear or regret as he watched the sparkling light of the surface receding above him. Ribbon-like strands of weed waved serenely around him, and the light began to fade. He felt utterly at peace as he settled gently to the bottom of the lake.

  A thin trail of bubbles trickled from his mouth, then stopped.

  X

  Cool hands were upon him, and he felt himself rising up through the water. He didn’t want to wake; he wanted to stay in the silence at the bottom of the lake.

  He tried to struggle, but there was no strength in his limbs, and despite his efforts, the gentle hands dragged him up to the surface.

  Calard was on his hands and knees, coughing up lungfuls of water. He sucked in deep breaths, and slowly regained his senses. Two savage holes were punched through his breastplate, but the flesh beneath was unscathed, even unscarred.