He rose to his feet. He was on the banks of the lake, within a small glade overrun with bluebells, surrounded by mist.
The Green Knight loomed out of the dense fog. The immortal spirit’s eyes flared, and its huge blade sang through the air as it sliced towards him.
Had that mighty sword struck it would have cloven him in two. Calard jumped back to avoid the blow, narrowly avoiding being cut down.
He reached for the Sword of Garamont but found the scabbard at his waist empty. The Green Knight swung again, and Calard hurled himself to the side to avoid being decapitated.
Reaching over his back, Calard drew his heavy bastard sword. The Green Knight came at him again, and he readied to block the fey spirit’s next attack. Calard held the blade in two hands, yet even so he was brought to his knees by the force of the blow. Desperately, he regained his footing and brought his blade around to block yet another attack, this one coming around at him in a lethal arc, striking at his mid-section.
The blow shuddered up his arms, and he was knocked back two steps. The Green Knight came on relentlessly, allowing no time to recover. There was no subtlety or guile to the unearthly warrior’s assault. He came on without pause and without remorse, delivering a tireless barrage of attacks. Each blow was delivered with staggering power, and any one of them would have felled Calard had it landed.
The fey knight stood over a head taller than Calard, and each strike sent him reeling. His hands were numb from the jarring blows, and he had no time to even consider launching a riposte.
The roiling mist continued to build. All that existed was the two of them. Nothing else mattered.
Calard frantically backtracked, using all his skill and battle-honed instincts to stay alive for another few seconds. His arms were tiring, the bastard sword in his hands a leaden weight. By contrast, the Green Knight was indefatigable.
Finally, Calard found an opening. He deflected a heavy overhead blow, letting his foe’s dimly green-glowing blade slide down the length of his sword before whipping it around to parry a low attack. Sidestepping neatly, Calard spun around the immortal spirit’s next blow and slammed his bastard sword into his neck, putting his whole body weight behind the strike.
His blade landed between archaic plate armour, sliding between helmet and gorget and cutting through the links of chainmail beneath – but it sank no further. It was as if the immortal spirit’s flesh were made of iron, and the force of the blow rang up both of Calard’s arms.
The Green Knight backhanded Calard across the jaw and he hit the ground hard, spitting blood. Scrambling, he threw himself aside to avoid the Dolorous Blade as it came again. The weapon embedded itself in the ground, and Calard staggered upright.
His arms were aching, and he backed off, panic clawing its way into his heart. He had put everything he had behind that blow, and its timing was perfect. Had he struck any mortal foe, their head would have sailed into the air, hacked clean from their shoulders, but onwards the Green Knight came, unharmed.
Clearing his mind, Calard pushed his fear aside and invoked the name of his goddess. Pale fire flickered along the edge of his bastard sword, and he felt fresh vigour infuse his limbs.
With a cry, Calard threw himself at the unyielding knight, thrusting and slashing. He feinted high and came in low, swinging his heavy sword around in murderous arcs. Every blow was met by the Dolorous Blade, and sparks flew as enchanted metal came together again and again.
Calard and the Green Knight battled toe-to-toe, trading blows, neither giving ground. Infused with the holy light of the Lady, Calard was able to match the fury and power of his foe, and for a time it seemed that the battle might rage on forever, a never-ending duel within the mists. Time lost all meaning. All that existed was the contest. Neither warrior was able to overcome the other, and their blades were a blur as they cut and thrust.
No end was in sight, but understanding came upon Calard in a rush.
‘This is not a test of prowess,’ he said under his breath, shaking his head that he had not realised it earlier.
He parried an attack slicing in towards his neck and reversed the grip on his blade suddenly, holding it like dagger in both hands, blade pointed downwards. With a sudden thrust, he drove it into the earth, and knelt on one knee. He lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck, and closed his eyes. He felt the Green Knight step in close, raising his sword for the fatal blow.
‘I offer my life to the service of the Lady,’ said Calard.
The Dolorous Blade came slicing down upon his neck... and stopped. The sword’s edge was cold against his skin. Then it was whisked away, and the Green Knight stepped aside.
Opening his eyes, Calard saw the mists part before him, opening up a passage through the fog. A beauteous figure rose from waters of the lake, wreathed in light and garlanded with ivy and lilies. No ripple marred the lake’s surface as she emerged. Her hair was long and the colour of sunlight, so bright that it made tears run unashamedly down Calard’s cheeks. No power in the world could have made him turn away from this holy vision.
The Lady of the Lake floated towards Calard, her bare feet inches above the surface of the water. White lilies fell like rain from her hair, tumbling down to float upon the surface of the lake behind her. She was garbed in layers of flowing gossamer, and she smiled as she came towards him, holding aloft a chalice overflowing with water.
The goddess drifted near to the lake’s edge, scant yards from where Calard knelt and wept. Her eyes sparkled like autumn leaves, filled with gold and amber and bronze, and she held the grail out towards him. Like sunlight in liquid form, water spilled from the holy chalice.
Barely daring to breathe, Calard rose to his feet and stepped into the shallows to meet his goddess. Light spilled from every pore of her being, warming his face, and with faltering hands, he reached out and took the chalice.
It was heavy, and he felt a strange tingle run up his arms. Looking down into the magical grail’s fathomless depths he saw silent images of his past and future mirrored there, playing out before him. He drew the chalice up towards his lips, but he hesitated for a moment before drinking.
It was said that only those pure of heart and devoid of any hint of taint upon their soul could drink from the Lady’s grail and live.
Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, Calard lifted the golden chalice to his lips and drank.
XI
The battle beyond the Oak of Ages had been fierce and brutal. Sunlight revealed the corpses of elves scattered around the glade. Their blood was soaking into the sacred soil now that the snows had melted. The dead were being gathered up by their kinsmen, laid upon shields and biers of woven branches and carried away into the forest.
Mouldering piles of sticks and leaves marked where Drycha’s handmaidens had fallen. No one moved to disperse them. Clusters of rotting logs, bones and deadwood were all that remained of the tree-kin that had marched to battle, abandoned by their animating spirits as soon as the unnatural winter had broken. A handful of larger shapes were scattered around the glade – leafless dead trees that had a short time before been guided by malign intent, smashing aside elves and horses with every sweep of their wooden branches. Now they were hollow and motionless, empty husks that would soon collapse in upon themselves and be forgotten.
The vicious carrion birds, winter wolves and other rancorous creatures that had emerged from the wildwoods to join the slaughter had been scattered, slinking back into the darker reaches of the forest to lick their wounds.
Hunting horns echoed in the distance as the Wild Riders pursued the last remnants of Drycha’s host, hounding them back into the shadows, slaughtering any too slow to outpace them.
Colour had returned to Athel Loren, and the forest was flourishing with new life. Birds and butterflies filled the branches, and an abundance of flowers burst open, turning their faces towards the rising sun. Ivy-vines crept up the trunks of trees like serpents, growing rapidly. Ferns blanketed the ground, their fronds waving gent
ly in the spring breeze.
New leaves had sprouted from the fingers of the mighty Oak of Ages, and it stretched its branches upwards, reaching towards the sun. Squirrels bounded along its limbs, and swarms of sprites and pixies spiralled through its branches. Great eagles screeched a greeting to the spring from their eyries in the oak’s upper reaches, and flights of warhawks wheeled above the canopy, elven riders perfectly balanced upon their shoulders. Dozens of their kind had been slain in the battle, and they bore their dead off towards the distant mountains, clutched in their mighty talons.
The majestic white stag had fallen too, pierced by the blade-arms of a dozen dryads. The Lady Anara, her veil now removed from his face, knelt upon the forest floor just beyond the immense arched entrance to the Oak of Ages, cradling the mighty beast’s head in her lap.
She looked up as a shadow fell upon her. Tears were running down her heart-shaped face.
‘Hello, sister,’ said Calard, looking down upon her as he emerged from the Oak of Ages.
His eyes flickered with holy witchfire, and he was surrounded by a vague halo of light, as if the early morning sunlight were drawn to him. He stood taller than he had before, and the faint lines around his eyes had been smoothed away. The effect did not look young so much as ageless, and his eyes spoke of things unknown to mortal men.
‘The Lady’s light burns strong within you, my brother,’ said Anara. ‘You have drunk from the grail.’
‘I have,’ said Calard, nodding. ‘We are both eternal servants of the Lady now. Our lives are no longer our own.’
‘Father would have been proud.’
‘He would,’ agreed Calard, a hint of a smile touching his lips.
A hush descended upon the clearing. Every elf dropped to their knees as one, bowing their heads in honour and reverence.
Calard turned and sank to one knee, bowing his head down low.
‘Rise, Calard of Garamont,’ said a gentle, musical voice.
Calard lifted his gaze and looked upon the two godly beings emerging from the Oak of Ages.
They walked together, glowing with fey light. The one who had spoken was the goddess that been sleeping upon the stone dais, though her icy countenance was now filled with the warmth of spring, and her midnight black hair was now golden, like honey or sunlight. Inhumanly slender, she moved with effortless grace and poise, radiating calm and serenity.
She stood several heads taller than Calard, yet her features were fine and beauteous, and she wore a regal tiara of silver and ivy, a large green stone glistening at its centre. A tall staff of pale wood was held in her right hand, and she walked with her left arm resting upon that of her companion, her consort-king.
He was a towering figure of grace and elemental power, striding bare-chested at his queen’s side. He stood almost twelve feet tall, and his flesh was the green of new forest growth. His skin was inscribed with swirling patterns, and his legs were furred, his feet hooved. A huge rack of antlers rose from his temples. A hunting spear of gigantic proportions was clasped in his hand, thumping the ground with each step, and a large curved hunting horn that Calard recognised instantly hung over his back. He glared across the forest glade, his eyes filled with fury and rage.
‘My Lady Ariel,’ said Anara. ‘My Lord Orion.’
In every way, the pair were each other’s opposite. Where Ariel reflected tranquillity and peace, everything about Orion spoke of violence and aggression.
‘Athel Loren owes you a debt of gratitude,’ said Ariel, addressing Calard directly. ‘Ancient Coeddil has been banished back to the darkness of the eastern fold, and winter has given way to spring. Balance has been restored.’
Calard bowed low.
Orion stepped away from Ariel’s side then, and he strode towards Calard, his eyes filled with untamed fury. He stalked around the newly risen grail knight, staring fiercely down upon him.
‘I remember you,’ said Orion. His voice was deep and powerful, resounding with authority and magic.
Calard looked into the face of the vengeful god and saw something familiar there.
‘Cythaeros?’ he said.
Orion tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing.
‘The one who bore that name is gone,’ said Orion, ‘yet something of him remains within me. His memories and thoughts linger on.’
Orion’s gold-flecked eyes were untamed and dangerous, and for a moment it seemed he might lash out, but the moment passed and the living god turned away, stalking back to rejoin his queen.
‘Is there any boon that we may offer by way of thanks for your service?’ said Ariel.
‘I ask for nothing but the wisdom of your counsel, lady of the forest,’ said Calard, his voice unwavering despite the unblinking stare of Orion upon him. ‘Drycha spoke of a great darkness besieging my homeland. She said that the battle for Couronne was already underway, and that the blood of my king had been spilled. I fear there was no falsity in her words, yet I would know the truth.’
‘Drycha spoke the truth, Calard of Garamont,’ said Ariel. ‘The battle balances on a knife’s edge.’
Calard nodded his thanks, though his expression darkened.
Orion gestured, and Calard’s warhorse, Galibor, was brought forward by an elven attendant. The loyal steed nuzzled at him, and he stroked her nose, still frowning as he thought of the battle underway at Couronne, many weeks ride away.
Another elf came forth, holding in his arms a lance wrapped in rich cloth.
‘You asked for no boon, yet I would not have you leave our realm empty handed,’ said Ariel.
Calard took the proffered lance in both hands, marvelling at the artistry of its design. It was crafted from pale wood inlaid in silver, and its curving vamplate guard had been carved in the likeness of a dragon’s head. He felt potent magicks stir within it as he held it, and he marvelled at its lightness and strength.
‘Her name is Elith-Anar – the Dawn Spirit,’ said Ariel. ‘She was brought to the forest long ago, from distant Ulthuan. She will serve you well, Calard of Garamont.’
‘Lady of the forest, this is too much,’ said Calard.
‘Take it, with thanks,’ said Ariel, smiling. She turned her gaze towards Anara, still seated upon the ground, cradling the noble head of the slain white stag. ‘You have made your decision, cousin of the forest?’
‘I have,’ said Anara.
‘You are not coming back, are you?’ said Calard. Anara shook her head.
‘My place is here, now,’ she said. ‘There is nothing for me beyond the forest any longer.’
Ariel turned towards her consort-king, laying a slender hand upon his heavily muscled, green-tinged arm.
‘It is time, my love,’ she said, and Orion nodded, his eyes blazing with witch-light.
He dragged free his large, curling hunting horn, and lifted it high into the air. As if with an afterthought, he glanced down at Calard, pausing before he sounded the mighty horn.
‘Will you ride with me, Calard of Garamont?’ he said. ‘Will you join the Wild Hunt?’
‘I will, my lord,’ said Calard.
Orion gave him a savage grin, and lifted the horn to his lips.
XII
Booming thunder rolled across the heavens like the war-drums of the gods, and wind and rain lashed the battlefield. Jagged spears of lightning struck down through the roiling clouds, and with each blinding flash, the full extent of the desperate battle raging before Couronne’s mighty walls was revealed.
The plains before Couronne were choked with the living dead, their endless ranks extending as far as the eye could see. The mass charnel graves of Mousillon had been emptied, the corpses of those slain by plague, pestilence and war exhumed and raised to cursed unlife. They shambled forward in endless ranks, impelled by the will of their vampiric master to rend and maim. Many were nothing more than skeletons clad in the tattered remains of tabards and scraps of rusted armour, while others, the more recently deceased, were walking cadavers, their flesh rotting and pallid. Som
e clutched the swords and spears they had borne in life but others carried no weapons at all, slaughtering the living with nothing more than filth-encrusted nails and rotten teeth.
Great clouds of arrows were launched from thousands of bowmen positioned along the battlements, but they made no visible dent in the endless horde. Mighty trebuchets hurled huge chunks of masonry high into the air, spinning end over end through the driving rain before smashing down into the foe, crushing hundreds as they bounced through the densely packed ranks. They marched on through the quagmire of mud and blood, knowing nothing of panic or fear.
Ten-thousand men-at-arms bearing the king’s colours were locked in desperate battle before the gates of Couronne, and the screams of the dying and horrible wet sound of blades hacking into flesh rose to those stationed along the city’s walls. Yeoman wardens and foot-knights bellowed their commands, desperately trying to maintain order as the terrifying horde came at them again and again, clambering over the bodies of the fallen.
The two armies had been locked in brutal conflict for nearly six hours, and the Bretonnians were close to breaking. Exhaustion and the horror of their undead foe was taking its toll, and the resolve of even the staunchest warriors was beginning to crack.
Trumpets sounded as dozens of lance formations of knights that had gathered from all over Bretonnia charged yet again into the enemy ranks. Young Knights Errant rode at the fore, still hungering for glory, desperate to prove themselves. They carved through the undead, scything down hundreds with lance and sword, while countless more were crushed beneath the flashing hooves of their heavy warhorses.
The knights kicked their steeds on, desperate to maintain their momentum. To become bogged down in combat was death; with their impetus lost, the brave knights would become quickly surrounded and overwhelmed. One by one, the knightly formations faltered, ground down by the sheer number of foes pressing in against them. They laid about them, shattering skulls and chopping at reaching hands, yet were being dragged from their saddles and set upon by the ravening hordes. Their steeds screamed in fear as they too were pulled down into the mud, disappearing beneath the tumble of undead bodies clamouring to feast on living flesh.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 89
