[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  Guardians of the Forest

  Graham McNeill

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  “I shall wolfe your flesh and snap your bones,

  Skrind your folk and burne their homes.

  For mocking ked to dare my rage,

  Your jibe it traps me like a cage.

  The unclaimed ones must dread my kinde,

  Can never squander fear behind.”

  PROLOGUE

  Season of the Beast

  The beast at the centre of the cave dreamed of blood, blood and war, civilisations torn down and entire populations gorged upon by the children of Chaos. Flames and the coming of the End Times consumed its every thought, order overturned and the rule of the Dark Gods absolute.

  Its massive, shaggy form shifted position, its cloven hooves rippling the rock as though it sat upon glistening mud. Curling horns sprouted from its bestial skull, protruding from a ripped and stained leather mask behind which two bovine eyes glimmered with dark malice. A web of skulls was woven into the shaggy mane that ran the length of its twisted spine, the jaws opening and closing in silent screams of anguish.

  The monster clutched a gnarled and twisted staff in one massive fist, its substance slithering and insubstantial, as though the beast’s flesh merged with the dark wood. It traced patterns and lines in the fluid matter of the cavern floor, ever more chaotic and irregular as they overlapped and spiralled.

  Clouds of stinking vapour gusted from its snorting nostrils, twisting and swirling in the air before being absorbed by the fabric of the walls. The rock glistened with a dank dew of moisture, dancing images of war and death burning in its depths, reflections of the twisted thoughts of the shaggy beast that drooled thick ropes of animal saliva.

  Humans called it the Shadow-Gave, while the elves knew it as Cyanathair and in the dwarf tongue it was called Gor-Dunn.

  The fires of war burned in its eyes and it could feel the approach of its children, the true inheritors of the world. It could sense the breath of Chaos within them, the boon of change and mutation that marked them out as the chosen of the gods. Three came, the mightiest beasts of their herds, fierce and proud, filled with power and drawn towards this dank, icy cave to seek approval from the gods that theirs was the right to rule this gathering of warherds.

  It turned a rheumy eye towards the cave mouth as the weak autumn light was blocked off by the three supplicants. It saw they were tall and broad, with great, corded muscles beneath dark, matted fur, each the master of a great warherd. All three carried crude weapons: heavy iron axes or thick, blade-studded clubs, though in truth anyone of them could fight as well with horn, tooth or claw. One stood on thick, goat-like legs, its shaggy head crowned with a mass of bronze-tipped antlers and a thick mane of bright orange fur. Another stamped iron-shod hooves, its rump elongated like that of a horse, though its skin was scaled and bronze. Dark spines grew from its back and an extra set of arms sprouted from beneath its armpits.

  But greatest of all the Beastlords was a massive, bull-headed creature with dark, bloodstained fur, its hide scarred by decades of killing and battle. Thick, hooked chains looped across its chest and it wore spiked shoulder guards crudely fashioned from the breastplates of those it had slaughtered. It carried a massive, double-headed axe, its blades rusted, but with a potent magical aura surrounding them.

  The beast in the cave let out a single bray, guttural and wet, and the three supplicants advanced towards it, their steps halting and unsure, though none wished to show weakness before the others. To do so would be to die.

  The Shadow-Gave felt the breath of the gods sluicing through its body in a torrent of power and exhaled it as a noxious cloud of dark, writhing mist. The mist pulsed with the essence of the north, growing and billowing outwards to envelop the three who had come to stand in its presence.

  Instantaneously, the creature with bronzed antlers collapsed, roaring in agony as its body was gifted with the power of the gods and thrashing limbs and grasping, thorned pseudopods erupted from its fluid flesh. The other two backed away from the howling creature spawned from the Shadow-Gave’s gifts and awaited their fate at the hands of the magical mist.

  Both were enveloped by the miasmic cloud of sorcerous power and the Shadow-Gave felt their will and ambition war with the power of change that seared through their veins. The bronze-skinned centaur creature reared up on its hind legs, the dark spines on its back mutating into rippling tentacles with snapping jaws. It lunged towards the Shadow-Gave with a shriek of bestial fury, but a massive, clawed hand dragged it back, the huge bull-headed monster slashing its axe through the writhing creature’s midsection. Dark ichor sprayed from the wound, hot and stinking, and the Beastlord cried out as its matted fur burned where the blood spattered then ran in rivulets down its fanged, bovine features, scarring pale grooves in its face.

  Its flesh darkened, taking on the bronze hue of the beast it had just killed and its breath smoked with the heat of a furnace. It let out a mighty bellow, the very walls of the cave cracking at its din, and the Shadow-Gave nodded in acceptance as the writhing black mist dispersed and faded from sight.

  The massive beastman let out a great, snorting breath, its hide now dark and scaled, its horned head scarred and burnt, but its flickering, multi-coloured eyes shone with purpose and power. It raised its axe in a brief salute to the shaggy, horned creature at the centre of the cave and ripped one of the chains from its armour, plunging a barbed hook into the screaming flesh of the thrashing creature that had first succumbed to the Shadow-Gave’s magic.

  Without further ado, the Beastlord turned and marched from the darkness of the cave, leading the snapping, howling spawn by the thick chain looped around a muscled forearm. Its thoughts crystallised as it left the dank confines of the Shadow-Gave’s lair, feeling the breath of cold air from the mouth of the passageway.

  It stepped into the cold light of day, feeling its eyes burn with its purity, and grunted in satisfaction as it saw the gathered warherds. Hundreds of twisted bestial creatures awaited the return of their leaders, braying minotaurs, growling beastmen, stamping centaur creatures and all manner of things so blessed by the touch of the Dark Gods that any resemblance to the beasts of this world had long since vanished.

  As great a herd as it was, the Beastlord knew that many of these beasts would not survive the winter, too malnourished and too weak to hunt what they needed to survive. The resurgence of the rat-thin
gs in the high peaks had driven them from their hunting grounds and down the northern flanks of the mountains.

  The herds had bemoaned their fate, but the Beastlord now saw this for what it truly was — a sign from the gods.

  Now it was time to descend to the lands of men and feed once more.

  The Beastlord led its chained spawn towards the monstrous host, revelling in their howls and snorts of abasement — the touch of the Shadow-Gave was upon it and all the beasts could see its favour. They gathered around the Beastlord, raising their bellowing voices in praise of the Dark Gods as it marched through the herd.

  Far below, the Beastlord could see a massive, sprawling expanse of forest, a patchwork of browns, greens and golds, nestling at the foot of tall, snow-capped peaks of grey rock.

  With his newly enhanced flesh he could smell the rank stench of earth magic emanating from the forest and see the dimming power that radiated from its heart as winter closed in.

  The Beastlord raised its axe and led the warherd towards the forest.

  BOOK ONE

  Autumn’s Dying Fire

  “The beastmen, the children of Chaos and

  Long Night, are our sworn enemies. They

  fight us for our right to exist in the wood-

  lands and forests, and have always, and will

  always, seek to claim and corrupt Athel Loren

  for themselves. These are your enemies, child.

  Know them well, and keep your bow always ready.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Leofric could feel the tension in the men-at-arms around him as they rode through the cold, autumn morning, sensing it in their stiff, awkward movements and strained conversation. He felt apprehension too, but hid it beneath an aloof exterior. It would not do to show nervousness to the lower orders and it would only serve to unsettle his men more were they to sense their lord’s unease.

  The day was cold and Leofric could feel the coming. Winter in the sharpness of the air and see it in the golden leaves of the few trees they had passed. The further east through the dukedom of Quenelles he and his soldiers rode, the more scattered patches of snow he saw, the little-used roadway unnaturally dotted in crisp white with drifting clouds of icy mist clinging to the muddy ground.

  Thirty nervous-looking peasant men-at-arms rode behind him, their yellow surcoats bright and stark against the dreary landscape. A cold wind blew off the mountains far to the south, their soaring dark peaks cloaked in shawls of snow and despite the thick, woollen undergarments Leofric wore and the padded jerkin beneath his magnificent plate armour, he could still feel the coming cold deep in his bones.

  “How far is it to the forest now?” said a voice beside him.

  Leofric reined in his tall grey gelding and twisted in the saddle to smile at his wife, Helene, who was riding side-saddle on a slender bay mare. She wore a long gown of red velvet and was wrapped in a thick cloak of bearskin from a great beast Leofric himself had slain with a single lance thrust while on the hunt. Tousled blonde hair spilled around her shoulders and despite her smile, a worry line just above the bridge of her nose spoke to Leofric of her unease.

  “Not far now, my dear,” answered Leofric, raising the visor of his helmet. “Lady willing, perhaps another mile or so.”

  Helene nodded and shivered beneath her cloak.

  “Are you cold?” asked Leofric, guiding his horse alongside his wife’s and detaching his long wolf-pelt cloak from his carved, silver pauldrons.

  “No, I’m fine,” she answered. “It’s not the cold. It’s… well, you know what it is.”

  Leofric nodded. He too could instinctively feel the forest’s fey presence on the air, a ghostly, feathery sensation down his spine as though a thousand eyes were spying upon him. His instincts had always served him well as a warrior and he fought the urge to draw the broad-bladed sword that hung at his waist.

  “Don’t worry,” said Leofric, patting a canvas sack that hung from his saddle, “once we reach the waystone, it will only be a matter of hours before we are on our way back to the castle and our son. I will have Maixent prepare a hot bath for you and we will all eat roast venison before a roaring fire in the grand hall, then the three of us shall fall asleep together.”

  “That sounds heavenly,” agreed Helene. “I just hope little Beren isn’t giving old Maixent too much trouble. You know what he’s like when we’re not with him.”

  “If he is, he’ll soon regret it,” said Leofric, remembering the punishments meted out to him at the hands of the castle’s sharp-tempered chamberlain. “It will teach him the virtue of discipline.”

  “He’s only three, Leofric.”

  “A boy is never too young to learn the duties and responsibilities of a knight of Bretonnia,” said Leofric sternly.

  Helene stood in the wide footrest of her sidesaddle to kiss her husband and said, “You’re adorable when you’re being all serious.”

  Leofric Carrard was a tall man, powerfully muscled from long years of wielding a long lance and wearing heavy plate armour into battle. He carried himself like the warrior he was, confident, brave and noble — every inch a knight of Bretonnia. A dark moustache and a triangular wisp of beard below his bottom lip were his only concession to vanity, and his clear green eyes were like chips of emerald set in an angular, regal face that plainly wore the cares of his twenty-five years.

  Another horse drew near and a heavyset man with a long beard halted his mount in a splash of mud. He wore a yellow surcoat over a jerkin of studded leather armour, a domed sallet helmet and carried a long, iron-tipped spear. He was accompanied by a similarly dressed figure, a young boy of no more than thirteen summers who carried a tall banner pole. Atop the banner, a fringed pennant of gold depicting a scarlet unicorn rampant below a bejewelled crown snapped in the wind — the banner of Leofric Carrard, lord and master of these lands.

  “My lord—” began the heavyset man, respectfully touching the brim of his helmet.

  “What is it, Baudel?” said Leofric.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but we had best not be dawdling here,” explained Baudel, Leofric’s chief man-at-arms. “Best we don’t get caught out in the open this close to the forest folk’s realm. This time of year it ain’t good to be outside.”

  “It’s never a good time to be outside according to you, Baudel,” pointed out Leofric.

  “Aye, nor it is, my lord,” said Baudel, nodding to the east. “Leastwise not near Athel Loren, anyway.”

  “Don’t speak that name, Baudel,” chided Helene. “They say the faerie folk can hear when mortals name their land and are much vexed by how ugly it sounds from our mouths.”

  “Begging your pardon, milady,” apologised Baudel. “I meant nothing by it.”

  “You’re right though, Baudel,” agreed Leofric, looking into the lifeless grey skies, “best to be done with this and away before night falls. Prithard of Carcassonne sends word of beastman warbands in his lands — the damn things are everywhere now.”

  “My lord!” scoffed Baudel. “The Distressed is always sending word of such things. He worries when he has nothing to worry about!”

  “True,” agreed Leofric, “but this time I think he might not be crying wolf. I have had similar correspondence from Anthelme and Raynor, men not known for their scare-mongering.”

  “All the more reason to be away from here sooner rather than later.”

  Leofric nodded, saying, “And I wish to be near that damned forest not one second longer than I have to be.”

  “Hush, Leofric,” said Helene. “Don’t say such things.”

  “I’m sorry, my love. I apologise for such language, but you know…”

  “Yes,” said Helene, reaching out to lay a hand on Leofric’s vambrace. “I know.”

  Leofric patted his wife’s hand and gave her a forced smile before snapping down the visor of his helmet and raking back his spurs.

  “Ride on!” he yelled, setting off along the road that led towards Athel Loren.

&nbsp
; A low mist closed in around the riders, deadening sound and imparting a ghostly quality to the soldiers that followed Leofric as he rode ever eastwards. The road, which had never been more than an overgrown mud track, little travelled and little cared for, petered out to nothing more than a flattened earthen line, barely distinguishable from the rest of the landscape.

  The lands of Bretonnia were rich and fertile, the soil dark and fecund, its landscape tilled by the peasants, its sweeping plains of the dukedoms open and green. Unlike the thickly forested realm of the Empire far to the north over the Grey Mountains that embraced the new sciences of alchemy, astrology and engineering, the realm of Bretonnia kept to the ancient ways of chivalric conduct. The beloved King Leoncoeur maintained the codes of behaviour set down by King Louis over a thousand years ago and held by the grail monks in the Chapel of Bastonne.

  By such martial codes of honour did the knights of Bretonnia uphold their honour and defend their king’s lands. To be a knight of Bretonnia was to be a warrior of great skill, noble bearing and virtuous heart, a paragon of all that was honourable.

  Leofric felt his right hand slip from the emblazoned reins of his horse and grasp the hilt of his sword as he crested the misty summit of a low rise and saw a dark line of green and gold on the horizon.

  Athel Loren…

  For centuries this forest had lived in the dreams and nightmares of the Bretonnian people. Even from here, Leofric could feel the power that lay within the dark depths of the forest, a drowsy, dreaming energy that clawed its way into the landscape like the roots of a tree. Dark oaks stood like sentinels at the forest edge, their branches high and leafy, a mixture of greens and russet browns.

  Cold mists hugged the ground leading towards the forest, a wild, scrubby heath of unkempt grasses and thorns with stagnant pools of water and lumpen, snow-covered mounds of earth. Here and there, Leofric could see a rusted sword blade, spear point or arrowhead and the occasional bleached whiteness of bone.