[Warhammer] - Guardians of the Forest Page 8

  It chafed him not to have his armour and sword, but he supposed that if one of the elves had been held prisoner in the oubliettes of Castle Carrard, he would not have allowed it a weapon either.

  Though he knew it was autumn, with the season on the cusp of changing to winter, the climate here was mild, far milder than it had any right to be, as though a moment in time of summer had been somehow slowed.

  The elf-witch had left an hour ago, though it was difficult to judge time in this place, and the two elf-maids who had earlier brought him food returned with the clothes he now wore. Atop the neatly folded clothes was Helene’s silken blue scarf, and Leofric wept once more as he picked up her favour. He had tucked the folded scarf into a pocket of the overshirt while one expressionless maid delicately sewed the wound on his hip. He had thanked them, but they had once again proven to be uncommunicative. Upon leaving, they stared at him blankly as Leofric had bowed graciously, his chivalric code demanding no less a courtesy to ladies, even though these ladies were elves.

  The pain in his hip was lessened and the injuries to his chest and head had diminished to a dull throbbing ache. He paced the room, catching fleeting glimpses of the world beyond his confinement — laughter, music and arching voices that spoke of great meaning just beyond his comprehension. His earlier companions, the flitting, winged creatures of light had returned, buzzing around him like irritating insects. He had long since given up trying to dissuade them from annoying him, such attempts only spurring them to greater heights of nuisance.

  As far as confinement went, this place was far more salubrious than anything Castle Carrard had to offer, its arched timber walls curved and sweet smelling. Gently waving branches formed the ceiling, the bright sunlight diffusing softly through the canopy of wide green leaves. Nowhere was there anything that appeared to have had the hand of a craftsman upon it, no carved furniture, no hand-blown glass, no skilfully moulded ceramic — everything had a natural, almost… grown quality to it.

  But as natural and harmonious as everything was, to his human eyes there was a subtle wrongness to the surroundings. He felt no kinship with his environment, though there was a familiarity to it: walls, floor, ceiling, clothes. Everything was familiar, yet at the same time disturbingly different, giving him a caged, impatient feeling.

  Just as he was thinking of making his own way from this place once more, an elf clad in simple, practical garb entered. His manner was immediately hostile and his youthful features were fixed in an expression that told Leofric that he would much rather be anywhere else than here.

  The elf wore the natural colours of the forest, brown leggings and a pale grey overshirt with embroidered gold stitching along its collar. A feathered cloak of deep blue covered one arm and hung to his calves from his shoulders. A worn, shagreen scabbard housed an elegant, plain-handled sword and across his back hung a long, gracefully curved bow.

  Despite its craftsmanship, the bow was still a lowborn peasant’s weapon to Leofric’s way of thinking and he wondered whether this was some subtle insult. Had the elves sent a peasant to be his gaoler?

  “Who are you?” asked Leofric.

  The elf did not reply immediately, sizing him up with his wide, green eyes and pursing his lips together. By any human standards, the elf was darkly handsome, with narrow, sardonic features and long, straw-coloured hair that spilled around his shoulders in a fringe of tightly braided locks. Feathers and beads were woven into his hair and Leofric sensed a recklessness in this elf like that of many a knight errant.

  “Are you Kyarno?” asked Leofric, raising his voice and speaking more slowly. “I am Leofric Carrard of Quenelles, knight of the realm of Bretonnia and loyal subject of King Louen Leoncoeur.”

  The elf’s face twisted in a grimace as he spoke and Leofric wondered if he had somehow insulted him.

  “By Kurnous, your voice is ugly and you mangle my name such that I do not recognise it,” said the elf at last, his tone betraying his impatience to be done with this business. “I know who you are, and yes, I am Kyarno Daelanu. I am to take you to the Crystal Mere.”

  “So I am told. What is it?”

  “Somewhere you would not be seeing if I had my way,” answered Kyarno.

  Leofric nodded in resignation and said, “Very well, I see we are going to get along like brothers in arms.”

  Kyarno ignored the comment and smoothly turned on his heels, heading for the arched exit to the chamber. “Come. If we do not leave now it will be nightfall before we return and night is no time for one like you to be abroad in Athel Loren.”

  Leofric sighed and set off after the truculent Kyarno, following him through the archway and into a passageway of gently curving branches that swayed in an unfelt breeze. Though Kyarno spoke human language flawlessly, there was a stiltedness to his speech that Leofric had noticed in all the elves. Their own language was spoken with a lyrical fluidity, but they voiced the human tongue as though it were unfamiliar and distasteful to them.

  The scent of outdoors came to him and he felt a warm gust as his sprightly companions flitted past his head.

  Kyarno turned a corner and Leofric, without seeming to pass any boundary that marked the structure he had been in, suddenly found himself outside in a leafy glade, the scent of wood and sap strong in his nostrils and the sounds of life coming from all around him.

  He spun, confused and dismayed to find that he could see no sign of any doorway they might have emerged from. Saplings and the towering trunks of mighty trees were all that he could see of the shimmering clearing, and he was seized anew with a fear of this faerie magic.

  What manner of race could beguile the senses so?

  A familiar and heartily welcome whinny shook him from his discomfort and he smiled as he saw the reassuring form of his horse, Taschen. The horse looked frightened and was without his yellow caparison, his reins held by Cairbre, the warrior elf with the two-bladed spear. Leofric saw that the elven warrior had the reins unwisely wrapped around his wrist like a novice groom. If the horse bolted suddenly, it would wrench Cairbre’s shoulder from its socket.

  Kyarno stood nearby, beckoning a pale, saffron-maned steed of elvish stock towards him. The beast’s neck was clad in a shimmering fabric, its tail and mane braided and woven with colourful garlands, and Leofric was struck by the wonderful impracticality of such a mount. Too narrow chested and slender limbed to carry an armoured warrior into battle, the beast was nevertheless a magnificent specimen of equine beauty and poise.

  Cairbre led Taschen towards him, his face a mask of open hostility, and Leofric wondered what he had done to offend these elves so deeply. Was his very presence here an affront to them?

  “Thank you,” he said as Cairbre gingerly handed Leofric the reins and Kyarno swung onto the back of his own steed.

  “Where is the caparison?” asked Leofric, stroking his horse’s mane.

  “I removed it,” said Cairbre. “It was too conspicuous and it is unwise to attract too much attention to yourself, human.”

  “Too conspicuous?” replied Leofric, indicating Kyarno’s steed. “That beast is hardly the most subtle of creatures! It could be seen for miles in open country.”

  “But it is ridden by one of the Asrai, and you are in Athel Loren,” said Cairbre before turning and marching away Leofric put the missing caparison from his mind and set his boot in the stirrup, hauling himself onto Taschen’s back, relishing the power and security of being back in the saddle.

  As he settled himself on his mount’s back, Leofric saw that Kyarno’s steed had no tack whatsoever, no bridle, no saddle or any other piece of riding equipment. Now he understood Cairbre’s careless handling of Taschen’s reins.

  It felt strange — and, Leofric had to admit, strangely liberating — being on horseback without a suit of heavy plate armour and the sense of weight that it brought. He looked over at Kyarno, who, despite having no saddle or reins, rode his steed as though it were a natural extension of his body.

  “That is a magnifice
nt steed,” said Leofric.

  “He is indeed,” agreed Kyarno. “Yours is… strong.”

  Leofric patted Taschen’s neck. “He is indeed, he comes from the king’s own stables and is said to be have been sired from the line of Tamasin.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Tamasin was the noble destrier that carried King Charlen into battle against the orcs at the Battle of Blood River in the land of the Border Princes,” said Leofric proudly. “Thrice was the great steed wounded by foul orcish archery, but never once did he falter in service of his master, bearing him through blood and battle to carry the day. After the battle, King Charlen decreed that his faithful steed had served his master enough and put him out to stud in the royal stables until the day came when his mighty heart beat no more.”

  “At least he ended his days well,” said Kyarno. “Given the chance to fornicate day and night with all the younger, feisty mares in the comfort of a warm stable. Better than being shot at by greenskins.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Leofric, annoyed that such a fine example of Bretonnian horse had been dismissed so flippantly.

  Without seeming to guide his horse in any way, Kyarno rode away from him, beckoning lazily for Leofric to follow.

  His irritation at this surly elf growing by the second, Leofric dug his heels into Taschen’s sides and followed Kyarno into the depths of Coeth-Mara.

  And Athel Loren opened up before him.

  Awe. Wonderment. Enchantment. Fear.

  Emotions whirled in Leofric’s head as Kyarno led him through the realm of wonders and rapture that was Athel Loren. The land of the wood elves had been described in dark faerie tales throughout Bretonnia for centuries, telling of magic and spells that wove their domain from dreams. Minstrels and tellers of tales spoke of places where the elves gathered that were not of this world, where the seasons never changed and the inhabitants of the forest could live forever.

  As he rode through the place Kyarno had called Coeth-Mara, followed by his darting companions of light, Leofric now knew that those taletellers understood but a fraction of the truth.

  Athel Loren was a realm of magic and light, soaring trees as tall as the tallest tower of Castle Carrard with great gnarled trunks of incredible girth. Laughing elves on horseback rode through the trees, followed by more of the darting balls of light. The very air seemed alive with possibility, as though rich with restless motion. This was a place of life, vitality and fecundity— everything he saw, from forest animals to gliding hawks and the elves themselves, had a fierce vigour, the like of which he had never seen.

  The peasantry of Bretonnia certainly never displayed such vigour in their daily tasks, never went about their business as though the pleasure in completing a duty was its own reward. They were wretched, hunched specimens and Leofric found himself wondering what manner of beings these elves were to live in such joy.

  The heady aroma of sweet sap and pungent blossoms made Leofric feel giddy and light-headed and he had to force himself not to take such deep breaths. As they rode onwards, he saw he was attracting suspicious looks from every elf they passed — first there would be surprise and then either outright hostility or faint curiosity. Nor, he saw, was he the only one attracting suspicious glances. Kyarno drew his own fair share of scornful stares, but if the elf was aware of it he gave no sign.

  “Why is everyone staring at me?” asked Leofric.

  “Most of them have never seen a human before,” answered Kyarno without turning.

  “Really?”

  “Why would they have? We have no interest in contact with your kind.”

  Leofric bit back an angry retort and said, “What are they all doing out here in the middle of the forest?”

  “What do you mean? This is Coeth-Mara, this is where they live.”

  Leofric looked around for dwellings of any sort, but all he could see were the towering trees, verdant greenery and the abundance of forest creatures. A more picturesque scene he could scarce imagine, but he saw nowhere that might be considered a dwelling.

  “If this is Coeth-Mara, then where do your people live? I see no homes or dwellings.”

  “No,” agreed Kyarno. “You won’t, not unless the forest consents to let you. You ride through one of the greatest halls in Athel Loren, yet you see it not.”

  Leofric wasn’t sure whether or not Kyarno was making fun of him, and looked harder for any signs of habitation, but try as he might he could see nothing to indicate that anyone or anything lived here. Eventually he gave up, content just to watch the magical beauty unfold around him.

  Trees shaped into gently rounded archways formed roofless processionals, like the nave of the great cathedral of Quenelles, and the golds and reds of autumn mingled with the greens of summer in their high branches.

  Springs bubbled up through rocky cracks in the ground, gurgling along shaped channels of curved wood and into crystal pools lined with wondrous wooden sculptures that looked as though they had grown there rather than having been crafted. Leofric watched amazed as each of the sculptures began moving as though with an inner life of its own, the wood reshaping itself in newer and more graceful forms.

  A soft glow appeared in the centre of one and a dazzling light emerged from the living wood, trilling, musical laughter emanating from it as it zipped towards another of the sculptures. It vanished into the depths of the wood and almost immediately the sculpture writhed with life as the joyous spirits shaped it in new and pleasing ways.

  More of the dancing lights capered in the canopy above and Leofric turned in his saddle to see if his will-o’-the-wisp companions were still with him. They bobbed behind him, three impish lights with wings and tiny bodies that Leofric swore were shaped like miniature knights.

  “What are these things?” asked Leofric, pointing behind him and then up at the shoal of lights above them.

  “Spites,” said Kyarno. “Magical spirits of the forest that are as much a part of Athel Loren as the trees themselves.”

  “Can you make them go away?”

  “Not if they’ve taken a liking to you, no. They are mischievous creatures, but mostly harmless.”

  “Mostly harmless?”

  “Yes, mostly. Like the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth, there are many kinds of spite. Some are harmless, some are not.”

  “What about these ones?” asked Leofric, pointing at the spites bobbing after him.

  “Mostly harmless,” repeated Kyarno. Leofric glanced warily behind him as they rode through a woven arch of leaves and branches, hung with gem-encrusted belts of gold and silver. Beyond the archway, Leofric immediately sensed a shift in the temperature.

  The air here was as invigorating as that he had breathed earlier, but there was a raw, threatening quality to it, as though it possessed a wilder, more energetic essence.

  Kyarno had ridden ahead and Leofric quickly dug his heels into Taschen’s flanks to catch up with his guide, not wanting to become separated in this darker part of the forest.

  The forest itself seemed more alive here, and Leofric shivered, sensing a darker presence lurking in the depths of the wood, a brooding sentience that looked upon him with eyes that were far from friendly.

  Kyarno rode along a wide but overgrown path that Leofric would never have noticed had he not been following the elf, its subtle outline blending perfectly with the forest. Leofric began to see how skilfully the forest’s shifting patterns could mislead a person and remembered tales of those who claimed to have become hopelessly lost within the forest despite many a distinctive landmark. Nothing in this place was as it seemed and Leofric knew he would need to be on his guard lest the glamours of the forest beguile him once more with their confusions.

  “You still haven’t told me where we are going,” said Leofric as he rode up alongside Kyarno. “What is the Crystal Mere?”

  Kyarno brushed a strand of hair from his face and said, “It is a pool of the clearest water at the foot of a waterfall on the river you know as the Brienne
. The water there is so clear and refreshing it is as though it is wept from the eyes of Isha herself.”

  “And who is Isha?”

  “You humans are ignorant creatures,” said Kyarno, shaking his head. “No wonder all you can do is take axes to the trees and clear your lands of all that is green and living, grubbing in muddy fields with your bare hands.”

  “Why must you always attempt to antagonise me so?” asked Leofric. “If you wish to fight then give me a weapon and I will fight you in an honourable duel.”

  “Fight you?” said Kyarno. “No, human, I cannot fight you. Lord Aldaeld has placed you in my care and I will see to your protection, but understand this— you are my enemy.”

  “Very well,” said Leofric angrily, “though tell me why I should be your enemy. I have done you no wrong.”

  Kyarno rounded on Leofric and said, “We are enemies because your kind would take what I hold dear and tear it down if you could. Throughout the centuries we have fought to protect our realm from humans, dwarfs, orcs and beastmen who come with axes and fires to slaughter my kin!”

  “No…” said Leofric. “We do not—”

  “Yes,” interrupted Kyarno, visibly struggling with his anger. “You do. You fear us, yet secretly you envy us, and because you fear us you would destroy us.”

  Leofric fought for calm and hissed, “Perhaps there is truth in what you say, Kyarno, but it was your forest that took my wife. It was your forest that snatched away my ancestor all those years ago. I have as much reason to hate your kind as anyone!”

  “The forest took your wife?” asked Kyarno, halting his steed with a whispered word.