“Chaos,” spat Aldaeld. “How in Isha’s name did they reach so far into Athel Loren?”
“And how is it you did not know of them?” added Tarean Stormcrow.
“You know well that beyond the Crystal Mere, Athel Loren is dangerous,” said Naieth. “The dark fey of the wood dwell in that region of the forest and there is often a sense of danger lurking there, mayhap the beasts knew to approach within its cloaking shadow.”
Neither of her visitors looked convinced and Aldaeld said, “They are base creatures, mere beasts. How could they possibly know such a thing?”
Naieth shrugged as Othu flapped his wings and flew to land upon the shoulder of Tarean Stormcrow.
“He likes you,” smiled Naieth. “It is a sign of good favour that he does so.”
Lord Aldaeld frowned at this change of subject and said, “I do not like this, prophetess. Beasts of darkness reach deep into Athel Loren, the forest grows restless as winter comes and you bring a human into my halls. I tell you, I do not like it. A barbarian human! You know he should be dead already.”
“Leofric is just one human, you should not trouble yourself with him.”
“I do not have that luxury, prophetess,” spat Lord Aldaeld, waving his arm towards the south and dislodging several of the jostling radiants that gathered in the folds of his cloak. “We dwell within reach of unnumbered enemies who bend their every effort to destroying everything I hold dear and have sworn to protect.”
“I know that, Lord Aldaeld, and—”
“I am not sure that you do, prophetess,” cut in Tarean Stormcrow. “Winter is upon the forest and the King of the Wood prepares to go to his pyre. If we be not vigilant against such threats, then who?”
“There are many threats to this realm, Tarean Stormcrow, and know that I have seen them all. I have fought the secret war since before the seasons of your father, and I have seen a time beyond this where the restless dead rise from their tombs once more and red-skinned daemons of the Dark Gods stalk the lands where men once dwelt.”
“And what has that to do with this human?”
Naieth hesitated briefly before saying, “In this time of blood and war we will have need of this human.”
“Humans live short, brutal lives, prophetess, surely he will be long dead by then?” said Aldaeld. “And in any case, since when do the Asrai need the help of a human?”
“Without this human, the handmaids of your daughter would now be dead,” pointed out Naieth. “He fought alongside the Hound of Winter and slew one of the creatures of Chaos in single combat.”
Tarean Stormcrow moved to stand at the edge of her chambers, looking beyond the woven branches and said, “I still find it strange that you were not aware of these creatures. You speak of things far distant from us, but see not what is to pass within days. How can that be?”
Othu flapped and flew from the chamber, hooting loudly as Tarean Stormcrow spoke. Aldaeld’s herald watched the bird go, turning his eyes back to Naieth as the owl vanished from sight.
“The future is not a straight path, Tarean Stormcrow, it weaves and misleads like a befuddlement of mischiefs, twisting and teasing with half-truths and shadows. There are none who can see where it leads with certainty.”
“And yet you would have us hold this human here as though you see it with the surest certainty?” asked Aldaeld.
“Yes, I would,” agreed Naieth, lifting her wrist as Othu flew back into the chamber to land on her arm. “In all the futures I see Leofric standing beside the Asrai in defence of Athel Loren. Trust me Aldaeld, put your hatred of them aside, for more is at stake than the fate of one human.”
“Tell me of it,” demanded Aldaeld.
“I cannot,” said Naieth, shaking her head. “To speak of the future is to change it.”
Othu hooted at her ear, a trilling series of clicks and whistles, and Naieth smiled.
“What does he say?” asked Lord Aldaeld.
“He brings word of another visitor to your halls,” said Naieth. “One I bade come.”
Before Aldaeld could ask more, a grey-cloaked warrior of the Eternal Guard appeared at the entrance to the chamber with an anxious expression. Tarean Stormcrow nodded towards the warrior and Lord Aldaeld turned to face him.
“What news?” he asked, wary of the answer.
“The Red Wolf is come to Coeth-Mara,” said the warrior.
“Cu-Sith?” hissed Aldaeld, turning to Naieth, his face a mask of anger and not a little fear. “Why would you bring the Red Wolf here?”
Naieth lifted her staff and said, “He and his wardancers will perform the Dance of the Seasons at the Winter Feast. It is a great honour he does you by consenting to come here.”
“Indeed,” snapped Lord Aldaeld, turning to march from her chambers. “Be careful that you do not heap too many honours upon me, prophetess. I do not think I would be thankful for anymore.”
Leaving the Crystal Mere, Leofric was both saddened and relieved to bid farewell to such a vista of incredible beauty. Its wonder was something he knew he would never forget, but it had been sullied for him by Chaos. Much as everything in this world, he mused.
All that was good in the world would eventually be tainted by Chaos, no matter how remote or seemingly untouchable. Even this place of beauty and magic, hundreds of miles from the northern steppes and protected by faerie magic, could not protect itself from the predations of the Dark Gods. Every victory won, every invasion defeated was but a respite — a pause in the inevitable doom of this world.
Any fool could see that…
He had helped drag the bodies of the beastmen into the forest where Leofric had assumed they would be burned, but Cairbre had shaken his head, saying, “Leave them. The forest will claim them and they will return to the earth.”
The Hound of Winter had then extended his hand and said, “That weapon you carry is an elven blade and does not belong to you.”
Briefly Leofric considered refusing to return the weapon, but knew that Cairbre could take it from him without even trying. Though he was loath to render himself unarmed once more, he reversed the blade and handed the sword, hilt first, to the Hound of Winter.
Cairbre had nodded and said no more, riding off at the head of their column back to Coeth-Mara. Once they had set off, Leofric had offered his mount to Tiphaine, uncomfortable with the idea of riding while a woman walked, but she had politely refused, walking hand in hand with one of her fellow handmaids.
Kyarno rode in silence, his head hung low over his chest and his braided hair cloaking his face in shadow. The chestnut-haired elven woman in the red dress who had loosed the deadly accurate shafts rode alongside him, speaking soft words of comfort.
As their journey back to the elven halls continued, Leofric found himself glancing warily into the darkness of the forest, wondering what fey creatures might dwell in the depths of Athel Loren, as a soft chorus of plaintive voices drifted from the trees.
Were the wild riders of Kurnous still out there? Might they come for him again?
His pack of spites still followed him, all now changed to resemble bobbing unicorns of light, the sight of them now mildly alarming after he had seen the fury with which they had attacked the beastmen.
It seemed as though there were low whispers coming from beyond the trees, hissing, sibilant tones like branches and leaves rustling in a chorus of wondrous ancient voices. As he listened, the sound filled his head with magic, lilting words like songs and beguiling tones like symphonies of joyful nuance. Leofric had thought that the language of the elves was like sweet music, but this was greater still, like the language of the soul made real. Leofric tugged on Taschen’s reins, eager to hear more of this incredible sound, but a light hand reached out and gripped his wrist.
“Don’t,” said the Lady Morvhen. “You are human and the forest is not kind to humans.”
“What is it?” asked Leofric. “It sounds like the forest is speaking.”
“It is.”
“What is it
saying?” asked Leofric.
“It is the ancient language of the world, spoken only by the tree-kin and ancients of the wood,” said Morvhen. “None but the spirits of the forest may speak it.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Leofric.
Morvhen nodded and said, “Yes, it is. There are only two places left in the world where it can be heard. Here and the Forest of Avelorn.”
“Avelorn? I have not heard of such a place.”
“It is far away on the island of Ulthuan, the birthplace of the Asrai.”
“What is it like there?”
Morvhen shook her head. “I do not know, I have never seen it. Our people left this land many thousands of years ago to return to Ulthuan, but my kin remained behind in Athel Loren.”
“Why?”
She smiled, looking around at the wild beauty of the forest around her. “Could you leave this place? No, our forebears had made their home here and, though it broke their hearts never to see the land of their birth again, they could not bear to leave the forest to the beasts and…”
Morvhen’s voice trailed off and Leofric said, “Humans.”
“Yes,” she said, “humans. By the time the Phoenix King called his subjects home our kin had become part of the forest, their souls and fates entwined forever. We could not abandon the forest to the axes of the lesser races.”
“I understand,” nodded Leofric, wanting to rise to the defence of his race, but knowing that Morvhen was right.
“I am the Lady Morvhen Eadaoin, daughter of Lord Aldaeld Eadaoin,” said Morvhen. “I think you know that already, but it is only proper that I introduce myself.”
“Yes, I know who you are, my lady,” replied Leofric, seeing Cairbre keeping a close eye on him as they spoke. “Is Eadaoin your family name?”
“It is,” said Morvhen. “In your language it means Fleetmane.”
“I am Leofric Carrard, but then I am sure you know that already.”
Morvhen laughed, a wonderful, enchanting sound, and said, “There are few in the forest who do not. The trees have carried word of your presence to all the corners of Athel Loren. Hence it might be wise for you not to go into the woods on your own. As I said, the forest is a dangerous place for humans.”
“I know,” said Leofric bitterly. “It took my wife.”
“Yes,” said Morvhen. “I know and I am truly sorry for your loss, but the waters of the Crystal Mere helped, yes?”
Leofric nodded, “Aye, they did, and, Lady forgive me, I feel Helene’s loss less keenly now.”
Morvhen frowned at his tone and said, “But that is a good thing, surely?”
“Is it?” snapped Leofric, waving an arm at the forest around him. “This place is eroding what I have of her, taking away the pain of my grief.”
“Why should you wish to hold onto grief?”
“Because it is my grief,” said Leofric. “I desire to carry the pain of her loss; I do not want it taken away by faerie magic. I will grieve for my lost love in my own way, not yours!”
“Yours is a strange race, Leofric,” said Morvhen, echoing Tiphaine’s earlier sentiment. “You suffer when you do not need to.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Leofric, already ashamed at giving vent to such passion in front of a lady, “but it is what I wish for. Leave me my grief. I will remember Helene in my own way.”
“As you wish, Leofric,” shrugged Morvhen, as Cairbre turned his horse and dropped back along the column of riders towards them, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But when we return to Coeth-Mara may I speak with you some more? I would know of your adventures, the strange things you have seen and the far-off lands you have visited.”
Leofric shook his head. “Regretfully, I must decline, my lady, for I shall be leaving Athel Loren upon returning you safely to your father. I have lands to rule in the name of my king and a son to raise without his mother. I cannot stay here.”
The crestfallen look on Morvhen’s face cut Leofric deeply. He was unused to declining a lady’s request, but there was little she could do to persuade him to stay in Athel Loren when he had responsibilities back in Bretonnia.
“Surely you can stay a little longer?” said Morvhen, and Leofric detected a note of petulance in her tone.
“No, my lady, I cannot, and please do not ask me again, for it ill becomes a knight to refuse a lady twice.”
“Very well,” said Morvhen sharply as Cairbre rode alongside them.
“My lady,” he said, “you should not be talking to the human. You know what your father would say.”
“No matter, Hound of Winter,” said Morvhen, turning her horse to ride back to Kyarno. “He does not wish to speak anyway.”
As she rode away, Cairbre said, “If I were you, I would stay away from the Lady Morvhen.”
“Is that a threat?” asked Leofric, unable to take his eyes from the dead warrior laid across the rump of Cairbre’s steed.
“No,” said the Hound of Winter. “A warning between warriors.”
“How so?”
“She is the daughter of Lord Aldaeld and he holds your life in his hands. It would not please him to know that she was associating with a human.”
“I understand,” nodded Leofric. “Then I thank you for your words. Tell me, why do they call you the Hound of Winter?”
At first, Leofric thought Cairbre wasn’t going to answer, but the venerable elf smiled and said, “I am Lord Aldaeld’s champion, a warrior of the Eternal Guard and I hunt down the enemies of my kinband. None who have earned the wrath of Lord Eadaoin have escaped my hunt and none ever shall.”
Leofric nodded. In any other warrior, such a boast would have been arrogant, but having seen the Hound of Winter’s deadly skills in battle, Leofric had no trouble believing Cairbre’s words.
“The Eternal Guard, is that the name given to the army of Athel Loren?” he asked, pointing at the body behind Cairbre.
“Army?” said Cairbre, “We have no need of such a thing, human. Every member of a kinband has a duty to guard the domain entrusted to their lord, and every elf of the forest has great skill with a bow. No, the Eternal Guard is no army of Athel Loren; we are its guardians through the long dark of winter, when branch and tree slumber. It is our duty and privilege to defend the sacred places of the forest and the lords and ladies that dwell within.”
“A heavy duty indeed,” said Leofric. “But a welcome one, I should think.”
“It is a great honour to be chosen by the Eternal Guard, an honour earned through skill at arms. To meet death in the service of something so noble as Athel Loren is more than any warrior can ask for,” said Cairbre. “But I see that you are a human who understands such things.”
“I do indeed,” agreed Leofric. “Only by such feats of arms may a knight rise to become a knight of the realm. The king desires only warriors of courage and honour to defend his realm and there are none greater in all the lands of men than the knights of Bretonnia.”
“You are a great warrior in your lands?”
“A warrior, yes,” nodded Leofric. “I have some skill with lance and blade, but modesty forbids me from vulgar boasts of prowess.”
“Spoken like a true warrior,” said Cairbre with a wry grin. “One who lets his deeds attest to his mettle.”
Despite himself, Leofric found himself warming to Cairbre; the elf had the easy confidence of a warrior born, coupled with a manner that spoke of a life of great experience and wisdom. As he looked at the regal profile of the Hound of Winter, he found it increasingly difficult to reconcile this softly spoken, yet powerful warrior as being kin to the brash, argumentative Kyarno.
“Perhaps we are not so different after all,” said Leofric.
Cairbre shook his head. “Do not mistake a warrior’s respect for anything other than that. You are human and I am elf, and we will always be different. Though we can speak in the same language and live mortal lives, your kind will never understand mine.”
“That is a shame,” said Leofric. “We
could learn much from each other.”
“I do not believe so,” replied Cairbre, his cold-eyed expression settling upon his features once more. “You humans have nothing we wish to know, and we do not wish to be part of your world. Let us leave it at that.”
“As you wish,” said Leofric as Cairbre rode off to the head of the column.
Alone once more, he glanced over to where Kyarno rode with Morvhen, catching the eye of Tiphaine and smiling at the scarlet-haired handmaid. Leofric saw that Kyarno had roused himself from his melancholic reverie, talking in a low voice with Morvhen and casting wary glances his way.
He did not know what had driven the young elf into such a bloody frenzy back in the glade of the Crystal Mere, nor did he have any reason to believe that Cairbre would be more forthcoming than he had been earlier.
Such matters were none of his business and since he had resolved to leave Athel Loren tonight — Naieth’s wishes be damned — there was no need for him to pry further.
Whatever inner torments plagued Kyarno would remain his own to face.
He returned his attention to the path before him, allowing the gentle rhythm of the forest’s song to carry him onwards.
To Coeth-Mara and then home.
CHAPTER NINE
Riding back into Coeth-Mara through the same woven arch of leaves and branches, Leofric felt a familiar warmth enfold him, like the homely sensation he had every time he rode through the arched gateway of Castle Carrard upon his return from campaign. It felt like coming home, as though he was somehow welcome now…
The hanging belts of jewels and gold tinkled musically as they passed beneath them, sad and mournful at the dead they brought with them. The sense of things moving in the dark of the forest receded and Leofric again felt the strange sensation of feeling like he had moved from one season to another.
Cairbre’s normally stony exterior softened as they entered the realm of his kinband and even Kyarno’s face lit up with relief and pleasure at his return home. He saw the same expressions on every face — Morvhen’s, Tiphaine’s and all the handmaids. He could not deny that the uplifting feeling was palpable and fought against its lulling qualities.