“Serve the murderer who betrayed the hospitality offered him? Never,” swore Tarean, nodding towards the furious battle between the elven kinbands that filled the hall with blood and violence. “You bring dishonour on us all.”
Cairbre slashed the Blades of Midnight towards Valas once more, but again the magical spear thwarted his attempts to gut Aldaeld’s killer, turning aside his blow with unnatural ease.
“Aldaeld was weak,” sneered Valas. “He gave shelter to base humans and welcomed them into his hall! Where will it end, Cairbre? I know you, Hound of Winter — it must have sat ill with you that a human dwelt in Coeth-Mara.”
“It is not for me to question my lord’s decisions,” gasped Cairbre as the Spear of Daith laid his bicep open to the bone. His hand spasmed and he lost his grip on his weapon, the Blades of Midnight dropping to the floor of the dais.
Valas Laithu darted in, thrusting the spear at his stomach, but Cairbre dodged aside and gripped the haft with his good hand, spinning inside his foe’s guard and hammering his elbow against his temple.
The lord of the Laithu kinband staggered, dropping to one knee and dragging the spear back, slashing Cairbre’s palm open. But before either Cairbre or Tarean could take advantage of Valas’ stumble, a flurry of black, bat-like malevolents erupted from his cloak, spitting darts and chittering cries as the vicious little spites swarmed them.
They fell back before their onslaught, feeling needle-like claws and teeth tear and cut them. The spites were small, but they were numerous. Cairbre shook them clear, swatting them away with his uninjured arm, seeing Tarean Stormcrow launch another attack at Valas.
Tarean was brave and a swordsman of great skill, but the Spear of Daith had been fashioned with some of the most powerful magic of Athel Loren and his blow was easily intercepted. Cairbre saw Valas aim the weapon at the herald’s stomach, the engraved eyes on the leaf-shaped blade glowing with bright magic as they sought out the swiftest route to his vitals. The spear lanced towards Tarean, the herald swiftly bring his sword down to block, but quicker than Cairbre would have believed possible, the weapon altered direction.
“No!” shouted Cairbre as the spear rammed up into Tarean’s chest, the tip erupting from his back in a bloody shower. Lord Aldaeld’s herald shuddered and cried out in agony as the spear spitted him like a wild boar. The blade was wrenched clear and Tarean fell to the dais, his eyes glazing over as he died.
Leofric stumbled towards his horse, his senses only just recovering their equilibrium after his inebriation with the elven wine. Before he had run into the hall, Kyarno had alerted the Glade Guard still on duty of the threat to Coeth-Mara and within moments, sixty riders had assembled on snorting steeds, their blades bared and ready for battle.
He had briefly considered following Kyarno, but knew that he could fight best from the back of a horse. Cries of alarm and shouts of anger echoed from the starlit avenues and processionals beyond Lord Aldaeld’s hall as the riders circled in the moonlight, ready to take the fight to their enemies.
Leofric found Taschen hitched to the rail in front of his abode and climbed into the saddle, unsheathing his sword and galloping back to Lord Aldaeld’s riders as a hail of arrows flashed from the treeline.
Against an unprepared foe, such a volley would have been deadly, but the Glade Riders of the Eadaoin kinband had been waiting for this moment and surged forwards to meet their attackers. A handful of warriors fell to the enemy arrows, but the skill of the Glade Riders was so great that the majority were able to evade the deadly shafts.
An arrow ricocheted from the solid plate of Leofric’s armour, but a knight cared not for such things, and he urged his steed onwards as the faster mounts of the Glade Guard pulled away.
More arrows slashed out and more riders were punched from their steeds by the enemy bowfire. An arrow thudded into Leofric’s breastplate; the point slowed, but not stopped by his armour. He felt its point break the skin and wrenched it clear as he thundered onwards.
Then they were through the treeline and Leofric saw the archers of the Laithu kinband running for fresh cover as the Glade Riders rode them down without mercy. Leofric angled his horse towards a fleeing, grey-cloaked archer, raking his spurs viciously into Taschen’s flanks.
The elf dodged nimbly, but Leofric was in his element, having ridden down broken enemies in countless battles, riding just ahead of his prey and slashing his sword back into his foe’s face.
The elf screamed horribly, his skull split open and Leofric set off in pursuit once more. Arrows flashed through the air, but in ones and twos rather than the concentrated volleys of before.
Scattered and disorganised, the Laithu warriors were easy prey for the Glade Riders, amongst the finest mounted warriors in Athel Loren. Leofric felt the blood surge through his veins as he slew another enemy warrior, remembering the savage joy of bloody combat and the thrill of riding down a defeated enemy.
Whooping riders rode hither and thither through the trees, hunting down their enemies with savage fury. None of the Glade Riders were in any mood to offer mercy towards the Laithu kinband and the snow-bound forest echoed to the sounds of their screams.
He watched as an enemy archer took refuge behind the thick bole of an ancient oak, drawing and loosing a shaft in one swift motion. The Glade Rider next to Leofric tumbled from the saddle of his flame-maned elven steed and Leofric hauled Taschen’s reins in the direction of his killer. No sooner had he done so than the elven archer loosed a shaft towards him.
But instead of aiming high, the archer sent his arrow low, the lethally sharp missile plunging so deeply into Taschen’s chest that only the fletching was visible. Another arrow followed the first and the horse collapsed beneath him, foaming blood erupting from its screaming mouth.
Leofric kicked his feet from the stirrups as his horse died, leaping clear as it slammed into the snow in a tangle of broken limbs. He hit the ground hard, rolling and losing his grip on his sword as the breath was driven from him.
He shook his helmet free of snow as he pushed himself to one knee, and saw the archer who had felled his steed draw his bowstring back to send a shaft through his helmet’s visor.
A blur of white leapt over Leofric and the flame-maned elven steed landed in front of the archer, its hooves smashing him from his feet. Leofric gathered up his sword and scrambled back towards his wounded mount.
Incredibly, Taschen still lived, but his every breath foamed red with blood and Leofric knew the horse was beyond saving. The horse’s front legs were broken where it had fallen and it was in agony.
“You were a faithful steed, my friend,” said Leofric, drawing his blade across the horse’s throat. Warm blood gushed from the wound and Taschen’s eyes rolled back in their sockets as he died.
He would mourn the loss of the fine Bretonnian warhorse later, but for now there were still foes to hunt. He turned from the dead beast, seeing the elven steed that had saved his life sadly nuzzling its fallen rider. It looked up at him and Leofric was struck by the fierce intelligence he saw in the creature’s eyes.
“What say you and I finish these murderers off?” said Leofric.
The horse seemed to consider his proposal for a moment then bobbed its head, reluctantly leaving its dead rider and cantering across to him. As it approached him, he sensed the steed’s strength and loyalty in its every movement.
Nearly there would be no master in this arrangement, only two warriors fighting together. Just as Leofric was wondering how he was going to climb onto the back of a steed with no saddle, the horse dropped to its knees. “I can see we are going to get along famously,” said Leofric as he climbed on and the horse rose up, seemingly unhindered by the weight of an armoured warrior on its back. He gripped its coppery mane as the pale horse reared and with a wild, exultant yell, they rode off into the forest after the remaining enemy warriors.
Kyarno bled from a score of shallow cuts, his endurance fading in the face of Sirda’s overwhelming superiority with a blade. His
every attack was batted aside with contemptuous ease, his every defence countered and defeated. He backed away through the press of combat that filled the hall, unable to tell which kinband held the upper hand.
“This is it, Kyarno,” laughed Sirda, twisting one of his blades around Kyarno’s and sending it spinning through the air. “Now you are going to die.”
Kyarno staggered back, desperate to put some distance between himself and Sirda, but each time his escape was blocked by his more nimble foe. He stumbled and fell back against a table, exhausted and defeated as Sirda closed in with a predatory smile.
Sidra raised his sword and shouted, “This is for my brother!”
Kyarno closed his eyes and yelled defiantly as the sword slashed towards his throat.
But with a clash of steel and sparks, the blow never landed.
The frozen moment stretched and Kyarno looked up to see Cu-Sith standing on the table above him, the haft of his spear an inch before his neck where it had intercepted Sirda’s blow.
“Red Wolf,” cried Sirda. “This is not your concern. You swore to stay your hand.”
“Cu-Sith decides what is Cu-Sith’s concern, and you should know better than to try and make deals with followers of the Trickster God,” said the wardancer, sweeping his spear up and effortlessly twisting Sirda’s blade from his grip. Kyarno cried out in relief as the wardancer somersaulted backwards, the heel of his foot lashing out, catching Sirda under his chin and hurling him into the firepit.
The last son of Valas Laithu fell into the fire, the flames hungrily seizing his furs and tunic and he screamed as his hair and clothes caught light. Sirda rolled from the fire, ablaze from head to foot, his screams terrible to hear as his flesh began to burn.
Kyarno watched Sirda climb to his feet and stumble like a drunk as the flames devoured him, the sickening stench of cooked flesh filling the hall.
Gasps of horror at the fate of Sirda Laithu spread from his smoking corpse, but Kyarno felt no pity for him. In the lull of battle, Kyarno pulled himself to his feet and turned to Cu-Sith.
“Why?”
“Loec told me that he did not like that one,” said Cu-Sith, turning away.
“That’s it?” asked Kyarno, retrieving his fallen sword, “Loec didn’t like him?”
“What more do you want?” shrugged Cu-Sith. “You are alive are you not? Be thankful Loec likes you very much. Now begone, for Cu-Sith will dance the dance of war and it would be wise of you not to get too close.”
Kyarno nodded and staggered towards the dais as Cu-Sith shouted, “Wardancers! Begin the storm of blades!”
Naieth tried to shut out the sounds of battle as she reached deep inside herself for the power needed to do what must be done. Her elven soul cried out to unleash the terrible energies of the forest against the betrayers, but she had foreseen this moment and knew she needed all her power for one thing.
She had not used magic this powerful in many decades and the thought of tapping into the vital heart of the forest both excited and terrified her.
Naieth knelt beside Lord Aldaeld, his chest a soaking mess of blood where Valas Laithu’s dagger had pierced his heart. The elven lord’s skin was ashen and his eyes unseeing, but she could sense that death had not yet claimed him, though its shadow hovered near.
Watching the unequal struggle unfold between Valas Laithu and the Hound of Winter, tears blurred her eyes as the blow she knew would end Tarean Stormcrow’s life finally landed. Behind her, the battle in the hall raged with undiminished violence, vengeance driving the Laithu and betrayed fury filling the hearts of the Eadaoin.
“Please,” begged Morvhen, her hands stained with her father’s blood. “Save him!”
“I will try,” said Naieth, “but it will be difficult. Take my hand, child.”
Morvhen reached over and Naieth took her slippery hand placing it on the wound that still weakly pumped blood down Lord Aldaeld’s robes. The heart had not yet stopped beating, which meant there was still a chance to save him.
“Focus all your thoughts on your love for your father, child,” ordered Naieth, pressing her own hand atop Morvhen’s. “Picture him in his prime, as a warrior of brave heart and noble aspect. Can you do that?”
“I will,” cried Morvhen. “Just please save him.”
Naieth nodded and began speaking the words of power, feeling the ancient strength of Athel Loren’s magic rush to fill her, breathing deeply and opening, herself to the magic of the forest. She gasped as its power poured into her, the rampant need of the forest to grow and spread tempered by her desire to preserve the natural balance of the world.
She let the power flow from her, surging though her fingertips, through Morvhen and into the flesh of Lord Aldaeld. Her eyes shone with golden fire as she saw the terrible damage wreaked within his chest. She shaped the healing powers to her will, reknitting the torn muscle of his heart and forcing the sliced arteries to regrow.
Naieth felt the power of the Queen of the Forest working through her, warmth and healing compassion pouring from her in a wave of incredible strength. The flesh around Aldaeld’s wound changed from angry red to pink, the skin sealing up over the wound and the bruising around it fading to nothing.
The power flowed through Aldaeld and into his throne, the wood cracking and splitting as new life and new ambition for growth seized it. Budding branches writhed from the back of the throne, bursting to verdant life and blossoming with snow-white flowers that curled and grew higher and higher. The throne writhed with power, growing into a tall tree with spreading branches and an intoxicating scent.
Aldaeld gasped and cried out as his chest hiked convulsively, his eyes snapping open in shock at the power within him.
Morvhen cried out in elation as her father’s eyes opened and he gave vent to a cry of terrible rage.
Kyarno leapt to the dais as a ferocious, ululating yell built from the throats of the wardancers and their battle dance began. Cu-Sith led his spinning, leaping warriors as they bounded through the hall, swords and spears stabbing and slashing at their foes as they wove through the battle with lethal grace. Screams and cries of pain followed in their wake as shrieking, laughing wardancers struck down warriors of the Laithu kinband and left those of the Eadaoin unscathed.
Valas Laithu and Cairbre fought behind Lord Aldaeld’s strange, new throne, the Hound of Winter bleeding from deep wounds to his arm and leg. He fought with the Blades of Midnight clutched in one hand, his wounded arm held tight to his chest.
“Valas Laithu!” shouted Kyarno, leaping forward with his sword aimed at his foe’s heart.
The lord of the Laithu kinband spun, smiling with malicious anticipation as he saw Kyarno coming. The Spear of Daith whipped around, deflecting Kyarno’s attack, the haft coming round and thudding into Kyarno’s stomach.
Kyarno doubled up, swaying aside as the spear point stabbed for his chest. The blade scored across his side and he leapt back as the magical weapon’s return stroke slashed at his head.
“I will enjoy killing you, outlaw!” snarled Valas Laithu as he closed in.
Kyarno parried a thrust of the spear and circled left as the Hound of Winter flanked Valas from the right. The sounds of battle began to fade from the hall, the clash of weapons and the battle cries of the wardancers replaced with the moans of the injured and the weeping for the dead.
“It’s over, Valas,” said Cairbre, pointing to the terrible aftermath of the battle for Coeth-Mara. “Your warriors are defeated. Put up your weapon.”
Valas backed away from the Hound of Winter, his fair ashen as he saw the blackened, burned form of Sirda lying sprawled across a table, the lust for battle draining from him in an instant.
“I cannot,” said Valas sadly. “I am set upon this course and have sworn the oath of vengeance with the Kindred of Talu.”
Kyarno’s blood chilled at the mention of the Talu, a dark and dangerous kindred of elves sworn to fulfil oaths of retribution for terrible wrongs done to them.
“
You are a Mourn-singer?” asked Kyarno, lowering his weapon. “Then there is no peace for you until you die or you slay me.”
“Even so,” agreed Valas Laithu as Lord Aldaeld climbed from his throne of blossoming life with Morvhen and Naieth’s help to stand before him. Kyarno saw the anguished relief on Cairbre’s face as he saw that his lord still lived, which was quickly replaced by simmering anger as he turned back to Valas Laithu.
“You will not leave this hall alive, Lord Valas,” promised the Hound of Winter.
“I know,” replied Valas, the imminence of his death granting him a dignity he had not possessed in life. “What is left to me now anyway? The outlaw has seen to it that my sons are no more and that my line will vanish from the forest like the wythel trees. Death is all I have left.”
“It did not have to be this way, Valas,” said Lord Aldaeld, his palm pressed to his chest where he had been stabbed.
“No? What would you have done if he had been responsible for your daughter’s death?” asked Valas, pointing at Kyarno. “Could you have forgiven him?”
Lord Aldaeld shook his head and said, “I suppose not, but it changes nothing, Valas. I cannot let you live.”
“No, you cannot,” agreed Valas. “I would ask a boon of you before I die though.”
“Name it.”
“Allow those of my warriors who still live to return to their homes. They took no oath and have followed my lead in all things with honour and love. Let them live to bear my body back to the Vaults of Winter that it may lie beneath the moonlight.”
Aldaeld nodded and said, “It shall be so, Valas, I swear by Isha’s mercy that they will live.”
“Thank you,” said Valas, placing the Spear of Daith on the ground as Kyarno heard the sound of an armoured warrior approaching the dais.
He turned to see Leofric enter the hall, leading a pale, blood spattered elven steed with a coppery mane. A broken arrow jutted from the metal of his armour and his sword was blooded.
Aldaeld also faced Leofric, and said, “Human, is my domain safe?”