Kyarno and Cairbre locked eyes and Morvhen could easily see the familial bond in both their features. But where the Hound of Winter was tempered by battle and age, Kyarno’s face still carried all the fires and foibles of youth.
“Stop this foolishness!” she cried, her voice laden with all the noble authority of her lineage. “There will be no blood spilt this day. Cairbre, take me back to Coeth-Mara, I wish to return to the halls of my father.”
“As you wish, my lady,” nodded Cairbre, turning away from his nephew.
As Cairbre led her horse towards the edge of the glade, Kyarno lowered his bow. Morvhen saw the fire dim in his eyes, his anger replaced by sadness. She wanted to go to him, to say something hopeful, but knew that Cairbre would never allow it. The Hound of Winter may have tutored her since she was a child, but he was still her father’s champion, first and foremost.
As they reached the edge of the clearing, Cairbre turned his horse and shouted back to Kyarno. “You too should head back to Coeth-Mara, boy. Lord Aldaeld desires to speak with you.”
“He does?” replied Kyarno, warily. “Why?”
“Don’t be stupid, boy,” said Cairbre, seeing the defiance in Kyarno’s eyes, “you know better than to disobey such a command. Make your way to your lord’s hall. Now.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll drag you there myself,” stated Cairbre.
Kyarno swung onto the back of his horse and said, “One day you will push me too far, old one.”
The Hound of Winter did not answer, but Morvhen saw the disappointment in his eyes as Kyarno yelled and pulled on his steed’s mane, riding hard and plunging into the darkness of the forest.
The warm dusk of the forest closed in around Morvhen and Cairbre, fluttering spites in the shape of glittering butterflies lighting their way as they flew alongside the horses. A gentle breeze blew from the west, carrying smoky, aromatic scents and the sounds of life, and Morvhen felt the invigorating heartbeat of the forest in her blood as she rode once more beneath its russet canopy.
As they rode from the glade towards the settlement of Coeth-Mara, Morvhen rounded on Cairbre, her anger rising as she saw his grim exterior assert itself once more.
“Must you always be so harsh on him?” she said. “He has gone through so much.”
“I know,” said Cairbre. “I was there when the beasts killed his family, remember? But the boy brings trouble on his own head, my lady.”
“Do you hate Kyarno?” asked Morvhen.
“Hate him?” exclaimed Cairbre, turning to face her. “No, of course I do not hate him. He is my kinsman and I love him, but there is a madness to him that I do not understand.”
“Have you ever really tried?”
“Believe me, I have, but every time we speak we argue, as though he sees my every word as an insult. As much as I wish to, I cannot reach the boy and I am too old to change my ways now.”
Seeing a rare moment of vulnerability in the warrior, Morvhen reached out and placed her hand on the metal of Cairbre’s bronze vambrace and said, “His heart is true, Hound of Winter, trust to that.”
“I know,” said Cairbre sadly, “I see courage and the seeds of greatness within him and know that he could become a fine warrior. But he takes after his father in too many ways and I fear that will be the undoing of him and anyone close to him.”
“Come now, Cairbre. Surely you’re exaggerating?”
“You think so? What about his theft of the Laithu kinband’s steeds from their stable glades? That foolishness may cost your father dear and I do not wish to see you caught up in his reckless folly.”
“He released the Laithu steeds almost as soon as he stole them,” pointed out Morvhen. “He only took them to prove that he could.”
“That is not the point,” replied Cairbre. “Valas Laithu is not quick to forgive an insult done to his kinband. He will demand recompense.”
Morvhen nodded, remembering the last time she had met Valas Laithu and his odious sons: a gathering of kinbands at the King’s Glade sixty years ago. She had not liked him then and had no reason to suppose he had changed any in the intervening years.
“Valas is a snake,” said Morvhen.
“Aye, he is,” agreed Cairbre, “but a powerful one, and that is another reason why you must not remove yourself from my protection. The forest is a dangerous place at this time of year, and if something were to happen to you, Lord Aldaeld would have my life. And that of Kyarno. You know this, yet still you defy his wishes.”
“I am not a child anymore, Cairbre,” said Morvhen. “You taught me to shoot and to fight. I can take care of myself.”
Cairbre chuckled. “Of that I have no doubt, but I have sworn to protect the Eadaoin kinband as well as Athel Loren, and the Hound of Winter does not forswear such an oath.”
Morvhen nodded, grateful to have such a faithful protector as Cairbre, and they rode on in silence through the secret paths known only to the Eternal Guard, before eventually reaching the glittering lights and warmth that were the elven halls of Coeth-Mara. Its beauty never failed to captivate Morvhen and she rode into the settlement with a light in her heart.
“Home…” she said.
Golden light like honey.
Silken voices like a symphony of maidens.
The sensation of floating, as though in a dream.
Leofric felt at peace, his limbs relaxed and lightweight, his body cured of all its hurts. He smiled dreamily to himself, the singsong voices spinning in his head like dancers, coyly flitting from understanding as he tried to concentrate on what was being said.
Flickering lights fluttered before his eyes, though he could feel they were still shut. Tiny, shrill laughter seemed to come from the lights and slowly he opened his gummed eyes, squinting against the brightness.
A trio of hazy green lights hovered in the air above him, insubstantial wings flickering behind them and giggling faces swimming in each one’s depths. The distant voices grew louder as he rose from sleep to wakefulness, their meaning still a mystery to him, but their ethereal beauty beyond question.
The green lights spun away from him, squealing in fright as his eyes opened.
Above him he could see the slender branches of several trees, their boughs curving gracefully to form a leafy, arched roof, through which he could see the cool, pale blue of the sky. He pushed himself upright on his elbows, his head still groggy as though he had drunk too much wine. He was lying on a bed of golden leaves nestled between the roots of a mighty oak. A silken sheet of golden cloth covered him and from its soft, almost liquid touch on his skin, he could feel he was naked beneath it.
A low partition of woven branches and impossibly graceful saplings offered him some privacy, though not from the laughing lights that bobbed and wove in the air above him. He heard distant music carried on the fragrant air, its lilting melodies both beguiling and terrible, and smelled a mouth-watering aroma of nearby cooking.
He lifted a hand to his head, trying to remember how he had come to this place, wherever this place actually was…
Memories struggled through the cloudy mists of recall, but they remained frustratingly out of reach. The flickering lights darted down from the roof to hover before him again, and though he knew he should be wary of such things, he felt nothing but a faint amusement at their impish behaviour. One transformed into a ghostly image of a tiny knight on horseback, another a flitting butterfly. The third swooped and dived between them, daring them to chase it as they zipped around his head.
He laughed, the sound sending the creatures rushing back to the safety of the roof as he saw two tall women glide into view from around the partition of saplings. As they drew near, he saw they did not glide, but walked with such effortless grace that it seemed they barely touched the ground they walked upon.
Leofric felt his jaw hang open at their beauty, their forms slender and exquisite. Clad in ankle-length, crimson dresses, the women had long, fine-boned features with alabaster skin, pale a
nd smooth like a doll’s. Their eyes were oval and dark, their hair bound up in coiled, leaf-bound tresses above their gracefully curved, pointed ears.
Something in their appearance tugged at the cords of memory, but such thoughts evaporated as they smiled hesitantly at him, and his heart broke to see such beauty in that simple gesture.
“What…” he said. “Where…”
His heart lurched as he realised he looked upon the features of elves, the faerie folk, the woodland creatures. The lords and ladies of the wood. His heart hammered in his chest, fear and dread warring with the allure and beauty of the elven maids before him.
One carried a bowl of crystal water and a wooden platter of fruit and bread, the second a bundle of what appeared to be neatly folded clothes. The food was offered to him and he gratefully snatched a handful of berries, wolfing them down as he suddenly felt a fierce hunger.
He had taken several mouthfuls, the juice of the berries staining his chin, when he noticed a tiny disdainful curl to the elf maid’s mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping the juice from his face. “My manners have deserted me.”
The elf maid tilted her head curiously to one side, glancing at her companion who set down the clothes beside him, clearly not understanding his words. She spoke a few words in a language Leofric did not know, but could have listened to for hours, such was its lyrical splendour.
The other shook her head, reaching out to pull the silken sheet from him and Leofric was seized by a sudden fear as she touched his skin. He held himself immobile, trying not to imagine what manner of enchantment the touch of the fey folk might put upon him.
Her fingers were long and dexterous, questing beneath the sheet to his hip, and despite himself he could not help but be aroused by her touch. Fighting to hide his embarrassment, he reached out to remove her hand. Fast as quicksilver, her hand was withdrawn before he could touch her and she backed away from him, her umber eyes wide and fearful.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, grunting in pain as he felt stitches pull tight across his hip and he shifted position to better conceal his shame. The pain cut through the fog of his awakening and his smothered memories, and he moaned in fear as he remembered the battle with the forest creatures; he and his men-at-arms blundering like blind men through the forest searching for…
“Helene!” he cried, fear and loss tearing at him as the full weight of remembrance surged into his mind. He remembered the pallid, hag-faced forest wraiths that tore his men apart and the awful screams of his squire as the tree creature had stabbed him with fingers like long daggers.
“Helene!” he said once again, pushing himself away from the fearful elf maids. They backed away, quickly disappearing from sight behind the screen of slender, curved branches.
Tears of loss streamed down his face as he realised he had lost Helene, lost her to the damned forest of dark magicks. Hot anger flared at the thought of another of the Carrard line taken by Athel Loren and he cast his eyes around this place looking for a weapon, anything with which to strike back at the evil creatures that had taken his beloved.
Leofric threw off the sheet and staggered to his feet, swaying as he realised how weak he still was. Sweet Lady, they had taken everything from him! Helene…
He dropped to his knees as grief swamped him and he wept bitter tears as the enormity of his loss threatened to crush him in its grip. Leofric howled his pain to the skies, beating his fists against the thick roots of the oak, scattering his bed of leaves and cursing all the gods of the world. The green lights that fluttered around him, dropped towards him, their giggling faces now drawn into fearful grimaces and fanged, skeletal grins.
He collapsed against the thick trunk of the great oak, his warrior’s anger brimming over and submerging his grief for the moment. He turned, dizzy and weak, and batted away the lights, shouting, “Get away from me, damn you!”
They buzzed away from him, a kaleidoscope of colours flashing through their insubstantial bodies, angrily hissing at him as they grew horns and claws of light.
He ignored them and gathered up the clothes the elf maids had left him, tugging on a pair of soft, buckskin trousers and a thin overshirt of cream silk.
Leofric wiped the tears from his eyes and ran his hands through his shoulder-length black hair, taking deep breaths and gathering his strength. He had no idea where in the forest he was, but was damned if he would meekly face whatever fate the elves had in store for him. The elf maids had long since fled and he was in no doubt as to the fact that they would even now be seeking help.
Fighting to keep his grief at bay he moved swiftly around the saplings the elf maids had disappeared behind and found himself in a wide chamber of curved walls crafted from gently swaying branches and leaves. The floor was an elegant weave of thin branches and coloured stone that formed a graceful mosaic. Through gaps in the wall, he saw flashes of other figures and the verdant green of the forest.
The irritating floating balls of light still followed him, darting in with shrill shrieks and whipping around his head as he limped towards a leaf-shaped archway that looked as though it offered the best chance of escape.
He had taken only a few steps, keeping one hand pressed to his hip, the other batting away the troublesome spites that continued to pester him, when two warriors in segmented golden armour over rugged brown tunics stepped through the arch. Both wore long grey cloaks and open helmets of fluted bronze, with elaborate patterns etched into the metal. Each bore a pair of curved daggers at his side and a quiver of arrows slung at his shoulder.
“Ah… I wondered when someone like you would show up,” grunted Leofric as they each drew one of their long, slender bladed daggers. Leofric knew full well that unarmed and unarmoured, he would be killed if he fought these elves, but his grief drove him onwards and he lunged at the nearest as they warily approached him.
The elf nimbly sidestepped his clumsy attack, moving with a liquid grace that amazed Leofric with its speed. He could see amusement on their narrow, alien faces and he furiously attacked again, launching a thunderous right hook at one of the elves. Again his blow was dodged and Leofric knew he would never be able to strike these warriors. In the King’s Errantry War, he had been privileged to witness Kislevite Droyaska fight in battle, swordsmen who could move with incredible speed, but this was something else entirely, the elves displayed a rapidity that bordered on prescience.
“Stand still, damn you!” he roared, missing with yet another punch and feeling his already weakened constitution falter. He dropped to one knee, his breathing hoarse and ragged, blood seeping from the torn stitches on his hip.
After a pause, the two elves reached down to drag him to his feet. It was the moment Leofric had been waiting for and he snapped his head back, slamming it into the face of one of the elves as he leaned down. The elf staggered back, blood streaming from his broken nose and Leofric spun, snatching the remaining dagger from the scabbard at his hip. He slashed at the second warrior, who leapt aside, only barely avoiding having his belly opened.
“Ha! Not so tough when your prey has a weapon, eh?”
Leofric turned to the stunned elf and kicked him between the legs, dropping him to the floor with a grunt of pain.
But before he could deliver the killing blow, a silver-white blade swept out from behind him and plucked the blade from his hand, sending it spinning across the room. Leofric turned in time to see another elf warrior, similarly attired to the others, but with a silver hound engraved upon his armour. He was older, with an implacable coldness to his eyes, and carried a spinning spear with two shimmering white blades.
The spear slashed towards his legs, its bladed edge turning at the last minute and the haft hooking his legs out from under him. Leofric crashed to the floor, the breath whooshing from his lungs as he hit the ground. He struggled to rise, but saw the elf with the cold eyes standing over him, the two-bladed spear aimed squarely at his throat.
“Do not move, human,” said the warrior, his voic
e redolent with age and threat. “I am Cairbre, the Hound of Winter, and I will kill you if you so much as touch one of my warriors again.”
Leofric’s eyes darted between the tip of the spear, its lethal point a hair’s breadth from his Adam’s apple, and the furious features of the elf. He saw an icy resolve in his face, and knew that were he to move in any way that displeased this Cairbre, the spear would be instantly rammed through his throat.
Leofric nodded, the movement almost imperceptible thanks to the blade at his neck.
“I would kill you now, but Naieth wishes you alive,” said Cairbre.
“Who?”
“The Prophetess.”
“The witch?” sneered Leofric, remembering the female elf that had appeared to him in the forest. “What could an elf witch have to tell me that I would want to hear?”
“Your future,” said Cairbre, touching the cold blade to his neck. “Or, more precisely, whether you have one.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Fangs snapped shut on the iron plates of the Beastlord’s armour, breaking on the thick metal as the wolf-headed monster slashed at its bronzed flanks with sharp talons. The Beastlord rolled, using its superior weight to pin its opponent, but before it could snap the neck of the challenger, the wolf-creature squirmed free of its grip and savagely tore at its flesh in a flurry of tooth and claw.
Blood the colour of liquid bronze splashed the glistening rocks and the Beastlord hammered its gauntleted fist into the challenger’s face. Fangs snapped and spittle flew in the rain-lashed air as the combatants snarled and roared and pummelled one another in a frenzy of blows. The Beastlord lowered its head and rammed a ridged horn into the wolfs belly, tearing upwards with a powerful twist of its thickly ridged neck muscles.
The wolf-monster howled and leapt back, pressing a clawed hand to its torn side, desperation clear in its wide eyes as the Beastlord’s monstrous spawn slithered after it, a multitude of snapping, tentacled mouths and grasping, clawed pseudopods. The Beastlord growled, hauling on the spawn’s chain and pulling it away.