Tower of Blood

Tony Ballantyne

The ceiling was dripping blood.

It dripped on the bald head of Goedendag Morningstar, Adeptus Astartes of the Iron Knights chapter, and the Space Marine made no move to wipe it away.

‘How many floors lie above us?’ he asked.

Though the Imperial Guard trooper was a big woman, she would still have been dwarfed by Goedendag even had he not been wearing his powered armour.

‘One hundred and forty-three floors,’ she managed to say, awestruck by this post-human demigod. She straightened up, despite her exhaustion. ‘Eight hundred and sixty-five lie below us. We met the horde in battle at the nine hundredth floor. They pushed us back to here. Many lives were lost in action, many more civilians were evacuated.’

‘But not all,’ said Ortrud. The Iron Knights had completed their survey of the eight hundred and fifty-sixth floor; now they clustered around their commander.

‘Not all,’ agreed the Guard, looking around the seven men now towering over her in their gunmetal and black armour, streaked red with dripping blood. Their unhelmed heads seemed so small, lost in the heart of the powerful machinery of their suits. ‘By no means all. There are thousands still trapped above us, all at the mercy of the warp fiends.’

‘The warp fiends do not understand the meaning of mercy,’ said Fastlinger. ‘Commander, may we now don our helmets?’ He drew his hand across his face.

‘No,’ said Goedendag. ‘We fight unhelmed. We do not want to lead civilians into areas where we are safe and they are not. What if we led them into a vacuum?’ He noticed the way the Imperial Guardswoman was looking at him. ‘Do you have a question?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering, why do you wear two morning stars on your back?’

Goedendag smiled.

‘For weapons.’

‘You seem different to other Space Marines.’

‘Have you met many?’ asked Fastlinger.

Goedendag flashed him a warning look. The Imperial Guard were an honoured force; they did not deserve to be ridiculed.

‘The Iron Knights are siege specialists,’ said Goedendag. ‘The warp fiends have sealed off the top floors and surrounded this tower with a warp instability that is spreading across the sky, threatening the neighbouring hives. This siege needs to be broken now.’

The Guardswoman was torn between exhaustion and awe. Still, something caused her to speak.

‘Are you going to wait for the Ordo Malleus?’

‘The inquisition’s daemonhunters are not here,’ interrupted Telramund. ‘Goedendag, I grow weary. Let us join the fight!’

‘Peace, Telramund! This soldier stands alone in a room with seven Iron Knights in full armour–’

‘Save for their helms,’ muttered Fastlinger.

‘If things had been otherwise, we would have found nought here but corpses. She is brave indeed.’ Goedendag looked down at her.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kelra.’

‘Then listen to me, Kelra. You and your troops have done well to hold back the daemons, but now it is our turn.’

He waved a hand around the floor. It was empty save for the four lift shafts that ran to the top of the hive building. All the internal walls, all the possessions of those who had once lived here were vaporised, smashed, shattered, destroyed by the weapons of the Imperial Guard as they had fought to hold their ground. The wide, low space was filled with darkness, the stench of battle, the drip of blood. Even the stairs had broken away. The stairs; the last route of escape for those lucky civilians who had not taken the lifts. The shafts still creaked with the agony of those caught within.

‘Kelra, before we leave, you mentioned something about the origin of the warp rift?’

Kelra nodded, pleased to help.

‘I have heard something. Escaping civilians have spoken about a Gutor Invareln who lived on the nine hundred and ninety-second floor. He was a bitter man, an outcast. He claimed he was a latent psyker, that he had been ignored by the Imperium. His neighbours laughed, they thought he was seeking attention. The children mocked him, asked him why he had not been taken to Terra, but Invareln would scowl in answer that he was deliberately forgotten.’

‘He was a psyker,’ said Franosch, concentrating. ‘His mind is now possessed by a daemon. A greater daemon. He is the portal by which the lesser daemons are entering this world.’

Kelra’s eyes widened as she looked to Franosch.

‘He’s a psyker too?’ she asked.

‘Gamma level at best,’ answered Franosch. He turned to Goedendag. ‘Commander, there are daemonettes above us. Many, many daemonettes.’

‘Enough talk,’ said Telramund. ‘The instability is spreading.’

Goedendag looked up at the ceiling, watched the clotting drops forming stalactites.

‘So much blood,’ he said. ‘Telramund is right. We move out. Draw your chainswords.’

Telramund was already holding his meltagun. ‘This weapon will suit me fine, commander.’

‘And what of the civilians who stand above us? No meltaguns, no flamers, no frag grenades…’

‘How about missile launchers?’ said Fastlinger, innocently.

‘How about you take point, Fastlinger?’ replied Goedendag. He noted the look of disappointment on Telramund’s face. ‘Telramund, you accompany him.’

Telramund smiled as he holstered his meltagun and drew his chainsword. An angry buzzing noise sounded as he set it in motion, a buzz that was immediately answered by Fastlinger’s weapon.

The Iron Knights began to move apart, assuming combat positions.

‘Gottfried. The battle cry.’

Gottfried looked down at the floor and clasped his hands together. In a low voice, he intoned the words: ‘Strike, death, as silent as the swan.’

The rest of the group repeated the words.

Now the other chainswords powered up, the angry screeching made all the louder as it echoed from the low ceiling. Low ceilings, the better to cram in more humans, ready to work on this manufactory world.

The time for joking had passed, and Fastlinger looked to his comrades and saw they were all ready. He looked to Goedendag last. The commander nodded and Fastlinger raised his sword to the ceiling, the angry buzz rising to a scream as it cut through the thin metal. Immediately, there was a convulsive eruption of blood, dark blood rupturing through the widening crack. It spilled down over Fastlinger’s cutting arm and shoulder, running down the blue gunmetal and black of his powered armour. He shifted his position and his feet slipped on the pools that congealed around his feet. Retractable spikes sprang forth from the soles of his power armour, holding him in place.

Kelra, the Imperial Guard trooper, backed away, dodging a second burst of blood as Telramund too began to cut into the ceiling. The tide of blood widened with the hole, and now smooth yellow shapes slipped through amongst the liquid. Rounded and polished, they splashed and knocked on the floor.

‘That’s a skull,’ said Kelra. Still, she stood her ground, noted Goedendag. Not for nothing had the Imperial Guard gained the respect of humanity.

Goedendag gestured Franosch forward, and the psyker stood at the edge of the widening waterfall of blood.

‘They know we’re here,’ he said. ‘They are eager to meet us.’

‘Who? The daemonettes?’

‘Oh yes. They are filled with the bitter joy of battle, and yet… something is holding them back.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Something at the top of the tower.’

‘Will this tide never end?’ called Telramund impatiently. He was itching to fight.

‘Surely this is more blood than all the humans of the hive would hold?’ said Kelra.

‘Some of it spills from the portal,’ said Franosch.

‘Enough of this,’ said Goedendag. ‘The gap is wide enough! Through it! Go!’

Fastlinger crouched and then jumped upwards on leg muscles massively expanded by the biscopea implanted in his chest. He soared through the gap above him in a spray of ruby, followed closely by Telramund.

Now Goedendag stepped forward. Despite the fact that he heard the buzzing of chainswords above him, the innate courtesy of the Iron Knights caused him to pause for a moment and turn to Kelra.

‘Thank you for your help,’ he said.

‘I’ll be waiting here for your return.’

Drips of blood bouncing from his bald head and matting his long white beard, Goedendag Morningstar jumped up into the space above.

He landed on the eight hundred and fifty-seventh floor, his balance thrown by the tide of blood swirling into the hole. Something white came flashing in at his side; something sharp was pricking towards his eye. He swung his chainsword, shearing through the crab claw of the daemonette who bore down upon him. The white skinned woman hissed at him, her rusty hair plastered by blood to her bare shoulders.

‘Goolvar h’nurrgh!’ she spat, and made to draw something from behind her back. It was a feint! As Goedendag brought his chainsword up to parry the attack, she kicked out at him, a three-toed foot tipped in razor-sharp claws scratching across the armour on his sword arm. Goedendag made to chop at her leg, but she gripped him with her foot and held on, twisting the chainsword upwards.

Now the daemonette smiled at him, her sweet, seductive body undulating as she brought the snake-fiend from behind her back. She hissed, and lashed the fiend forwards like a whip. Its eyes blazed, its mouth, surrounded by a ring of venom pierced needles, snapping towards Goedendag’s face. His chainsword-wielding hand was trapped by the daemonette’s foot.

The betcher’s glands in Goedendag’s mouth had been working overtime, and he spat corrosive acid into the eyes of the lashing snake-fiend. The creature screamed and drew back in pain. Goedendag flicked the chainsword to his left hand, then brought the weapon up as if to parry quinte, slicing through the snake-fiend’s body. He carried on with the movement, circling down to cut through the daemonette’s leg. She screamed and jumped forward, needle teeth moving within her mouth, but Goedendag’s right hand now reached to his shoulder and took hold of one of the morning stars there. He brought the weapon forward in a circle, cracking it down on the daemonette’s skull as, simultaneously, his sword thrust into her body.

She thrashed as she died, her bitter scream rippling the pools of blood gathered on the floor.

‘You took your time on that one,’ said Fastlinger, standing coolly nearby over the bodies of two more dead daemonettes. ‘And we saved her especially for you, too.’

‘You talk too much,’ said Telramund, three daemonettes to his credit.

The other members of the squad were now entering the room, jumping up from below.

‘One hundred and forty-two floors to go,’ announced Ortrud, looking at the dead daemonettes.

‘There are many more above us,’ said Franosch, looking to the dripping ceiling, ‘yet still they hold back.’ He looked at Goedendag. ‘Do you think they know it is us? Are they waiting for us?’

‘Who cares?’ said Telramund. ‘We shall meet them soon enough.’

The daemonettes had been fought to a standstill here as they descended the tower from the warp portal. As they had fought, they had ripped apart the thin walls that partitioned the human apartments crowded into the hive block. The ceiling above had been punctured in many places, and Goedendag and the other Iron Knights could now look up through several floors.

Ortrud waded through ankle-deep blood, kicking aside yellow skulls, the flesh recently ripped from the bone.

‘They sealed this floor to keep the blood in,’ he said.

‘There is blood still dripping down upon us,’ said Telramund, ever impatient.

Franosch was frowning, straining to understand.

‘They carry some of the living through the warp portal,’ he says. ‘I hear their screams. But the daemonettes grow bored. They torture and kill those who remain.’

‘Then let us make speed to meet them,’ said Telramund.

‘Telramund speaks well,’ said Goedendag. ‘Franosch, I see the stairs resume undamaged on the next floor. Is it meet that we should take them?’

‘For the moment.’

They advanced in turns, running in pairs up flights of stairs whilst those behind covered them. As they climbed through the floors, the damage inflicted by the holding action lessened. The internal walls of the hive tower reasserted themselves, and Goedendag and the rest began to make out the tiny apartment spaces in which the civilians had lived.

‘What do they make here?’ asked Gottfried.

‘On Minea? Phosgene gas, mainly. They also export Banedox ore.’

‘Look,’ said Gottfried.

Goedendag looked to the floor. A child’s toy lay there, a model Space Marine.

‘There were children here,’ said Fastlinger. He looked sick. Sometimes the jokes were not quite enough to shut out reality. ‘What did they do with them?’

‘Next floor up,’ said Ortrud. ‘You’ll see.’

They climbed the stairs to the next level.

‘Nine hundredth floor,’ said Gottfried.

‘They sealed the stairwell above,’ said Telramund, looking up.

‘Then we cut through with chainswords,’ said Goedendag.

‘We won’t need chainswords,’ replied Telramund bitterly.

Goedendag moved forward to get a better look. A patchwork had been stitched over the stairwell. Shapes of brown, pink and yellow. Blood seeped through the stitches.

‘That’s children’s skin,’ said Goedendag.

‘That’s daemonettes amusing themselves, killing time,’ said Telramund.

‘It’s a warning line,’ said Franosch. ‘It will summon trouble.’

‘Then I will invite trouble to join me,’ said Goedendag, cutting through the patchwork of flesh with a knife. Blood spurted through, and amongst the curling currents and eddies slipped the writhing bodies of snake-fiends, pouring through the gaps, wriggling as they sought out their human prey. Chainswords buzzed into life once more, and the warriors began to swing at the prickling creatures.

‘They cannot penetrate our armour!’ shouted Fastlinger, cutting a snake-fiend in two in a spray of green ichor that steamed and sizzled on contact with the clotting blood.

‘They’re not trying to penetrate,’ called Ortrud. ‘They seek to entangle us.’

As he spoke, a bundle of snake-fiends whipped their way out of the bloody stream and corkscrewed their way towards Goedendag’s sword arm, seeking to wrap it to his body. Goedendag feinted to the side and then brought his chainsword down on the mass of bodies, their scales dark and shining. The scream of the sword joined the splashing of blood and the hiss of ichor. Through the mass of moist movement he saw the white bodies of the daemonettes of Slaanesh dropping down to join the melee.

‘Too much blood,’ gasped Franosch, launching a coulé attack on a snake-fiend, grazing the chainsword down the side of its body before neatly flicking back to sever the head.

‘Less technique, Franosch,’ called Ortrud, ‘More slashing!’

‘There is too much blood,’ repeated Franosch, stamping down on a bundle of snake-fiends with his spiked boots. ‘Still it pours from the warp.’

‘‘Ware the daemonettes!’ called Gottfried, launching a fleche attack at the closest enemy. A white female staggered towards him, seemingly drunk on blood. Goedendag brought his chainsword up beneath Gottfried’s strike, parrying it.

‘Hold,’ called Goedendag, seeing the look of betrayal in his comrade’s eyes. ‘She’s human.’

The Space Marines halted as one, the mocking laughter of daemonettes filling their ears. They took a moment to discern the situation: the followers of Slaanesh stood at the far side of the wide room, bending, taunting, snapping their crab-like claws at the Space Marines. Now Goedendag’s men realised just what the daemonettes had pushed towards them: human women, stripped naked and daubed with white paint, their hair tied up and stained with blood. Prisoners, sent forward to die on the Space Marine’s blades, for was it not a fact that the followers of Slaanesh delighted in killing their opponents in the most vile and tormenting ways?

‘More snake-fiends!’ called Goedendag, as the writhing creatures rose out of the rising tide of blood, circlets of needle teeth glistening with poison, redoubling their attack, this time on the human women as well as the Space Marines themselves.

It was left to Gottfried and Hellstedt to dispatch the snake-fiends. Ortrud and Fastlinger launched themselves at the daemonettes screaming with insane laughter at the other side of the room. They waited a moment as the Space Marines advanced and then retreated at a sedate pace back up the stairs to the next level, wriggling their bodies in an alluring fashion as they did so, taunting their pursuers.

‘Leave them,’ called Goedendag. ‘Look to the women first.’
Reluctantly, Ortrud and Fastlinger returned to his side.

The unceasing flow of blood continued from above, though the tide was diminishing. It swirled in whirlpools around the stairwells leading further down the tower. Seven human women stood weakly, buffeted by the dying tide. And now Goedendag saw why they had remained silent throughout their torment: their mouths had been sewn shut with thick, red thread. He took a knife from his combat armour and cut through the thread sealing the first woman’s mouth.

‘There are more of them above,’ she shouted, red thread piercing her lips in a grotesque moustache. ‘Hundreds, thousands. They’re waiting for you.’

‘Peace,’ said Goedendag Morningstar. ‘We have the advantage.’

The woman’s eyes widened.

‘No! There are only seven of you. You have no advantage. They make ambushes, deadfalls.’

‘Yes,’ said Goedendag. ‘But they must fight us one floor at a time.’

The other women now had their mouths cut free. Goedendag was impressed to see how they held themselves. Frightened, hurt, it was true, but they had not broken down. He remembered Kelra, the Imperial Guardswoman, and he realised that they bred them tough on Minea.

Franosch stepped forward.

‘There is a warp portal near the top floor,’ he said. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘No,’ said the women in unison, but one of them stepped forward. She was rubbing white ichor from her body as she did so, exposing the dark skin underneath.

‘I have not seen the warp portal, but I have heard from one who has. One who fled down the stairs while the lift shafts filled with fire. He told me there is a daemon up there, a greater daemon.’

‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Franosch.

‘Yet why does it not attack?’ said Ortrud. ‘Why does its horde remain at the top of the tower?’

‘They’re waiting for something. It’s part of the deal.’

‘What deal?’

‘Gutor Invareln,’ said the woman. ‘There was phosgene leak, his body was badly scarred. He was a bitter enough man before his injuries, afterwards he blamed the world for his troubles. He turned upon all his fellow humans; he claimed he was a latent psyker and that he would have his revenge on us all.’

‘Surely this would have brought the inquisition down upon him,’ called Franosch. ‘Most latents try to avoid their attention.’

‘None of us thought anything of his words. Gutor had always sought any attention to make himself seem more important. To him, even the inquisition would have been welcome.’

‘You believe that Gutor made a deal with a daemon?’ said Goedendag.

‘Yes. He wanted to live to see the destruction of all those who lived around him. Only after that would he surrender to death and allow the portal to fully open! And after that…’

‘After the portal is fully open there will be daemons enough for all of Minea,’ said Franosch.

‘Then we must hurry to make the greater daemon’s acquaintance,’ said Goedendag.

‘Meltaguns?’ said Fastlinger.

‘What about the humans?’ said Ortrud.

‘Use them,’ said one of the women. ‘Better a quick death than what they plan.’

‘Chainswords,’ said Goedendag. ‘Telramund. Less than one hundred floors to go. Move out!’

They splashed up the stairs of the tower. Globs of blood gathered in clumps on their boot spikes. They had to pause to shake them free.

The corridors they passed through were empty; they looked into empty rooms where humans had once lived and saw signs of fighting – overturned chairs, broken tables, even food scattered across the pooled blood on the floor – but of bodies, living or dead, there was no sign.

‘Carried away,’ said Franosch, ‘sport for now or later.’

They passed floor nine hundred and ten, then nine hundred and twenty.

‘What’s that?’ asked Ortrud. The noise came again, a shrieking sound as of many voices crying in agony.

‘It’s coming from the elevator shaft,’ said Goedendag.

The black metal wall of the elevator shafts wa their only constant as they climbed, that and the never ending flow of blood. Each set of doors had buckled and melted shut. Once more, the metal of the shafts seemed to hum with an unearthly music.

‘Like a trumpet call, blown from the warp,’ said Ortrud, darkly.

‘The bodies of those who fled,’ said Franosch. ‘Trapped, still living, in the shafts. Boiled in blood and feasted on by snake-fiends.’

On they climbed. On the nine hundred and twenty-seventh floor, the rooms were filled with human feet. On floor nine hundred and twenty-nine, glistening hearts lay in pools, still beating. They pumped blood from pool to pool, from room to room.

‘This is sick even by Slaaneshi standards,’ said Fastlinger. Goedendag said nothing.

Still they climbed.

Franosch concentrated.

‘Next floor,’ he said. ‘Daemonettes. Hundreds of them. The humans lie beyond them. And then…’

He paused, pushing his meagre psychic ability to its limit.

‘…and then nothing again. Nothing until the top of the building, and whatever awaits us there.’

‘It’s an invitation,’ said Goedendag, calmly. ‘Whatever is at the top is waiting for us. Waiting for me.’

The Space Marines looked at each other. Each felt the guilt of their chapter, each felt the determination to atone for the sins of their fellow Iron Knights.

‘Tell us what to do, Goedendag.’

Goedendag looked at his chainsword. His lyman’s ear was attuned to the noises from above now, the pitiful cries of the tortured.

‘We’ve climbed nine hundred and forty floors in search of a fight,’ said Goedendag. ‘Now we’ll have one. I have a plan.’ He smiled slowly. ‘And Fastlinger, it’s time for you to sheathe your chainsword for a while…’

They fixed melta bombs to the ceiling, retreated to the floor below and waited for the explosion.

Ortrud was an expert at demolition. The bombs broke the ceiling and nothing more. Or rather, he broke more than the ceiling, for the ceiling was a floor as well, and as the ground beneath their birdlike feet gave way, the daemonettes of Slaanesh found themselves falling, falling down in a rain of blood, of thrashing limbs, of dust and screams and noise, falling towards floor nine hundred and forty, falling in a tangled mass. And erupting from the centre of this confusion came Goedendag and his Iron Knights.

Chainswords buzzed as they chopped at limbs and clove heads in two.

The daemonettes recovered quickly, righting themselves and lunging towards the Space Marines, slashing their crab-like claws and kicking with clawed feet. The Iron Knights formed a circle; seven chainswords thrust, cut and parried with elegant precision. More daemonettes dropped down from the floors above and Goedendag withdrew to the centre of the circle, the better to take on this new attack. One daemonette dropped headfirst towards him, one clawed arm stretched out, pointing at his face. He sidestepped, took her arm and rammed the claw straight down into the floor, piercing the metal there. He pushed her forward, breaking her arm, but at that moment a second daemonette fell on his back and he felt the eldritch power of her claw pierce the shell of his armour, the shrieking pain transmitted to his body through his black carapace. He reached for one of the two morning stars strapped to his back and pulled it free, the spiked head of the ball scraping across the face of the daemonette. Now he swung the ball around, as if to hit his own back. He heard the sickening crunch as her body was crushed between the ball of the morning star and the ceramite of his suit.

Still more daemonettes dropped into the room. The space was filled with white flesh, the slash of clawsand the buzz and shriek of chainswords. Above him, Goedendag saw a space leading to the nine hundred and forty-second floor, two floors up.

‘Telramund, you’re in charge,’ he called. Summoning all of his enhanced strength, he leapt upwards, catching hold of the bottom-most step.

A claw slashed down and he caught it, pulling the daemonette down to join her sisters below. Quickly, he scrambled up to the next floor.

Daemonettes crowded towards him. Goedendag took a last look at his fellows fighting below, and then he raised his chainsword and charged forward, cutting his way through to the stairs.

He fought his way upwards against the tide of daemonettes, against the tide of blood. All the while, he had the impression that they were playing with him, that they were allowing him to pass, allowing him to climb higher. The waves of daemonettes diminished, though one or two of them still launched themselves at his chainsword.

Now he passed through the floors where the humans lay prisoner. Some were bound, some crawled on their knees, lacking feet, some lay half eviscerated, their shouts of pain weak in their throats, their tormentors called away to fight the Iron Knights.

The humans called out to him for succour. Goedendag ignored them. He could better aid them by confronting whatever lay at the top of this tower.

He pounded on up the flights of stairs, his anger acting as a buffer, pushing away all those that came before him. Now the daemonettes hung back as he passed; now they stood and watched as he climbed, or they turned and headed downwards to the fray with the remaining Iron Knights.

Now he was certain something was waiting for him at the top of the tower. As he climbed higher, a feeling of anxiety prickled at his heels, and he began to understand the nature of what lay ahead.

The sound of fighting faded to leave an eerie emptiness, a weariness that weighed down on his very soul.

He reached the nine hundred and ninetieth floor, and glimpsed an open space above him.

On floor nine hundred and ninety-two, he stepped out into a vast cavern. The last eight floors had been removed to leave a huge space at the very top of the hive tower. A nascent warp portal hung in the middle of the space, silver and black roiling in a halo on the boundary between this reality and the dreadful void of the otherworld. Blood flowed through the warp portal in a thin stream, splashing onto the mound of dead bodies below that lay folded up to look like pebbles. A mound of pink and brown and yellow pebbles, bound in red cord. And there, standing at the summit, surrounded by the dark halo of the nascent warp, bathed in the blood that ran from it, a shape within a shape.

Goedendag climbed the pile of the dead, and finally he came face to face with Gutor Invareln, latent psyker, the cause of all the chaos.

Around the human, Goedendag could see the outline of the creature that had possessed him. Huge and powerful, with a bovine face, one female breast and four arms. Two of them ended in human-like hands, two of them in crab-like claws.

A greater daemon of Slaanesh. A Keeper of Secrets.

The daemon had not achieved full corporeality; it seemed to be still existing in some halfway state as it entered this universe. The psyker was completely possessed, looking out from the translucent form of the demon that surrounded him, eyes vacant, an idiot grin on his face.

The daemon giggled at the sight of Goedendag.

‘How appropriate,’ said the daemon. ‘For the Iron Knights have their secrets, do they not?’

‘And you are a Keeper of Secrets,’ replied Goedendag.

‘What is your name?’

‘Goedendag Morningstar.’

There was silence, broken only by the ever present dripping of blood.

‘Don’t you wish to know my name?’ asked the daemon.

‘No.’

A look of petulance crossed the daemon’s face, like that of a small child denied a toy. It quickly passed.

‘And yet I believe I do hold a secret you wish to know. Do you wish to know the location of your brethren?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The daemon laughed.

‘I know that you are lying. Everyone knows of the penitence of the Iron Knights. Few outside the order know the reason. I am one of them. I am a Keeper of Secrets, and I know the location of your traitor brethren. It lies beyond the portal, Goedendag Morningstar, but I think you know that already. Why else would you have come here?’

‘To kill you, of course.’

The daemon looked beyond Goedendag’s shoulder. Goedendag did not turn. He could hear the skittering, giggling sound made by the Daemonettes who filed into the room behind him.

‘My daughters are here. It would appear the comrades you left behind on the floor below have fallen, Goedendag Morningstar.’

‘It is no disgrace to die in battle.’

‘The traitors you seek thought otherwise, Goedendag Morningstar. They chose Chaos, Goedendag Morningstar. And you nearly chose the same!’

Goedendag said nothing, for to speak with a daemon was to be drawn into an argument with a daemon.

‘I will take your silence as agreement.’ The half seen features of the daemon looked down. Within its form, the psyker beamed with happy idiocy. ‘There is no need for you to lie, Goedendag Morningstar. I can sense the shame within you. It is the only thing that you have that outshines the temptation you feel, for you are full of lust for the pleasures of life. The pleasures denied to a Space Marine.’

Still Goedendag was silent.

‘And I should know. Isn’t that what I am about? The Keeper of Secrets? What secrets could be greater than those we do not want to know about ourselves?’

‘What secrets, indeed?’ said Goedendag tightly.

‘See? You speak! You should not be ashamed, Goedendag Morningstar. Your behaviour does not surprise me. Who is more zealous in following a path than one who has almost fallen from it? A man who was never tempted would not have half your ferocity. Look, it brought you to the top of this tower!’

‘I came to destroy you.’

‘So you say. Come, Goedendag Morningstar. Soon the portal will open fully. Why not pass beyond it? Join your dark brethren. Join the Iron Knights that you call traitors.’

‘Enough talk, Daemon. It is time to fight.’

The daemon laughed.

‘Fight? It is all that you can do to stand, Goedendag Morningstar. Look at you. My very presence induces anguish and ecstasy within you.’

Goedendag looked down at the floor, focussed on the corporeal feet of the psyker that stood within the outline of the daemon, and he tried to concentrate on the reality of the situation. In truth, he felt a savage joy within him that he usually knew best from battle, but this time it was mixed with something more innocent, something that rang with the purity of childhood, but a tainted purity, something polluted by blood and perverted in daemonic fashion. He felt the excitement that he had known when, as an Aspirant, he had first begun the transition to Space Marine, when the gene-seed had been implanted and he had begun the long process of modification. Except now he felt something that he hadn’t known at the time. A deep anguish, a total certainty that the procedure would fail, that his body would reject the process and he would be branded a failure, that he would let down those who had come to depend upon him.

‘You’re strong, daemon’ admitted Goedendag. ‘You are affecting even me.’

‘This human is strong,’ said the daemon, indicating the psyker within himself. ‘Strong enough to offer himself in sacrifice in order to open the portal.’

‘He was a weak man!’ shouted Goedendag.

‘He was a bitter man. Bitter that his powers were overlooked by the Imperium.’

‘He should have been executed as a danger to all.’ Goedendag felt his willpower draining away.

‘Lucky for us that he was not. You know what price he asked in order to sacrifice himself to the portal? Only that he lived long enough to see us succeed. That was one bargain that we were happy to keep.’

Goedendag felt the chainsword getting heavier in his hands.

‘You’re getting weaker,’ said the daemon, as the chainsword slipped though Goedendag’s fingers and clattered to the floor.

‘I can still fight.’

‘I don’t think so. And so, Goedendag, before you die, I have one final question to ask you. Goedendag means Morningstar, does it not?’

‘It does. This is the last question you wish to ask me?’

‘No, you interrupt me. Your name, therefore, is Morningstar Morningstar. Why is that?’

‘Because of this,’ said Goedendag. And he crossed his hands over his chest and, gripping the two morning star handles that were fastened on his back, he swung them up and around, through the translucent outline of the daemon and brought them together, crushing the psyker’s head. There was a crunch of bone, grey matter exploding in a disk between the spikes of the two balls.

The daemon shrieked, and immediately Goedendag felt the sense of anguish and ecstasy decrease.

‘The portal is closing,’ said the daemon. ‘But I will make my mark in this world first!’

Goedendag stooped and scooped the chainsword from the floor. The daemon saw what he was doing and laughed.

‘That will not harm me in this form!’

‘I am not aiming for you,’ replied Goedendag coolly as he triggered the chainsword and used it to cut through the dead psyker’s neck. ‘Removing the head will speed the closing of the rift.’ He straightened up and moved around so that his back was to the shrinking portal.

‘And now,’ he said. ‘What will your daemonettes do? Will they attempt to pass me as they flee for the closing warp?’

The daemon laughed.

‘One man against the force of the daemonettes? I only wish I could sustain corporeality enough to watch you die under their onslaught! As it is, I will take comfort in the fact the location of your Iron Brethren will remain my secret!’

‘Daemon, when I have disposed of your daughters, I will come looking for you. You have my word on that.’

The daemon laughed louder.

‘You say that when you fight only with a chainsword? And listen! My sisters approach now!’

It was true. Goedendag heard the skittering of claws on blood and iron.

‘Only a chainsword, you say,’ said Goedendag, smiling grimly. ‘You forget my morning stars.’

‘And will that be enough?’ laughed the daemon.

‘Let us see,’ said Goedendag, and he triggered the chainsword. The angry buzzing was an invitation to the approaching daemons. He stepped forward and raised his sword.

Simultaneously, eight white-bodied daemons leapt at him, screaming in unison. They raised their crab-like claws and plunged towards Goedendag, teeth bared. Eight more leapt up behind them.

‘Goodbye,’ said the daemon, and Goedendag stepped forward to meet the lithe attackers. The first lunged forward with one snapping claw. Goedendag swung his chainsword in a tight circle that sliced through the claw and into the side of the daemonette that followed. A clawed foot lashed out and took hold of his armoured boot. Goedendag ignored it and slashed at another attacker.

‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Come on, all of you!’

White bodies advanced on all sides. Claws, screaming, blood, ichor. Goedendag stood at the top of a mound of naked, bound bodies, bathed in blood, and he fought like a daemon himself. But there were too many of them. The sheer weight of numbers began to overwhelm him.

And then he heard a shout. There, in the distance, he saw Telramund, armour half broken, bathed in blood and ichor. And behind him, Fastlinger, and then Franosch.

The shout came again.

‘The humans are clear.’

Tired though he was, Goedendag smiled.

‘Now,’ he said, holstering his chainsword, ‘Now it is time for meltaguns!’

The Iron Knights looked at the bodies of the fallen. Goedendag and Franosch watched the shrinking remnants of the closing portal.

‘Anything?’ asked Goedendag.

Franosch shook his head.

‘Sorry. Nothing.’ He wiped his forehead, removing a splash of blood. ‘Did it occur to you that the daemon could be lying?’

Goedendag looked thoughtful.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It knew too much.’

‘Then the Iron Brethren exist somewhere in the warp. The story is true.’

‘Perhaps…’ He place a warning hand on Franosch’s arm. Kelra, the Imperial Guardswoman had entered the room.

‘So, Goedendag,’ she said, ‘you succeeded. The tower is secure. The civilians are safe. Thank you.’

‘We don’t do this for gratitude,’ said Goedendag. ‘Don your helmets, brothers. It’s time to leave.’

‘But–’ called Kelra.

‘Thank you, sister,’ said Goedendag. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

The First Duty

Joshua Reynolds

‘What is the first duty, young Goetz?’

‘To go where we are needed, hochmeister,’ Hector Goetz had said promptly. Goetz was a young man, tall and broad in all the right places with the pale, fair features of the Talabheim aristocracy. His hair was shorn close to the scalp, as was proper for one of his station, and his wrists and shoulders were thick with muscle. It had been only three short weeks since he’d won his spurs in his final test – a bloody melee with a band of orcs in the hills near Talabheim.

‘And what is the second?’

‘To do what must be done!’ Goetz had replied, crashing a fist against the embossed twin-tailed comet on his brightly polished cuirass.

And the hochmeister had smiled sadly. Goetz hadn’t realised why at the time.

Now, however, he was beginning to understand.

Armour the colour of brass reflected the light of the burning mill as the horse reared, steel-shod hooves lashing out to connect with brutish skulls. A man howled as a sword sheared through his raised arm, sending both his blade and the hand that wielded it flying off into the smoke. Another warrior staggered as the sword whipped around to chop through its shield and into the skull beyond.

Hector Goetz grunted and ripped his sword free with a surge of muscle as his horse spun, bugling a challenge to the stallion charging to meet them. Goetz, eyes narrowed within his helm, set his horse into motion to meet this newest threat. The rider, a pale-skinned, spade-bearded brute, gave a guttural cry as he swung his heavy, chopping blade wildly.

Goetz twisted to the side as the horses crashed against one another and swung his shield between himself and his opponent’s weapon. As the blade chunked into the surface of the shield, Goetz shifted, pushing the sword away and his opponent off balance. His own blade met the bared surface of the man’s neck in a spray of blood. The head toppled, jaws still champing. Goetz grabbed the reins and turned the horse.

With a rending crash, the mill wheel collapsed into the Talabec, taking part of the mill with it. His attention diverted, the young knight barely managed to avoid the stroke of the axe that was aimed at his hip.

Goetz threw himself from his saddle, crashing to the ground with a clatter. Rolling to his feet, he stumbled back as the axe chopped towards him.

It was a crude thing, battered and beaten into a rough approximation of shape. Despite its crudity it was still dangerous and Goetz bent backwards as it looped past his visor. Its wielder wore the stink of death like a cloak, and his grunt of effort as he regained his balance was bestial.

He swung the axe up again and brought it crashing down on Goetz’s shield. The ill-treated blade shivered and splintered, and Goetz swept it aside without thought as he drove his sword point-first into the man’s belly. The man folded up over the blade and dropped, screaming.

Goetz wrenched his weapon free and stepped back, fighting a surge of nausea as his opponent thrashed on the ground.

‘Sir Hector, look out!’

Goetz ducked as a hammer pummelled the air inches away from the back of his skull. He reversed his blade and stabbed it back into his attacker. The man wailed and slid off the blade as Goetz turned. Breathing shallowly, he looked around. ‘Thank you, Captain Hoffman,’ he said.

‘Think nothing of it, Sir Hector.’ Dressed in the crimson and gold finery of an officer in the Talabecland militia, now smudged and fouled with soot, Captain Hoffman leaned on his sword and spat. ‘All dead, curse the luck.’

‘All–’ Goetz pushed up his visor and looked around. Bodies lay scattered everywhere around the burning mill. ‘No! No!’ he said. Then, more quietly, ‘Too late.’ He stabbed his sword into the dirt to clean it. ‘Again, too late.’ He looked at the other man. ‘Call your men together, Captain Hoffman. We need to put this fire out and check for–’

‘Let it burn,’ a rough voice interjected. Goetz turned. A man clad in the tanned leathers and rough pelts of a forester gestured towards the fire with his blood-stained hatchet. ‘Let it burn. There won’t be any survivors and no sense wasting the effort. Not when we could be putting it to better uses.’

‘You don’t know that!’ Hoffman snarled, wiping sweat and soot off of his brow. He looked at Goetz. ‘Sir Hector, we have to at least try!’

Goetz hesitated but then regretfully shook his head as he looked at the crumbling mill. ‘No. No, Lothar is correct. Let it burn out.’ He spat, trying to clear his mouth of the taste of smoke. ‘They’re all dead.’

Just like last time. Just like every time. Every person they had come to save, every person in every isolated mill and farmstead between the river and Volgen. ‘It was just wishful thinking, I suppose.’

He forced himself to breathe and planted his sword point first into the ground. Prayer wasn’t something he was normally comfortable with, being from the aristocracy. He knelt and bowed his head, murmuring a swift prayer to Myrmidia, the patron-goddess of the Order of the Blazing Sun. It seemed fitting that he ask the Goddess of Battle to take in the souls of those slain in such a manner. Six times he had done such, and this time made him feel no better than the first.

If anything, he felt worse.

A shadow fell over him, and he broke off and looked up at Lothar. Yellow, square teeth surfaced in a mocking grin from beneath the man’s thick beard. ‘Begging your pardon, sir knight, but when you’re finished, there’s doings afoot.’

Goetz rose stiffly, armour creaking. ‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Something you ought to see,’ the forester said, crooking a finger. ‘Since you’re here and all and in charge, so you are.’

Goetz sheathed his sword with a touch more force than was necessary and, squashing the flare of indignation that the man’s impertinent tone had brought up, followed him. The hochmeister had warned him that the foresters were an unruly lot, and impatient with rank.

Not at all like the stiffly formal militiamen that had accompanied Goetz from Volgen. Captain Hoffman was a stickler for the rules and formalities that he likely had little enough opportunity to use in a town like Volgen. Goetz joined Lothar and the captain in examining the body of one of the men he’d killed.

‘First time we’ve been able to catch the devils at their work,’ Hoffman said. ‘Too bad we didn’t get them alive.’

‘They’ll talk all the same,’ Lothar said, dropping easily to his haunches.

The contorted body was well-illuminated by the light of the flames. He wore cast-off leathers and rags of chainmail that had proven more decorative than protective in the end. Lothar grunted and used the blade of his hatchet to rip open the man’s filthy tunic. He grimaced at what was revealed and made a sign in the air.

‘Witch’s mark,’ he said, looking up at Goetz. ‘Sure as I’m alive.’

‘A tattoo,’ Hoffman said, slapping his leather gloves into his palm. ‘A bit of peasant crudity. It proves nothing.’

‘It proves what we’ve been saying is all,’ Lothar said, cramming his helmet back on his head. ‘Even a lack-wit townie like you should be able to see that. These men are devil-spawn!’

‘Insulting a superior officer?’ Hoffman said, his eyes narrowing. ‘A man can get the lash for that.’

‘True. But who would you get to wield it?’ Lothar said, grinning in an unfriendly fashion. The two men had been at each other’s throats since they’d set out from Volgen. The foresters were nominally under the command of the local militia commander, but in reality they were completely autonomous. They functioned as scouts most of the time, but rarely responded when the Imperial Levy was called, unless it was a case like this. Most local authorities turned a blind eye – the foresters were far too useful, given that Talabecland was mostly forest and hills.

Regardless, it was a constant point of friction with Hoffman. ‘There’s no need to bother Sir Hector with your suspicions,’ Hoffman said harshly, his face pinched and disapproving. ‘Get your men back here.’

‘Why?’ Lothar snorted.

‘Why, to bury the dead of course!’ Hoffman said incredulously.

‘A waste of time. The rest of them can’t have gone far! Not if these–’ He waved a hand at the dead men, ‘–were still here!’

‘Far enough,’ Goetz murmured, glancing over his shoulder and casting a glare at the dark stretch of forest that loomed just beyond the wide trade-bridge that connected the mill to the far shore. Running beneath it, the River Talabec marked the boundary of Talabecland.

The others had followed his gaze. Lothar unconsciously made a gesture that Goetz recognised as the sign of Taal. Goetz frowned. While the Empire had a state religion, the old faiths lingered here on the fringes. Being himself a worshipper of one of those faiths, Goetz said nothing. Hoffman, however, had no such compunctions.

‘Taalist filth,’ the militia commander said when he caught sight of the forester’s gesture.

‘No, they’re the filth,’ Lothar said, jerking a thumb at the body.

‘Trust one to know another,’ Hoffman spat. ‘For all I know, you’re in with these–’

‘Enough,’ Goetz interjected sharply. He’d been playing mediator between the two since they’d left Volgen and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. ‘Enough. Hoffman is correct. It is our duty to see to the bodies.’

Lothar snorted insolently. ‘Begging your pardon then, sir knight, and I’ll gather my men.’ Without waiting for a reply, Lothar stumped off. Hoffman grunted.

‘The impertinence of the man.’ He looked at Goetz. ‘Pardon my familiarity, sir knight, but that man is a–’

‘Yes. But good at his job, I’m told,’ Goetz said. ‘And these are no ordinary brigands, captain.’

‘The foresters see devils in every shadow,’ Hoffman said dismissively. He turned away and began bellowing orders to his men.

‘Maybe,’ Goetz said. He reached up and touched the stylised twin-tailed comet on his breastplate, a gesture he’d found comfort in since his days as a novice in the Order.

In truth, Goetz didn’t feel much different now, despite winning his spurs. He was a Knight according to the hochmeister and according to the Order’s laws, but he didn’t feel like one. Not truly, not in the way he’d hoped. He wasn’t really sure what he’d expected – a new sense of competence, perhaps. Wisdom, maybe. Instead, things seemed even more complex than when he’d been a novice, and him no more able to figure out the what and the where of it all.

‘We go where we are needed and do what must be done,’ he said to himself as he knelt beside the body, examining the man and the mark that Lothar had been so interested in. The mark wasn’t a tattoo, Hoffman’s assertions to the contrary. Instead it was a gouge in the flesh. A brand, and a fairly recent one. Ragged scratches in the flesh that seemed to undulate as Goetz looked at them closely. He blinked and looked away, unable to fully grasp the shape of it.

A Chaos mark, sure enough. Though of what variety he could not say. Nor, in truth, did he wish to know. That it was what it was, was enough for him. It defined his enemy.

He turned and looked at the river again. On the other side of it was Middenland. And the Drakwald.

A slight shudder ran through him as he contemplated the dark trees. As a breeze caught the distant branches, they seemed to reach for him.

‘Sir Knight!’

Goetz looked up as Lothar hurried forward. The forester waved a hand. ‘Come! We found a survivor!’

Goetz sprang to his feet as quickly as his armour would allow and hurried after the forester. Excitement hummed through him. They had never found a survivor before. Indeed, this was the first time they had even come to grips with any of the foe.

Hoffman hurried after him, face drawn. ‘An evening for firsts,’ he murmured.

‘My thoughts exactly, captain.’

The survivor proved to be a woman. Middle-aged, with wild hair and blank features. Her hands and feet were bloody and she was covered in newly-blossomed bruises and black filth. She sat hunched on the ground, hands dangling over her knees, body pressed up against the rough wood of the outhouse.

‘My men found her inside,’ Lothar said as Goetz and Hoffman came up. ‘She was hiding in the jakes. She’s a bit ripe.’

Goetz looked down at the woman. Her eyes were unfocused and staring at nothing in particular. A stab of pity cut through him and he dropped to one knee. Carefully, he reached for her. Her scream, when it came, was unexpected, and he nearly fell in surprise.

The scream faded into whimpers as she huddled away from him and pressed her face to the wood. Her bloody fingers clawed at the outhouse and Goetz lunged for her. ‘Help me!’ he snapped. ‘Grab her arms!’

Lothar and Hoffman started forward, but the woman gave a sobbing howl and flung herself into Goetz’s arms. He rocked back, eyes wide. She clung to him with terrified strength and he arose awkwardly, one arm around her.

‘I – what do we–’ Goetz began.

‘Give her a smack,’ Lothar said harshly. ‘It’s the only way we’ll get anything worthwhile out of her.’

‘She’s been through a great deal,’ Hoffman said. ‘A sympathetic hand might do better than the rude shake a forester’s woman gets.’

Lothar glared at the other man, but nodded stiffly. Hoffman crouched beside the woman and began to murmur to her, softly stroking her hair. Just as Lothar began to grumble impatiently, one of his men signalled him.

‘Lothar! Tracks!’ Lothar looked at Goetz, who looked at Hoffman.

‘I’ll take her,’ Hoffman said softly. Goetz gratefully peeled the woman off and turned her towards the other man. Then he followed Lothar, who was already hurrying towards his men. The forester who’d called them, a young man with coiling scars on both cheeks, squatted and tapped his fingertips against the ash-coated grass. ‘Hoof-prints, looks like. And feet.’

‘Not big enough for horses,’ Lothar muttered, dropping to his haunches. ‘And something else. Shoes.’

‘Shoes?’

‘Home-made. Too small for a man, likely a woman.’ He traced a mark and looked up at Goetz. ‘See?’

‘Yes?’ Goetz said, though he didn’t really. ‘Meaning?’

Lothar looked at the other forester, then back at Goetz. ‘Means more survivors than just her,’ he said, jerking his chin at Hoffman and the woman. He locked eyes with Goetz. ‘Means we might also have been wrong before.’

‘You mean survivors from the other attacks?’

‘I mean that this might not have been a pillaging expedition,’ Lothar said flatly, clutching his medallion. The other foresters murmured and Goetz swallowed. ‘We have to follow them.’

He looked back at the woman, and then the body of the man he’d killed. ‘They were looking for her, weren’t they?’ he said.

‘Most likely. If she broke away…’ Lothar tapped the ground with his fingers. ‘These hoof-prints, though, are a puzzlement.’

‘Scrub ponies perhaps,’ Hoffman said, striding up. The militia commander sniffed. ‘Hardly expect bandits to be riding warhorses, now can we?’ He looked at Goetz. ‘My men are making the woman comfortable. If we can get her back to Volgen, perhaps–’

‘Not horses of any stripe, I don’t think,’ Lothar interrupted, rising. ‘Wrong shape.’

‘Oh? And you’re an expert on horseflesh then? Stolen many, have we?’ Hoffman said.

‘Enough to know these aren’t horse-tracks,’ Lothar said, glaring at the other man. His gaze swivelled to Goetz.

‘What are they?’ the knight said.

‘Beast-kin.’

Hoffman snorted. ‘Preposterous. They’ve never come this far south.’

‘The tracks go over the river. Our missing folk went with them.’

Goetz looked at the trees on the opposite bank. The Drakwald wasn’t simply a collection of trees, like the Great Forest. It was home to nightmares: men with the heads of beasts, witches and heretics. A prickle of latent childhood fear caressed his spine and he brushed it aside. ‘Then we will go after them.’

‘Sir Hector, I must protest,’ Hoffman said. ‘We are a Talabecland Levy. We’ll be out of our jurisdiction!’

‘Only if they catch us,’ Lothar said.

‘And if they do, I’ll make sure you’re the first up the gallows-stairs,’ Hoffman said. ‘We should return to Garndorf or Werder and send an official inquiry. The Middenlanders have experience with this sort of thing.’

‘Daemons, you mean,’ Lothar said, snickering.

Hoffman whirled on him. ‘No. Organised bandit activity,’ he said through gritted teeth. He looked back at Goetz. ‘My men are not equipped for–’

‘They have supplies and weapons. Good enough, I should think,’ Lothar said.

‘For your illiterate band of half-savages, possibly. But my men are soldiers,’ Hoffman shot back.

‘Under my command,’ Goetz said quietly. ‘As are the foresters.’ The two men fell silent, looking at him. It was a tense moment, and not the first such. He looked at Lothar. ‘Can you catch them?’

Lothar spat. ‘Yes.’

‘Then we go. Lothar, find that trail. If these raiders have captives, they’re likely moving slow. Meaning we can catch them. And when we do…’ Goetz clenched a fist. ‘Middenland be damned.’

Lothar gave a snarl and Hoffman banged a fist against his breastplate. As the dark of the night wore into the fiery orange of morning the party moved across the Talabec.

The bridge was old and sturdy. Dwarf-work, it was said, with vast blocks of smooth stone bestriding the waters. There were several like it, the length of the Talabec and on the Stir. Goetz had always admired them, admired the craftsmanship that went into them. Part of him wished that he could have built bridges instead of learning the art of the blade. He thought perhaps bridge builders had happier lives, on the whole.

The river was deceptively calm as it flowed beneath the bridge. Goetz knew that it could spring from docile placidity to roaring viciousness in moments. The Talabec brought trade, but it also brought death.

Most thought that was a fair swap. Goetz wasn’t sure, but then he wasn’t a merchant. His father was, and a fine one, but a trade in trade had never been Goetz’s fate.

They left the bridge behind and moved slowly into the trees, on foot. Hoffman’s troops, all thirty of them, formed into two ranks, halberdiers and crossbowmen clad in cuirasses and greaves that clanked and clattered softly as they marched in disciplined formation. Lothar’s foresters ranged ahead, fifteen shadowy shapes threading through the close-set trees like ghosts.

The foresters were hard to figure out. Goetz knew that they weren’t truly soldiers, being more in the manner of thief-takers or road-wardens. It made them hard to trust. There was no guarantee that they would stay in a fight, rather than simply fading away. And he was down two men, to boot.

They had sent the woman back to Werder, the closest town, along with two of Hoffman’s men. She’d ridden off on Goetz’s horse, something which had brought a pang to Goetz, and he briefly wished he’d kept his mount. The Order normally fought mounted, but in situations like these Knights were expected to fight on foot so as to be more effective. Too, a lone man on a horse was easy to pick off. The flesh between Goetz’s shoulder blades crawled at the thought.

He didn’t fear death, as such. But he was afraid of dying badly. Of being unable to fight back against his death. Arrows were a bad way to die. Then, in his darker moments, he thought that perhaps there was no good way to die, regardless of what the Order taught.

The pace was slow, but steady. Occasionally one of the foresters would drift back to report, but not often. Goetz took the lead, mindful of the honour of the Order. The Drakwald didn’t seem to care about either his honour or the men he was in charge of, however.

Overgrown roots rose like the humps of sea-serpents through the dark soil and the trees became bloated and massive the further away from the farm they drew. Unconsciously, the militia clustered together, their previously pristine order decaying into a stumbling mass of men. Nervous murmurs rippled through the ranks as the sunlight was strangled to the merest drizzle by the thick branches that spread overhead.

Hoffman stilled his men with a look. Goetz stopped and turned. The men were sweating and listless, as if the trees were sucking the life out of them. Some of that was exhaustion – the militia wasn’t used to being pushed this hard, having mostly performed only garrison duties – the rest was what? Fear? Nervousness, maybe.

The Drakwald had a well-deserved reputation, even outside the borders of Middenland. It had inspired more than one nightmare in the children of Talabheim. Why should the children of Volgen, living far closer as they did, be any different? Birds croaked and cawed to each other in the trees, and several times Goetz had caught himself wondering whether or not those cries meant something other than the obvious. He forced himself to release the hilt of his sword as he caught the looks he was getting.

‘No need to be nervous, Sir Hector,’ Hoffman murmured.

Goetz glanced at him. ‘Knights do not get nervous,’ he said stiffly. ‘We merely anticipate the worst.’

Hoffman smiled. ‘You’re a bit young to be a knight, if you’ll pardon the familiarity.’

Goetz chuckled. ‘My father saw to it that I started my training early. My brother… disappointed his expectations, and the honour of the family had to be considered.’ Goetz fell silent, realizing that he’d said more than he intended.

His brother Caspar had been pledged to the Order, but had refused the honour in the most vociferous terms possible. Caspar had been headstrong and single-minded, much like their father, and his obsessions had taken precedence over familial obligations.

‘Goetz is not a common Talabecland name,’ Hoffman said, changing the subject.

‘My family came from Solland originally,’ Goetz said, rubbing the comet on his cuirass. ‘Before the – ah.’ He made a gesture.

‘Yes,’ Hoffman said. Solland’s sad fate was well known, and many great families of Talabecland, Ostermark and Wissenland could trace their origins to that doomed province, their ancestors having fled the orcish invasion that ravaged the province beyond recovery.

Mention of Solland brought Caspar to the forefront of Goetz’s thoughts once more. Even as a child, his older brother had been obsessed with the history of Solland, even going so far as to joining a hare-brained expedition to find the lost Solland Crown, despite his father’s protests. Caspar and his expedition had vanished in the maelstrom of the recent northern invasion. Goetz shook his head, banishing the dark thoughts.

‘I wanted to be an artisan. Or a scribe,’ Goetz said. Hoffman raised his eyebrows and Goetz nodded at the unspoken question. ‘Oh yes. I excelled in the arts of engineering. My tutors saw a great future for me, and the Order’s engineers agreed, though the exact nature of my future projects differed. Instead of bridges and walls, I’ll now construct devices to demolish such structures.’ The last bit was said sadly. Goetz shook himself. ‘Funny how things work out, in the end.’

‘Speaking of funny,’ Hoffman said and leaned close. ‘I haven’t seen those damned foresters in awhile.’

‘Then you weren’t looking close enough,’ Lothar grunted, slipping out from between the trees. He whipped off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair.

‘Have you found the trail?’ Goetz said, fighting to keep the eagerness out of his voice. ‘Have you found them?’

‘In and out,’ Lothar said. ‘Comes and goes. The forest – bah. They’ve got them some woodcraft, sure enough.’

‘Better than yours?’

Lothar grinned. ‘No one is better than us.’

‘Then why haven’t you found them yet?’ Hoffman snapped. ‘They can’t have gone far, and we’ve been at this for hours! If anyone noticed us coming over the river–’

‘Hunts like this can take days,’ Lothar said mildly. His eyes hardened. ‘And the more noise you make, the harder it is, so it is.’

‘You’re blaming me?’ Hoffman said incredulously.

‘I – hsst.’ Lothar raised a hand. He cocked his head.

‘What?’ Goetz said, looking at Hoffman.

‘Hear that?’ Lothar said, turning. He made a sound like a bird call. It was answered from deeper within the trees. Goetz’s nape prickled. He heard it now. It was a bone-deep sensation, echoing from everywhere and nowhere. He had felt it before, but dismissed it as the background noise of the forest, or perhaps the echo of the river.

‘What is that?’ Hoffman said.

‘I don’t know,’ Lothar said. He looked at Goetz. ‘We’ve been hearing it off and on since we came into the woods.’ His face was grim.

‘And you’re just thinking now to inform us?’ Hoffman spat. ‘Have you been leading us in circles all of this time?’ He swung an arm out. ‘My men are exhausted. They’ve been marching all day!’ Hoffman frowned. ‘Or is that what you intended?’

‘What are you accusing me of?’ Lothar said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

‘I’ve heard the stories of what the Taalists got up to before the light of Sigmar was brought to these regions. Worse than the worshippers of the Wolf-God! Burn any men alive in wooden cages lately?’ Hoffman said, fingering the pommel of his sword.

‘No. Are you volunteering?’ Lothar said, clutching his medallion.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you savage?’ Hoffman said. ‘I know what you foresters get up to, you know. You’re half-bandit yourselves, helping yourself to the odd merchant’s goods! Oh yes, I have those reports memorised!’

Goetz blinked and looked at Lothar. The forester shifted uncomfortably. Then, he lunged forward, stabbing a finger into Hoffman’s polished breastplate. ‘And if you tight-fisted city-rats bothered to pay us for spilling our blood to keep you safe–’

‘Not doing a good job of that lately,’ one of the nearby militiamen barked. A forester turned and drove a fist across the speaker’s jaw, dropping him like a bag of rocks. Another trooper came to his comrade’s aid and several foresters drifted out of the trees, faces set.

Hoffman’s knuckles were white on his sword-hilt. ‘Admit it! You’ve been leading us in circles! What is it? Trying to give your comrades time to get away?’ he bellowed in his best parade-ground voice. ‘I bet they didn’t even come into the Drakwald! Just more stories, like your witch-marks and hoof-prints!’ Behind him, crossbows were hastily readied by the militiamen as several foresters surreptitiously readied their bows.

‘Comrades?’ Lothar roared. ‘You think we’d have any dealings with witches or beastmen?’

‘You knew an awful lot about those marks–’ Hoffman began. Lothar growled and snatched his hatchet out of his belt even as Hoffman made to pull his sword.

‘Enough!’ Goetz shouted, even as he silently winced at the way his voice cracked. He drew his sword and planted it in the ground, point-first. ‘Enough.’

All eyes turned towards him. He took a breath and thought of building bridges, even if they were only metaphorical. ‘We are all on the same side here. We are all servants of the Empire, all soldiers in the Emperor’s service.’ He let his gaze sweep across the gathered men. ‘If any of you wish it to be otherwise, you may leave. Otherwise you will stop this foolishness.’

Lothar lowered his hatchet and stepped back. ‘I’ll not serve with this man. Not a moment longer,’ he grunted, gesturing to Hoffman. ‘We are loyal soldiers, but we cannot do our job with these plodders following us!’

‘Perhaps there’s another way of going about this,’ Goetz said, raising a hand and stretching it between them before Hoffman could reply. ‘We could set up a permanent camp and let your foresters find our opponents… drive them towards us perhaps? Or failing that, find them and report back to us?’

Lothar scrubbed his chin. ‘Could work.’

Goetz nodded. ‘We’ll set up here then.’ The forester grunted and then headed back into the woods without a backwards glance.

‘Nicely done,’ Hoffman said, after a moment.

‘Yes,’ Goetz said. He looked around at the trees, feeling slightly repulsed. He had never felt that way about a forest before. He was sweating beneath his armour, despite the oncoming chill of night. The sun was setting, and shadows were bunching thickly beneath the trees. ‘Would you have killed him?’ he said, after a moment.

‘Better to ask him whether he would have killed me, I think,’ Hoffman replied grudgingly. ‘The foresters aren’t to be trusted, Sir Hector. They are thieves, poachers and worse.’

‘Then why sanction them?’

‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ Hoffman said, shrugging. ‘This wouldn’t be the first time that a group of them has decided to go over the fence.’ Around them, the militia began setting up a temporary camp, moving with practiced precision.

‘You believe this is the case now?’ Goetz said softly.

Hoffman looked at him. ‘I know that Lothar and his men have never respected Imperial authority. And I know that Lothar himself used to rob coaches on the Emperor’s Road.’

Goetz shook his head. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘There are a lot of things you don’t know, sir,’ Hoffman said, turning away. ‘Get those defensive hedges up!’ he shouted as two of his men unrolled a length of flat leather pierced with wooden stakes that pointed outward. The hedge hung at chest height around the circumference of the camp, and was nearly invisible to the eye of anyone creeping up on them. That was the thought anyway. Goetz examined the hedges with an engineer’s eye, finding the design to be brutally simplistic. He had no doubts as to their effectiveness, however.

‘Steichen! Get a fire going!’ Hoffman continued, jabbing a finger at the man in question. He turned to Goetz. ‘A few minutes, and we’ll be ready for whatever troubles those damnable foresters are bringing down on our heads. Whenever they do so. If they do so.’

‘Yes.’ Goetz looked around. ‘Perhaps you were right, Captain. Perhaps we shouldn’t have attempted this.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll be honest with you… I’m a bit new to this sort of thing.’

Hoffman smiled and his features softened. ‘You’re doing fine, Sir Hector. Even that ill-mannered brute Lothar believes so, I’d wager. And, if I might be frank, better a commander who fears he knows nothing than one who thinks he knows everything.’ Hoffman sighed. ‘Not what I would have picked for a first duty though, I must say.’

‘We of the Order go where we are needed, Captain.’

‘True enough, sir. True enough.’ Hoffman sniffed. ‘And now we’re needed here.’

For a moment, Goetz wondered whether or not that was true. Then, he wondered whether that was what the future held for him now that he had won his spurs. Was this merely the first out of an unending series of duties, going from horror to horror, upholding the honour of the Order of the Blazing Sun until, at last, he met an enemy that he could not beat? He pushed aside that grim thought and tried to concentrate on his surroundings. ‘Go where needed, do what must be done,’ he said to himself.

The night wore on, and the sound seemed to grow with it, rising in tempo. Mixed in with the vast beat was the deep thudding of distant drums. Goetz paced the line like a tiger in a cage, his nerves screaming warnings that his brain fought to ignore. He heard the men on picket duty snap at one another in irritation, and Hoffman’s mood grew fouler.

It was the drums that were doing it. Why hadn’t Lothar returned yet? Surely it was easy enough to find where the noise was emanating from. Goetz busied himself with his sword, swiping a whetstone across the length of the blade.

As he honed the edge of his sword, he wondered why the men – no, the creatures – they were pursuing had even come into Talabecland. A matter of chance? Or something else?

What if Hoffman was right? The whetstone skittered to a stop. Goetz closed his eyes. What if the creatures had come because they were invited? Invited by the very men he had sent out to find them?

The scream, when it came, was brief. Goetz shot to his feet. A sentry staggered back into the defensive line, clutching at the thin shape that protruded from his throat. Before Goetz’s horrified eyes, he collapsed over the line, gurgling.

A moment later, arrows cut the air with a steady rattle-hiss, piercing the gloom of the trees. Men fell screaming, and Goetz spun, his sword flashing as it split an arrow into splinters. Another struck his pauldron, rocking him.

‘That devil Lothar has betrayed us!’ Hoffman howled as men sprouted feathered shafts and died. Goetz swung around, trying to spot their attackers. It didn’t make sense! Was Hoffman right?

A militiaman screamed as one of his fellows put a crossbow bolt into his back by accident. Halberds flashed as men turned on one another, trapped as they were by their own defensive perimeter. Goetz watched in shock as his men began to tear one another apart. Shaking himself, he turned, only to come face to face with a demon’s mask.

The soldier shrieked like a bird of prey and lunged for the knight, driving a dagger towards his face. Goetz reacted on instinct, swatting the blade aside with the flat of his sword and then slashing the edge across the man’s belly as he stumbled, off-balance.

‘No! Sigmar’s Oath, no!’ he said, as the militiaman fell, his shrieks becoming animal whines of pain. He writhed on the ground, trying to hold his belly together and spat vile oaths at Goetz, each one striking him like the blow of a hammer. Pale and shaken, he stumbled back, unable to look at the dying man.

‘Traitors,’ Goetz murmured. He had heard the stories and the whispered rumours, but he’d never expected to face it himself. Lothar had been right. He’d been right all along. Goetz looked for Hoffman. He had to get the men under control. To retreat. They could come back later, with more men. He caught sight of Hoffman, defending himself from a screaming militiaman. Goetz swung past him and drove his blade into the man’s shoulder, dropping him.

‘Hoffman! We need to–’ he began. The sword danced across the buckles of his breastplate, scoring the armour and driving a spike of pain into his side. Goetz’s arm swung down, trapping the blade. He jerked forward, ripping the weapon out of its owner’s hands and turned, letting it fall. His eye widened. ‘Captain?’ he said.

Otto Hoffman didn’t answer, instead lunging for the knight, his fist cracking against the latter’s breastplate. Goetz staggered. Another blow caused him to stumble back. Hoffman snatched up his sword and then came again, lunging smoothly. Goetz parried the blow, stunned by the inhuman strength the militia commander displayed.

‘Hoffman! Captain! What are you doing?’

‘Fool,’ Hoffman grunted, baring his teeth. ‘You walked right into it, didn’t you?’

Goetz didn’t bother to reply. Instead he lashed out with a foot and kicked the man in the knee. Hoffman wobbled, and Goetz brought his sword down on the man’s neck. Blood spurted, and Hoffman squealed. His sword licked out as he clamped a hand onto the gouting wound. Goetz jerked back as the sword-point carved a line across his throat-guard. The sword in the militia commander’s hand darted out again and again, snake-swift. Goetz parried desperately as Hoffman shuffled in pursuit.

‘Die,’ Hoffman gurgled.

‘You first,’ someone called out. A bow string twanged and Hoffman froze as an arrow sprouted from between his eyes. He croaked, the sword falling from his fingers. Then he toppled. Goetz leaned on his sword, breathing heavily.

‘Lothar?’ he said, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

‘I never liked him much,’ the forester said, stalking out of the trees. ‘Now I know why.’ He paused to spit on Hoffman’s body, then looked at Goetz. ‘You fought well, sir knight.’

‘What – what–’

‘We ambushed the ambushers. Came up behind them and cut their throats,’ Lothar said, jerking a thumb across his throat. He gestured to Hoffman. ‘Didn’t expect that, though.’

‘Expect what?’

‘This,’ Lothar said, dropping to his haunches and grabbing Hoffman’s head. He pulled the dead man’s gorget aside and exposed the eerily familiar brand on his flesh. He bared his teeth in a vicious grin. ‘It was a trap.’

‘For who?’ Goetz said.

‘You. Us. Anybody.’ Lothar let Hoffman’s body flop back down and stood. ‘Looks like about half of them were in on it with Hoffman. Likely intended to capture or kill the other half. And you.’

‘Why?’

‘Something’s going on out here, in the deep woods. Hear the drums?’

‘Yes,’ Goetz said absently, staring down out the body.

‘Happens sometimes, when the moons are up and fat. Drums deep in the trees, and hoof-marks in the loam.’ Lothar spat. ‘Didn’t realise it until I saw them back at the mill. Only one reason the twisted folk take ours…’

‘Sacrifices,’ Goetz said. ‘Sigmar’s Hammer. He said something about a celebration.’ He looked at Lothar. ‘Where are they?’

‘Waiting for these to join them,’ Lothar said, kicking the body. ‘And for them in the forest who set off the ambush.’ He shook his head. ‘Wondered why them in the city were slow about going for help.’

Goetz grimaced. ‘They’re in the town. A cult… Myrmidia preserve them.’

‘Not many, likely. Volgen isn’t that big. Those here in the forest worry me more,’ the forester said. ‘Those and them they took.’ He looked at Goetz. ‘What are your orders, sir knight?’

Goetz hesitated. Of the thirty men in the militia, only eight or so remained standing. And they looked as out of sorts as he felt. Confused, wounded and on the verge of running for safety. This wasn’t their land, and the temptation to leave was likely great. He licked his lips. ‘If we headed back,’ he said, not quite asking.

‘Then whatever them drums mean will be done and over, and them as sounding them will be gone.’

Goetz closed his eyes. The faces of the dead swam up out of his memories to meet him. He thought of the people they’d been unable to save, and the one they had, though likely too late for her own mind. His eyes opened. ‘We go where we are needed and we do what we must.’

Lothar nodded brusquely. He shouted orders to his men as Goetz faced the remaining members of the militia. They watched him warily. ‘You can’t make us do this,’ one said. ‘You can’t.’

‘Twenty-four men stand better odds than sixteen,’ Goetz said. He used his sword to prod a body. ‘They led you into a slaughter. Would you have others suffer the same fate?’ he said gently. He touched the comet on his cuirass. ‘We go where we are needed,’ he said, trying to capture the hochmeister’s cadence.

None of them looked at him. He sighed. ‘I’m going. Come with us or not.’ He started towards the foresters. He did not turn around when he heard the militiamen fall in behind him.

They moved swiftly through the forest, following the pounding sound. It rose and fell, and the ache in Goetz’s head grew. It was spiritually painful, like a soreness in his soul. It pulsed like a blister or a bad tooth, growing worse the closer they got to wherever they were going.

He had fallen into a rhythm when Lothar suddenly broke it with a hard jerk on his arm. ‘Stop!’ the forester hissed. He made a sharp motion and the men sank to the ground. He pulled Goetz with him as he crawled forward through the heavy brush towards a strange, flickering brightness that seemed to seep between the trees.

Below them, at the bottom of a slope, beasts danced beneath the dark pines, pawing the soil around a crackling fire and braying out abominable hymns. Mingled amongst the brute forms of the beasts were the smaller shapes of men and women. All were naked, save for unpleasant sigils daubed onto their flesh by means of primitive dyes and paints.

The shriek of crude pipes slithered beneath the trees, their rhythms carrying the gathered throng into berserk ecstasy as the dance sped up. The flames curled higher, turning an unhealthy hue, casting a weird light over the proceedings as man and beast engaged in unholy practices. As vile as it was, however, Goetz couldn’t look away from the foul spectacle, no matter how much he might wish to.

What drew his eye, however, was something infinitely worse than the dancers. Something fouler even than the worst thing he could have expected.

‘Taal,’ Lothar whispered, his voice hoarse and his eyes wide. ‘What is it?’

‘Something that doesn’t belong here,’ Goetz said, running his fingers across the double-tailed comet embossed on his breastplate. And it was. A vast scar in the earth near the bonfire, it was like a scab of blackened dirt. Whatever it was, it had pushed aside trees and rocks in its haste to reach the surface and now it sat like a pustule ready to burst. There was a stink about it, worse than anything Goetz had smelled before, even in a greenskin camp. And from its pearly surface came the aching hum that had plagued them all since they’d entered the forest.

As he and the forester watched, a burly creature with a leprous stag’s head shoved a squalling man into the milky surface of the foul bubble. He sank in with a shriek, his struggles seemingly pulling him deeper. A moan arose from the huddled group of victims, and snarling beastmen reached in among them to find the next sacrifice.

Lothar half-rose, a curse on his lips. Goetz grabbed his arm. ‘No. Get your men into position.’ Lothar stared at him incredulously. Goetz licked his lips and looked back at the fire. It seemed to play tricks on his eyes, showing him first this many gathered around it, then fewer. He tasted bile in the back of his throat. He spat and continued. ‘There are too many of them. More than twice our number. Your foresters will soften them up. How quickly can your men get into position?’ he asked.

‘Quick enough,’ Lothar said. He patted his bow. ‘What will you do?’

‘A quick charge might be enough to scatter them. At least long enough for us to save the prisoners.’

‘If it’s not?’

Goetz swallowed. ‘Then run. As fast and as far as you can.’

Lothar nodded and clapped a hand to Goetz’s shoulder. Then he crawled back towards his men. Goetz waited, listening to the dim crackle of the fire and trying to ignore the throb of the thing in the clearing. He did not look at it, or dwell upon it.

He knew little of the things of Chaos, but he knew enough. It would have to be fire. That was the only way to be sure.

Behind him, he heard the trill of a bird. Seconds later, the air was heavy with the hiss of arrows and crossbow bolts. Down below, things screamed in pain. With a shout, Goetz rose to his feet and charged down the slope.

He met a thin creature coming the opposite way, its goatish face twisted in an almost comic expression of shock. Goetz didn’t stop, instead letting his sword take the thing in the neck. Its head flopped free as he landed in the clearing. For a moment, he stood alone as the shock of the sudden barrage of arrows wore off. From behind him, he heard a shout of ‘Talabecland!’ and then he heard nothing but the clash of steel.

The battle was a confused mess of darting shapes and screaming voices. Goetz blundered towards the fire, sweeping his sword out with instinctive skill. He lopped off an offending sword-hand and kicked something with too many limbs away. As screaming faces drew too close, the arrows of the foresters swept them aside.

Goetz ducked and grabbed up a burning brand from the bonfire and turned towards the pestilent mass. It had to be fire. He charged forward, swinging the brand in preparation to throw it.

Something struck him across the back, nearly knocking him back into the fire and slapping the air from his lungs. Flat on his belly, Goetz tried to breathe. He coughed as a raw, animal scent invaded the confines of his helmet. His eyes opened, and he looked up into a face out of nightmare.

The beastman was an ugly thing, all muscle and fang and claw. Piecemeal armoured plates strung together with twine and less savoury things clung to its bulky frame, less protection than decoration. Stag-horns curled up from its flat skull and back in on themselves. Dark eyes glared balefully at him from beneath heavy brows, and snaggle teeth snapped together in a deer’s mouth, its foul breath misting in the cold air as it grunted querulously. Using his sword as a crutch, Goetz levered himself to his knees and stifled a groan. His body felt like a bag of broken sticks.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He could hear the gentle rumble of the river in the distance, somewhere past the crooked, close-set pines of the forest. The beastman pawed the ground and snorted. Some of them, it was said, could speak. This one showed no such inclination. Instead, it lunged clumsily, swinging its crude axe towards Goetz.

Still on one knee, Goetz guided the blow aside with a twist of his wrist, and countered with his own weak thrust. The beastman stumbled back with an annoyed bleat as his sword sliced a patch of rusty mail from its cuirass. It was larger than the others, larger than Goetz himself by more inches than he cared to consider. Its axe was so much hammered scrap, but no less dangerous for that. It was strong too. Muscles like smooth stones moved under its porous, hairy hide as it swung the blade up again and brought it down towards Goetz’s head. He caught the blow on his sword and grunted at the weight. Equal parts adrenaline and terror helped him surge to his feet, shoving the creature back. Weapons locked, they strained against one another. Goetz blinked as the weird runes scratched into the creature’s axe-blade seemed to squirm beneath his gaze. Its smell, like a slaughterhouse on a hot day, bit into his sinuses and made it hard to breath. Goetz kicked out, catching the creature’s knee. It howled and staggered, and they broke apart.

Steady on his feet now, Goetz stepped back, raising his sword. The beastman clutched its weapon in both hands and gave a throaty snarl. Teeth bared, it bulled towards him. Despite his guard, the edge of the axe skidded across Goetz’s breastplate, dislodging the ornaments of his order and the ribbons of purity he wore in order to announce his status as a novice of the Order of the Blazing Sun. Sparks flew as northern iron met Imperial steel, and Goetz found himself momentarily off balance. The beastman was quick to capitalise. It crashed against him, clawed hand scrabbling at his helm, trying to shove his head back to expose his throat even as it flailed at him awkwardly with its axe.

Smashing the hilt of his sword against its skull, Goetz thrust his forearm against its throat and forced the snapping jaws away from him. They fell, locked together, and rolled across the ground, struggling. Goetz lost hold of his sword, but managed to snatch his dagger from his belt. He drove it into the beastman’s side, angling the blade up, aiming for the heart, his old fencing teacher’s admonitions ringing in his mind. The beastman squealed in pain and clawed at him. He closed his eyes and forced the blade in deeper, ignoring the crunch of bone and the hot wet foulness that gushed suddenly over his gauntlet.

The creature’s struggles grew weaker and weaker until they stopped completely. It expired with a whimper, its limbs flopping down with a relieving finality. Breathing heavily, Goetz pushed the dead weight off of himself and stared up at the stars dancing between the talon-like branches of the pines. The sky seemed to spin.

Grimacing, he climbed to his feet and snatched up his fallen brand. Staggering, he moved towards the mass, which seemed to quiver at his approach. The stink grew heavier, almost solid. He caught a glimpse of bones scattered around it, and in the light of the fire he though he saw something floating within. Something that turned in its bloated womb to look at him with eyes like open wounds.

Deep in the woods, something was being born. Something horrible and beautiful. A whisper of sound caressed his ears, and a lovely voice spoke to him, making promises and predictions. A sweet smell, like sugar on ice tickled his nose, and he hesitated.

What had he been doing? What–

‘Sir knight!’ Lothar roared, lunging past him with his hatchet. The forester struck the thing with the weapon and the hum screamed forth, bringing blood to Goetz’s ears and nose and he bit into his tongue. Screams rose from behind him, but he ignored them, ignored Lothar, ignored it all and concentrated on shoving the burning brand into the sticky foulness. The flames caught quickly and he fell back, coughing as the hum rose to a shrill shrieking whine that seemed to shake the entire clearing.

The promises were gone, swept away by the begging, the pleading notes that sank insidiously into his brain. He slashed at the quivering burning mass with berserk abandon, ignoring the ichors that splashed him and ate into his armour. Ignoring the shrieks that tore at his soul.

The whine faded as he turned away and fell to his knees, leaning on his sword. Goetz looked tiredly at the surviving captives, who squatted in a huddle nearby. They all looked unharmed, save for exhaustion and fear.

‘You’re safe,’ he croaked. ‘We’ve come to take you home. Lothar, get–’ He turned, spotting Lothar’s body lying nearby, his sightless eyes locked on the stars above. Goetz paused, but only for a moment. He pushed himself to his feet and began to rasp orders to his surviving troops.

They would burn the dead. Better than interring them in the foul earth of this place. As he watched his men get to work, Goetz sat wearily on a charred stump. He finally understood why the hochmeister had smiled so sadly that day. There were some bridges that needed burning and some walls that needed shattering, but the cost of doing so was always going to be high.

‘We go where we are needed. We do what must be done,’ Goetz whispered, as he watched bodies get thrown on the pyre and thought of bridges, and the men who built them.

The Inquisition

++Open vox-net++

My most esteemed Lord Inquisitor,

Though the chase was long and cost the lives of several of my retinue, the traitor going by the name Rob Sanders is now within my grasp. Here is the intelligence we have gleaned from him thus far.

Interrogator Kerstromm, Ordo Malleus

What are you working on at the moment?

I’m currently working on a Space Marines Battles novel called Legion of the Damned. The short stories ‘The Long Games at Carcharias’ in Victories of the Space Marines and ‘The Iron Within’ in the Horus Heresy Anthology Age of Darkness were baptisms of fire for me. They were important for showing what I could do with the Adeptus Astartes – and what they could do for me. To be honest, before writing for the Space Marines, I don’t think that I fully appreciated their range – in terms of character, culture and narrative possibility. It was this realisation that led me to pitch Legion of the Damned for the Space Marines Battles series. As you can imagine, the Legion of the Damned need a slightly different approach to most Chapters!

What are you working on next?

Next up will be my contribution for The Primarchs Horus Heresy novella compilation. There I shall be sharing pages with HH alumni Nick Kyme, Gav Thorpe and Graham McNeill . I’m pretty thrilled at the prospect and am looking forward to getting inside the inner workings and mindset of the Alpha Legion and their Primarch(s). I’m already a big fan of the Alpha Legion and can’t wait to build on some of Dan Abnett’s excellent work in the Horus Heresy novel Legion, while at the same time exploring exciting new aspects to Alpharius / Omegon’s rather unique participation in the Heresy...

Are there any areas of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 that you haven’t yet explored that you’d like to in the future?

There are simply too many to choose. The Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 settings are incredibly fertile. My first piece of fiction for Black Library was a Warhammer short story called ‘The Cold Light of Day’, so I am very comfortable pitching ideas in the Old World. It is in the 40K universe that I think the imagination is really let off the leash: so many worlds and so much ‘history’. I’ve started exploring the Imperial Guard in Redemption Corps and the Inquisition in Atlas Infernal. As far as 40K is concerned, something from a Chaos / Chaos Marines perspective would certainly suit my twisted vision of the universe. The Tau interest me also. I’d love to write about a captain in the Imperial navy. I’d go on for pages like this. I’ve been very fortunate with my pitches in the past. I do like a challenge, though. If I was asked to write a novel about a one-legged, Halfling sewer worker beneath the Kislevite city of Praag, I’d like to think that I could make it work. There you go: already thinking about what that Halfling might encounter down there.

What are you reading at the moment? Who are your favourite authors?

Favourite authors? It might seem obligatory to say the Black Library writers but in truth despite only having the absolute pleasure of meeting many of them recently, I’ve spent years with a good number of them in print. My wider reading tastes extend to the more literary. I teach literature, so many of the classics push my buttons. In terms of authors doing the business today, I’d have to say Alex Garland, Margaret Atwood and David Mitchell are amongst my favourites.

What am I reading? I don’t read like a normal person. I tend to have a number of books on the go at the same time. I leave books all over my house in various stages of completion and let them call out to me as I pass. I’m in the middle of re-reading the Horus Heresy series and re-loving them. Listening to - James Swallow’s brilliant Garro adventures. I bought one of my sons Jonathan Green’s Fighting Fantasy gamebook Bloodbones for Christmas and now that he has completed it I find myself rolling the dice. In brief non-fiction bursts, Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Everything. I’m also slowly getting through Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Complete Sherlock Holmes. I’ve nearly completed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo but appear to have lost it. Can anyone tell me what happens in the end? What else? Of course, I get the brilliant Hammer and Bolter every month : )

Which book (either BL or non-BL) do you wish you’d written and why? 

Good question. To which I’m going to have to cheat and ignore the ‘or’. I wish I’d written the Eisenhorn trilogy by Dan Abnett. For me, beyond having a great story and engaging characters, Eisenhorn leant the Warhammer 40,000 universe a texture that many Black Library novels that followed (including my own) have benefitted from. The tabletop game and the wonderful artwork that goes hand in hand with the setting contribute to this but I revel in the details that are layered into the Eisenhorn novels. Good job, Dan! The non-BL book that I really wish I’d written is Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, simply because it is a work of genius. Clever and entertaining; experimental and popular – how many authors can pull that off?

Phalanx

Ben Counter

Chapter 7

‘And what,’ said Captain Borganor of the Howling Griffons, ‘does this excuse?’

The court was not as vocal as it had been after Varnica’s evidence. Instead, it simmered. The Howling Griffons murmured oaths and spat on the ground. The Imperial Fists tried to stay impartial but they could not keep the disdain from their faces as N’Kalo’s testimony had come to an end. Reinez had fought to remain silent, eyes closed, face downturned and grim.

‘How many of my battle-brothers does this return from their tombs?’ continued Borganor. ‘The Soul Drinkers intervened in some backwater spat. What does this say about them? They still fought the Imperial divine right. All they have achieved to tickle Commander N’Kalo’s sense of righteousness is the deliverance of one band of savages to Throne knows what fate. Are we to absolve Sarpedon of my own brethren’s fall? Will someone speak for the Howling Griffons?’

‘Or for the Crimson Fists?’ interjected Reinez. ‘What have the Eshkeen done to earn a voice in this court? Every one of my fallen brothers is worth a thousand times the heathens the Soul Drinkers saved!’

‘If I may,’ interrupted Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine, ‘I feel I can shed a little more light on the matters pertinent to the fate of the Soul Drinkers.’

‘What could you say, you gilded peacock?’ spat Reinez.

‘Reinez, you will yield the floor!’ demanded Chapter Master Vladimir.

‘What has his kind suffered at Sarpedon’s hand?’ retorted Reinez. ‘He comes here for nothing more than the spectacle of this mutant! This is entertainment for him! He treats the sacred ground of the Phalanx like a sideshow!’

‘Your objections,’ said Vladimir coldly, ‘are noted. Commander Gethsemar, say your piece.’

Gethsemar waited a moment, as if to ensure that all the attention of the court was on him. The mask he wore now had no tears, and the forehead and cheeks were inscribed with High Gothic text. ‘Indeed, my piece is more relevant than any of the protestations Captain Reinez has yet made,’ he said. ‘And I feel that few will recall words more incandescent in this matter than those I have to say now.’

‘Get on with it, you popinjay,’ muttered Reinez.

‘The Sanguinary Priests of my order,’ continued Gethsemar, ‘have long conducted studies into the link between the gene-seed every Space Marine carries within him and the blessed flesh of our primarchs, after whose characteristics the gene-seed of the original eighteen Legions was modelled. Indeed, much had been revealed to us of holy Sanguinius, the father of our own Chapter, and thus we gain revelations of him that steel our souls on the eve of battle. It so happened that the Angels Sanguine came into possession of a sample of gene-seed originating from the Soul Drinkers Chapter, delivered unto us in the hope that we could ascertain if their rebellion was founded in a corruption of such gene-seed.’

‘Where did you get it from?’ said Sarpedon. ‘Which brother of mine supplied it?’

‘No brother of yours, I fear,’ said Gethsemar. ‘It was given to us by the Soul Drinker to whom it belonged, one who had defied your usurping of the Chapter’s command and sought, through Inquisitorial means, a way to exact his revenge.’

‘Michairas,’ said Sarpedon bleakly. ‘I thought I had killed him. I did so at the second time of asking, on Stratix Luminae. I underestimated my old novice. He still tries for revenge, even after death.’

‘And he has it,’ continued Gethsemar. ‘Space Marines of the court, Lord Justice, the Sanguinary Priests went about their research in the expectation that they would find the blueprint of Rogal Dorn’s own flesh as the starting point for the Soul Drinkers’ gene-seed. But they did not.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Sarpedon.

‘I am saying that Rogal Dorn is not your primarch,’ said Gethsemar simply. ‘I cannot say who is. The Sanguinary Priests have yet to complete their discourses on the matter. But Dorn’s gene-seed is among the most stable and recognisable of all those among the Adeptus Astartes, and there can be no doubt that the Soul Drinkers do not possess it. This is the news I came to the Phalanx to deliver. That is why the Angels Sanguine sought a place at this court.’

Sarpedon pushed against his restraints, half-clambering out of the accused’s pulpit. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You have taken everything from us! Our freedom! Our war! You will not take away Rogal Dorn!’

‘The defendant will be silent!’ yelled Vladimir, above the sound of dozens of bolt pistols being drawn. Every weapon in the dome was being aimed then at Sarpedon, in case he burst through his restraints to do violence to Gethsemar. Lysander stood between Sarpedon and Gethsemar, ready to slam Sarpedon into the ground if he showed any signs of breaking free.

Reinez did not move. He had seen all the damage done to Sarpedon that could be done. For the first time since he had come to the Phalanx, there was a smirk on his face.

Brother Sennon limped through the Atoning Halls, barely drawing a glance from the Soul Drinkers who sat in its cells, chained to the walls waiting for a decision to be made in the Observatory of Dornian Majesty. The news of Daenyathos’s survival had left them as confused as elated. The Philosopher-Soldier’s presence there had been brief, a few seconds, before the Dreadnought had been sealed away, and now none of the Soul Drinkers could be completely sure they had seen him at all. Their minds were occupied as the single pilgrim walked down the corridor.

Two Imperial Fists walked behind him as guards, but Sennon looked in more danger from his own health than from the Soul Drinkers. His skin was bluish and sweating, his eyes rimmed with red, his shoulders slumped as if he could barely hold up his own weight. His breath was a painful wheeze.

He passed the cell where Sergeant Salk was held. The sergeant was exhausted, his arms bruised from forcing against his restraints long past the point where it was obvious he would not break free. Other Soul Drinkers were in prayer or simply at rest, half their minds shut off while the other half watched, a Space Marine’s habit made possible by the catalepsean node each had implanted between the hemispheres of his brain. The Soul Drinkers had been fed by regular servitor rounds, but that was the sole concession made to their comfort. Since Daenyathos had been sealed away they had been silent, every one contemplating his situation in his own way, eager for news of Sarpedon and the trial but unwilling to beg their Imperial Fists captors for it.

One cell held Chaplain Iktinos. This cell had been sealed, so no other Soul Drinker could see or hear the Chaplain. Iktinos’s rhetoric was considered one of the biggest threats to keeping the Soul Drinkers captive, and so a steel plate had been welded over the bars of his cell. The Soul Drinkers who had made up his flock, those who had lost their officers and gone to Iktinos for leadership, had been spread out through the Atoning Halls to minimise their ability to conspire. Sennon passed the sealed cell and touched it with two fingers, murmuring a prayer for Iktinos’s soul.

Sennon halted at Captain Luko’s cell, and knelt on the floor.

‘Take care,’ said Luko. ‘You don’t look like you could get up again.’

‘I have come to pray for you,’ said Sennon.

‘Pray for yourself,’ replied Luko. ‘All the prayers that might help us were used up on Selaaca.’

‘You are not beyond hope,’ said Sennon, apparently unconcerned with the mix of pity and scorn with which Luko looked at him. Luko, compared to Sennon, was a chained giant, and the power held within every Space Marine was not lessened by the manacles that held him against the back wall of the cell or the bars that stood between the two of them. ‘There is none so close to the precipice that the Emperor’s grace cannot bring him back.’

‘And what of those who have gone over the precipice? What about them? To pray for them is a sin, is it not?’

‘I do not believe you are among them, Captain Luko.’

‘You know my name,’ said Luko.

‘I have read of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Sennon. ‘The Imperial Fists made available much of their information so that my sect might better observe the process of justice. The Blinded Eye we may be, but we do not do our duty by remaining blind when knowledge is available.’

‘The Inquisition passed a deletion order on us, you know,’ said Luko. ‘They could probably hang you for knowing we exist.’

‘It is the Imperial Fists who hold sway here,’ replied Sennon. ‘The Inquisition may have its due from us once we leave the Phalanx, but that is an acceptable price to pay to see justice done in so grave a case as this.’

‘It must be such a relief to see such a simple galaxy around you,’ said Luko, but the scorn was drying out from his voice. ‘Imagine knowing what is right and wrong. Imagine believing, completely believing, that one way was good and another was bad, and never having to think for yourself about it. I have such envy for you, pilgrim.’

‘Then you doubt that you have taken the right path? Doubt is a sin, Captain Luko.’

Luko smiled without humour. ‘Thanks. I’ll add it to the list.’

‘I shall pray for you.’

‘No, you will not. I will not be prayed for.’

‘You are in chains. You have no say in whether you are prayed for or not.’

That, at least, was something Luko had no stomach to argue. Sennon knelt before Luko’s cell, eyes closed and head bowed. His breathing became quieter, and for all Luko knew the young pilgrim might have died there before his cell.

‘I have such envy for you,’ said Luko, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear.

Sarpedon barely registered the journey back to his cell as the Imperial Fists marched him out of the Observatory of Dornian Majesty once again. The first couple of times he had sized up his guards and the route they took for the best time to attempt escape. His hands were manacled but he still had the use of his legs – the six he had remaining, at least – and he was faster and stronger than any of the four Imperial Fists flanking him.

But he could not take them all down. They were armed and armoured, Sarpedon was not. The inhibitor collar prevented his use of the Hell, which might have sown enough confusion for him to flee. From what he had gathered about the layout of the Phalanx, it would be difficult to put any distance between himself and the dome, crammed with hostile Space Marines, before the alarm was raised. The idea of escape was now all but forgotten, filed away in that part of an Space Marine’s mind where rejected battle plans lay waiting to be dusted off again.

Captain Borganor was ahead of Sarpedon and his Imperial Fist minders, at a junction of corridors where the science labs and map rooms surrounding the Observatory met the stone-lined corridors of the Atoning Halls.

‘Halt, brethren,’ said Borganor. ‘I would speak with the prisoner.’

‘On what authority?’ said the lead Imperial Fist.

‘On that of brotherhood,’ said Borganor. ‘I have no dispensation from Lord Vladimir, if that is what you ask. I merely wish to put the question to the defendant that every Space Marine on this ship has longed to ask. I shall not hold you long. As a brother, I ask this of you.’

‘We have all heard the outrages visited upon the Howling Griffons by the Soul Drinkers,’ said the Imperial Fist. ‘Ask if you will, but you shall not hold us long.’

‘My thanks,’ said Borganor. The Imperial Fists backed away from Sarpedon a little to give Borganor a semblance of privacy as he approached Sarpedon.

Sarpedon thought again of escape. Or, at least, of fighting. He had beaten Borganor before, as evidenced by the bionic leg Borganor sported. But attacking the Howling Griffon would not get him free. More to the point, it would not achieve anything. Sarpedon had no particular hate for Borganor. The Howling Griffon was a victim of the viciousness of the Imperium, in his own way. Sarpedon backed down mentally, and decided that he would not fight here.

‘What do you wish to know?’ said Sarpedon.

Borganor was close to him now. He had been as bellicose as anyone in the courtroom, but Borganor seemed to have calmed down a little since then. Perhaps the certainty that the end was close, that Vladimir and the other Space Marines were even now deciding how Sarpedon was to be executed, had cooled some of the fires in him.

‘What do you think?’ said Borganor. ‘I want to know why.’

‘Why?’

‘Why you turned on the Imperium. In all the debating and argument, no one has yet understood why you turned the Soul Drinkers renegade. Was it Abraxes? Did your rebellion start with corruption? Speak the truth, Sarpedon, for there is no use for lies now.’

‘We saw,’ said Sarpedon, ‘what the Imperium really was. I believe we had already known it, but that the weight of history and tradition muted that understanding in us. The Imperium is a wicked place, captain. How many citizens live free of fear and misery? I doubt you could name a single one. It is built on cruelty and malice. And in punishing its people and committing the evils it says are necessary, it gives a breeding ground to those enemies it claims to be fighting. The armies of Chaos do not materialise from thin air. They are made up of those who were once citizens of that same Imperium, but who were corrupted first by its horrors. That is what leaves them susceptible to the whispers of the dark gods. Were the Emperor able to walk among us still, He would look on what mankind has created in horror and seek to tear it down. The Imperium is not the last bastion against the enemy. It is the enemy.’

‘Then you claim what Varnica said is untrue? That Abraxes never led you down his own path?’

‘Abraxes used us, that is true,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘He took our anger at the Imperium and used it to manipulate us into destroying his enemies. But that anger was there before he got his claws into us, and we killed Abraxes for what he did. I am not proud of how blind he once made us. It was his touch that gave me these mutations, and I was ignorant of what they truly meant until Abraxes was gone. But he did not teach us to despise the Imperium. We managed that on our own.’

Borganor shook his head. ‘So deep your delusions cut that you see them only as truth,’ he said.

‘I am minded to say the same about you, captain.’

‘I begged of Vladimir the right to kill you myself,’ continued Borganor. ‘To pay you back for all my battle-brothers you killed. For Librarian Mercaeno, a man far better than any of your brethren.’

‘And did he grant you that right?’

‘He did not.’

‘You could do it now,’ said Sarpedon calmly. ‘These Imperial Fists would not turn their guns on you. You would finish me off before they could stop you, I have little doubt about that.’

‘No, Sarpedon. I wanted to do it slowly.’ Borganor was almost face to face with Sarpedon now. ‘To pull your legs off like a child does to a fly.’

‘Because I took your leg?’

‘Because you took my leg. But I wanted to understand what could drive a Space Marine as far as you have gone, before I did it.’

‘And do you understand?’

Borganor took a step back. ‘I understand that Abraxes warped your minds and implanted in you the belief that your rebellion was your own idea. There must have been something dark and heretical in your souls to begin with, to let his influence in. You were the weakest of all your Chapter, which is why it chose you as its instrument. You are damned, and death is too merciful for you however it is administered. That is what I believe.’

‘What a comfort it must be, Captain Borganor, to have the Dark Gods to blame for anything you are too afraid to understand.’

‘Brothers!’ came a cry from down the corridor. An Imperial Fists Scout was running towards them. He paused to salute Borganor. ‘Captain! Lord Vladimir requests your return to the Observatory. A verdict has been reached.’

‘Already?’ said Sarpedon.

‘There can have been little debate,’ said Borganor with a grim smile. ‘Good.’

‘Then follow,’ said the Scout. ‘The accused must be present. Any sentence will be carried out immediately.’

‘Oh, I do not think anything will be immediate,’ said Borganor. ‘Remember, Sarpedon? As a child does to a fly?’

The Imperial Fists closed in around Sarpedon, shepherding him back towards the Observatory of Dornian Majesty. Sarpedon glanced back at Borganor, who followed. There was nothing in the Howling Griffon’s demeanour to suggest he had any intention but to pull Sarpedon apart piece by piece, regardless of what Vladimir decreed.

But he would decree execution, whatever form it was to take. There had been no doubt about that from the moment Sarpedon had squared up to Lysander on Selaaca. He had come to the Phalanx to die. He had taken comfort that his Chapter would be executed under the eye of Rogal Dorn, who at least would know that the Soul Drinkers were not the traitors the Imperium perceived them to be… But now, with Gethsemar’s revelation, even that was in doubt.

Sarpedon would die alone. The galaxy was too cruel, he supposed, to have expected anything else.

‘It is done,’ said Brother Sennon. He clambered to his feet, unsteady, his knees having locked up during his long prayer.

‘What did you ask Him for?’ said Luko. There was sarcasm in his voice, but Sennon didn’t seem to have picked it up.

‘I asked Him for what He promises everyone. He grants us, if there is any piety in our hearts, a second chance. In our final moments we can be redeemed, if we are pure of heart when our souls come to be weighed against His example.’

‘We must leave,’ said one of the Imperial Fists escorting Sennon. ‘Time in the heretics’ presence is rationed. They are a moral threat.’

‘My soul is steeled against such things,’ replied Sennon. ‘I am frail on the outside, but there is none stronger within than a follower of the Blinded Eye.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said the Imperial Fist, ‘we all have our orders.’

‘Of course.’ Brother Sennon looked up and down the corridor of the Atoning Halls. At one end was a complicated rack, where Imperial Fists in the past had mortified their flesh to atone for some slight against the honour of their Chapter. At the other was a pair of blast doors, sealed. ‘Is this where the Dreadnought is held?’ asked Sennon, walking towards the doors.

‘It is,’ replied the Imperial Fist. ‘We have no business there. Daenyathos, if it truly is he, will be dealt with separately when the judgement has been pronounced.’

‘To think of it,’ said Sennon. ‘He must be six thousand years old. He fought at Terra, you know, during the Wars of Apostasy. To us a time of legends, to him, living memory.’

‘Past deeds mean nothing when corruption rules the present,’ said the Imperial Fist. ‘Brother Sennon, we must leave.’

Sennon was right in front of the blast doors now. He placed a hand against them, as if feeling for a heartbeat. ‘Just a moment more,’ he said. ‘Just a moment.’

Sennon turned back towards the Imperial Fists, a smile on his face like that of a saint rendered in stained glass. He seemed about to speak again, and then Brother Sennon exploded.

The court was full, all the Space Marines in attendance to witness the condemnation of Sarpedon. After him the rest of the Soul Drinkers would be filed through here to receive their death sentences, but it was Sarpedon’s that really counted. In the eyes of those who wanted vengeance against them, Sarpedon was the Soul Drinkers, and his fate fell on them all.

Reinez stood, arms folded, waiting for the sentence as if he were in attendance as executioner. It was more likely that Captain Lysander would do the deed, standing as he was beside the pulpit with his hammer in his hand. Commander Gethsemar wore his weeping mask again, perhaps to remember the Space Marines who had died at Soul Drinker hands. N’Kalo wore his helmet again – presumably it had been hammered back into shape in the forges of the Phalanx, and N’Kalo’s twice-ruined face was hidden once more. Chapter Master Vladimir stood among the Imperial Fists, ready to pronounce his findings.

‘The accused will take to the pulpit,’ said Vladimir.

Sarpedon did as he was told. If there had been a time to fight back, save for the ill-fated lashing out in the Apothecarion, then it had long since passed. It would serve no purpose, either. He had no particular hate for the Space Marines who had gathered here to see him killed. He had been like them once, except perhaps a little more prideful, a little more arrogant. He did not even hate Reinez. A moment of pity, perhaps, but not hate.

‘Sarpedon of the Soul Drinkers,’ began Vladimir. ‘Words have been said for and against your conduct. The evidence gathered has been examined with criticism as well as zeal. I am confident that honour and tradition have been served in every action of this court, and that the conclusions we draw are true and just before the sight of Rogal Dorn and the Emperor Most High.’

‘May I speak?’ said Sarpedon.

‘Speak if you will,’ said Vladimir, ‘but our conclusions have been arrived at, and need only pronouncement. Your words will mean nothing.’

‘My gratitude, Lord Justice,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Space Marines, I call you brothers, though I know you think yourselves no brothers of mine. When I turned on Chapter Master Gorgoleon and took command of my Chapter, I did it because I saw in us a terrible corruption. Not the corruption of the warp, nor some darkness of the xenos, but a very human corruption of the soul. We believed ourselves to be superior, to be the shepherds of the human race, for we were ordained within the priesthood of Terra with the role of watchdogs and executioners. Yet that priesthood, and the Imperium it ruled, were the true enemy. For every human killed or made to suffer by the predations of the warp or the alien, a billion more are dealt the same fate by the Imperium. The Emperor is just a hollow figurehead now, an excuse for the cruelty the Imperium inflicts, yet when He walked among us He strove for the safety and glory of every man and woman. Would you have me grovel and beg for forgiveness, for leading my Chapter to do the will of the Emperor when it conflicted with the malice of the Imperium? The death of every Space Marine weighs on me. The Howling Griffons and Crimson Fists who died in our conflicts I feel as sharply as the deaths of my own brothers. But I will not say that I am sorry. I have done nothing wrong. And if the story of the Soul Drinkers causes any one of you to doubt the right of the Imperium to oppress and murder the Emperor’s faithful, then our deaths will not have been in vain.’

Reinez met Sarpedon’s words with sarcastic applause, slow hand claps that echoed in the Observatory of Dornian Majesty. Everyone else was silent.

‘Then I pronounce on you the sentence of death,’ said Vladimir, ‘to be administered by the Imperial Fists swiftly, as befits the death of another Space Marine, and the striking of the name Sarpedon and those of all the Soul Drinkers from any bonds of oath or honour. To carry out this sentence I appoint Captain Lysander as executioner and Apothecary Asclephin as overseer. Sarpedon, you will be taken from this place to the Chapel of Martyrs where you will be killed, your body incinerated and any remains jettisoned into space. Your battle-brothers will follow. That is the pronouncement of this court.’

Sarpedon bowed his head. It was as good as he could have expected.

A stirring in the assembled Space Marines broke his train of thought. Several of them were looking upwards, through the dome. The smeared lights of the Veiled Region silhouetted a form approaching rapidly – a spaceship, smaller by magnitudes than the Phalanx, its engines burning full thrust as it hurtled right towards the dome.

Fire spat towards it. The automated turrets of the Phalanx had activated in time and the shape exploded in the brief burst of flame that was sucked away by the vacuum a split second later. But the ship was not vaporised, merely blown apart, and a chunk of its hull still spun on its original course towards the dome.

‘The pilgrim ship,’ said Lysander. ‘Close the dome!’

The dome was protected by armour plates that began to close like the lids of a huge circular eye, but every Space Marine could see it would not close fast enough.

‘Everyone out!’ yelled Vladimir. ‘We are betrayed! Enemies abound! Brothers, flee this place!’

‘The condemned seeks vengeance!’ shouted Reinez over the growing commotion as the Space Marines left their seats and headed for the exits, the burning mass of the pilgrim ship’s hull looming larger through the dome. ‘His allies want to take us with him! I will not flee while this traitor yet lives!’

‘Damnation, Reinez!’ yelled Lysander. ‘Get–’

The hull segment crashed into the dome. The armoured shutters were halfway closed when it hit. The dome shattered, shards of thick armoured glass falling like knives. The air boomed out and a terrible half-silence fell, the shrieking of metal and the howling of flame muffled as if coming from beneath the earth.

Sarpedon’s augmented lungs closed his windpipes to preserve what air he had in his body. The disaster unfolded around him in slow motion. Space Marines were diving for cover from the chunks of burning metal raining down. In surreal slow motion, one Imperial Fist lost his leg at the knee, sheared off by a shard of the dome. Another, along with a Howling Griffon, disappeared under a torrent of twisted steel and fire. Space Marines were thrown aside as Vladimir’s honour guard fought to force him through the doors. Gethsemar’s Angels Sanguine leapt from the seats out through the entrances on the exhaust plumes of their jump packs.

All was chaos. The bulk of the pilgrim ship’s hull was wedged in the blinded eye socket of the dome, but it had split open along the lines of its hull plates and was spewing torrents of burning wreckage into the dome. Sarpedon couldn’t see Reinez or Lysander, the two Space Marines who had been closest to him, and his body instinctively fought against his restraints.

One part of him was screaming that he had no air, and that even a Space Marine’s three lungs could not hold out for long in hard vacuum. The other part fought to escape. Sarpedon had never tested his bonds in the pulpit properly, for there had never been any chance of him escaping beneath the sight of so many Space Marines. Now he pulled against the manacles and shackles with strength he was not sure he still had.

The structure of the pulpit gave way. Hardwood and steel broke under the force. Sarpedon ripped his manacles off and grabbed the struts of the shackles that held his six remaining legs in place. They broke away, too, and Sarpedon, though still dragging his restraints behind him, was free.

He ran for the nearest exit. A sheet of steel, a section of the pilgrim ship’s deck, fell like a giant guillotine blade, and he skidded to a halt just before it sliced him in two. He scrambled up it, almost as nimble over a vertical surface as a horizontal one, and saw ahead of him the blast doors closing. A klaxon was blaring, the sound transmitted through the floor and his talons, explosions like dull thuds all around, the whole chamber vibrating as metal tore. He saw a dying Howling Griffon, one side of his torso opened up, organs trailing from his torn armour. His eyes were rolled back and he was convulsing. Sarpedon could not help him.

Sarpedon jumped and skidded through the blast doors. A tangle of wreckage was blocking them from closing completely. He hauled the twisted metal free and the doors boomed close, air howling around him and screaming in his ears as the corridor beyond repressurised.

Sarpedon took a breath. It felt like the first in a lifetime. His throat was raw as he gulped down air. His mind, tight and dull in his head, seemed to flow back to full capacity with the return of oxygen.

Sarpedon looked around him. He was in a tech lab, with benches heavy with verispex equipment and banks of datamedium racked on the walls. It was where Techmarines and their assistant crewmen would conduct experiments on captured tech, or craft the delicate mechanisms of bespoke weapons and armour. The walls were inlaid with bronze geometric designs and a cogitator stood against one wall like an altar, its brass case covered in candles that had half-burned away. The floor was scattered with broken equipment and the detritus of their work, thrown about by the gale of escaping air.

Sarpedon paused. He did not know the layout of the Phalanx. He remembered the way back to his cell well enough, but he doubted there was any point in returning there.

What point was there in doing anything? He could not escape the Phalanx, surely. The Imperial Fists would be hunting him down as soon as they had counted their own dead. He was free, but what did it matter?

It had to count for something. He fought the fatalism that had weighed him down since his capture. While he still lived, he could still fight, he could still make his life mean something…

‘Sarpedon!’ yelled a voice that he recognised with a lurch.

Reinez, his pilgrim’s tatters even more ragged and his face scorched, limped from a doorway into the lab. He had been caught in the flames and the edges of his armour were singed, but he had not lost his grip on the thunder hammer that served him like an extension of his own body.

‘Captain Reinez,’ said Sarpedon. ‘I see that neither of us is easy to kill.’

‘You are not free, traitor!’ barked Reinez. ‘There is no freedom under my watch! I sought your execution, and it will happen this day!’

Sarpedon was unarmed and unarmoured. He had not fought for what was, by his standards, a long time, and his lungs and muscles still burned. But he was still a Space Marine, and the moment did not exist when a Space Marine was unprepared to fight.

Reinez charged, yelling as he held his hammer high. It was a move of pure anger, reckless, unthinking. Wrong. Sarpedon scuttled up one wall, talons finding purchase in the raised designs, and Reinez’s hammer slammed into the wall behind him. The hammer ripped a deep dent in the wall, wires and coolant pipes spilling out as he wrenched it free.

Sarpedon clung to the web of lumen-strips and wires that covered the ceiling. Reinez yelled in frustration and swung up at Sarpedon, but he dropped down onto a lab bench in front of him and kicked a complex microscope array into Reinez’s unprotected face. Dozens of lenses and sharp brass struts shattered and Reinez stumbled back, blinded for a moment.

Sarpedon pounced on him, front limbs striking down, back limbs wrapping around. Reinez fell back with Sarpedon on top of him, fighting for the hammer which was the only weapon between them. Sarpedon tore it from Reinez’s hands and threw it aside, the power field discharging like caged lightning as the weapon tumbled across the room.

Reinez punched up at Sarpedon. Sarpedon batted Reinez’s fist aside and followed up with a punch of his own, his knuckles cracking against Reinez’s jaw. With his armour on, a gauntleted fist would have broken the jaw – as it was Reinez was merely stunned for a moment, long enough for Sarpedon to roll him over, lift him up off the floor and drive him head-first into the cogitator against the room’s back wall.

Power flashed. Components pinged out of the ruined machine, valves popping, cogs firing out like bullets. Reinez pulled himself free, blood running down his face and the pitted surface of his tarnished breastplate.

‘You are no executioner!’ yelled Sarpedon. ‘You failed! You have become this unthinking, hating creature, because you cannot accept that you failed! If you killed me your failure would still stand and your life would mean nothing! You should be grateful I never gave you the chance!’

Reinez coughed up a gobbet of blood. He was still standing, but he wavered as if his legs wanted to give way. ‘Heretic,’ he slurred. ‘Vermin. You were never any brother of mine. The warp took you long ago. Your whole Chapter. Stained… tainted… down to your gene-seed… Even Dorn’s blood rejects you!’

Reinez’s hand flashed down to his waist and a bolt pistol was in his palm. He raised it in a flash.

Reinez was a fast draw. Sarpedon moved faster. He crouched down onto his haunches, behind one of the lab benches. The bolt pistol barked and hit the lab bench, blasting sprays of hardwood and bronze shrapnel. Another few shots and it would come apart.

Sarpedon dropped his shoulder and barged into the bench. It came off its moorings and he powered it towards Reinez. The bench crunched into Reinez, pinning him against the wall and trapping the wrist of his gun arm.

Sarpedon reached over the bench and tore the pistol out of Reinez’s hand. As quickly as Reinez had drawn it, Sarpedon had it against Reinez’s temple.

‘I let you live,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Remember that, brother.’

Sarpedon smacked the butt of the pistol into the bridge of Reinez’s nose, crunching through cartilage and stunning Reinez again. The Crimson Fist’s head lolled, insensible. Sarpedon let go of the bench and Reinez clattered to the floor. Sarpedon left him there, scuttling from the tech lab into whatever paths the Phalanx had laid out for him next.

The liquid explosive with which Brother Sennon had replaced his blood ignited, and incinerated him in an instant. The door to Daenyathos’s cell was ripped off its mountings. The Imperial Fists accompanying Sennon were blown off their feet and hurled down the corridor of the Atoning Halls, their armoured weight crushing the rack that stood at the intersection.

Luko was knocked senseless by the shockwave. When his senses returned, his vision shuddered and his ears were full of white noise. He did not hear the footsteps of the Dreadnought emerging from the smouldering hole, but he saw the rubble-strewn ground shaking. Soul Drinkers stumbled from their cells, for the walls of the Atoning Halls had been forced out of shape and cell doors had sprung open. One or two of them had used shrapnel to lever their restraints open, and helped their fellows in neighbouring cells do the same. Two of them were on the Imperial Fists, who were still stunned and could not fight back as the Soul Drinkers grabbed their boltguns, combat knives and grenades.

Luko kicked against his own cell door. It was still held fast. A shadow fell over him, and silhouetted in the hazy light was Daenyathos. The Dreadnought body, even disarmed, was a powerful and terrible thing. Luko, still deafened, did not speak. The Dreadnought looked at him, the dead eyes of its mechanical head focussing, and then it walked on, disappearing into the swirl of dust and smoke.

Sergeant Salk appeared in the Dreadnought’s wake. He had a pair of shears for cutting through chain or bone, likely taken from one of the cases of torture implements with which past generations of Imperial Fists had purified themselves. Salk shouted something that Luko could not make out, then worked on the hinges of the cell door until Salk could wrench it free.

Salk then cut the manacles holding Luko to the back wall, and helped him to his feet. Salk’s words were getting through to him now, dulled by the ringing inside Luko’s head.

‘… have to go now! The Fists will be here in moments!’

‘Who… who is dead?’ said Luko. His own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.

‘Four or five of us, I think. Maybe dead, maybe hurt. There is no time to be sure. There is a way out through the far end, towards the archives.’

Luko saw Apothecary Pallas emerging from the dust and rubble, together with several other Soul Drinkers. Two more were forcing the door off another cell and Luko saw it contained Librarian Tyrendian, the inhibitor collar still clamped around his neck to quell his psychic powers.

‘What of Daenyathos?’ said Luko.

‘He is not in his cell.’

‘I saw that. Where did he go?’

‘I do not know, brother. I have not seen Chaplain Iktinos, either. We must gather and find somewhere we can defend, brother. We are free, but not for long if we cannot make a stand.’

‘Yes. Yes, brother, I agree. We must move.’

‘What of justice?’ said Pallas. The Apothecary was standing just outside the cell, Soul Drinkers gathering around him. His hands were slick with blood – he must have tried to save Soul Drinkers who had been wounded in the blast.

‘Justice?’ said Luko.

‘We are renegades. We were brought here to face justice. Is it right to flee from it? And what will we do after we have fled? Fight all the Space Marines on the Phalanx? We have less than a company’s worth. There are three companies of Imperial Fists on this spaceship, and Throne knows how many from other Chapters. What does one more battle mean to us when the outcome will be the same? None of us is getting off this ship, captain. You know that.’

‘Then stay, Apothecary,’ said Luko. ‘While there is freedom left for us, I for one will grasp it. There may not be much left for us, but to die free is worth a fight, I think. Come, brothers! We need to leave this place. Follow!’

Luko and Salk left the cell. Luko saw what remained of the Soul Drinkers Chapter – unarmed, bloodied, they were still marked by the manacles and shackles. But they were his brothers, and for one final time they would fight side by side. The Emperor only knew why Sennon had killed himself to buy this freedom for them – this was not the time to ask such questions. It was enough that they had the chance.

Luko was a man who seized his chances. He took the bolter offered to him by one of the other Soul Drinkers, and led the way through the Halls of Atonement towards his final moments of freedom. 

Grail Knight

Anthony Reynolds

I

Twilight deepened, slowly giving way to dusk. As the sun slipped over the western horizon, its last rays reflected off Calard of Garamont’s armour. Then it was gone, and darkness descended over the land.

The ground was rough and overgrown, and a creeping mist hung low over the land. Patches of snow resisted the encroachment of spring, yet blooming wildflowers spoke of its imminent arrival. There were no roads in this wilderness, and Calard’s progress was slow. Ten miles behind him the rolling landscape gave way to the verdant pastures and farmlands of Quenelles, but here on the borders, the land was left untouched by human hand. The early ancestors of the Bretonnians had learnt that lesson well in centuries past.

Calard guided his armoured warhorse up a steep ridge, picking a path through the heather and scratching gorse. The sides dropped off sharply, and the sheer slopes were strewn with rocks before disappearing into mist.

His hair was long and unkempt and his cheeks unshaven, yet he radiated an undeniable nobility, and his battle-worn appearance demanded respect. His right hand rested on the pommel of the ornate sword at his hip, a priceless family heirloom said to have been blessed by the Lady herself. A second, much larger sword was strapped across his back. It was a practical blade, heavy and devoid of ornamentation, and was quite capable of cutting a man in half with a single blow.

At the peak of the hill, Calard reined in his dappled grey destrier, staring to the east. From his vantage atop the ridge, the land spread out before him like a map.

His gaze was drawn to the vast tract of primal forest dominating the view, now less than a mile distant. It extended before him like an endless dark ocean, its fathomless depths harbouring untold secrets and hidden dangers. Even this far off he could feel the power of the forest, a strange and ethereal miasma that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

This was the Forest of Loren, a place of nightmare and dream, magic and mystery.

Its densely wooded edge resembled the soaring wall of some grand arboreal fortress, extending north and south as far as the eye could see. No tree strayed beyond its stark border, not even the tiniest sapling, as if an invisible force held it at bay. He knew that eventually the forest gave way to the foothills of the Grey Mountains, but from here it looked as though it went on forever. Low cloud obscured the highest treetops, and the canopy disappeared into haze only a few miles in.

Impenetrable, dark and heady with ancient magic, the Forest of Loren had long resonated in the hearts and minds of every son and daughter of Bretonnia. From childhood they were raised on stories of the fabled realm, tales of capricious beings of inhuman beauty and trees that came to life, of mischievous trickster spirits and malicious forest creatures that ensnared the unwary. On any given night one could hear the stories of the fey being told in hushed tones across Bretonnia, from the campfires of the lowliest peasants, to the grand halls of the king himself.

Few dared breach the borders of the ancient forest, and of those that did, fewer still returned. Those that managed to find their way out were more often than not discovered wandering its edges come dawn, babbling incoherently, their sanity shredded.

Indeed, if even a fraction of the tales surrounding these wildwoods were true then it was a place to be approached only with great caution.

Nevertheless, Calard felt no fear, for it was the will of the Lady, the patron goddess of Bretonnia, that he was here.

The first stars were appearing, like tiny pinpricks in the roof of the world. Brightest of all was the evening star, hanging low in the eastern sky above the forest. Known as the Lady’s Grace, it was the first star to appear and the last to depart come morning.

‘As you lead me, Lady, so shall I follow.’

For a moment longer Calard lingered atop the rocky bluff, breathing in the full spectacle before him. He could see a slender pinnacle of stone on the threshold. The evening star blinked above it, like a beacon.

‘Forward, Galibor,’ he said, urging his steed with a gentle kick. He rode down the ridge, towards the guiding evening star and the looming Forest of Loren.

Twenty feet high and carved with elegant, spiralling runes, the waystone marked the very edge of the forest. Ivy clung to its smooth surface, and Calard felt a strange tingling sensation on his skin in its presence.

Galibor stamped the ground, nostrils flaring. Calard could feel the warhorse’s powerful muscles tensing, and he gripped the reins firmly.

Calard had ridden the destrier’s grandsire, Gringolet, as a young knight errant, and so knew the horse’s pedigree. The warhorse was feisty and bellicose in nature, and though she had only recently come into his possession, he had been assured that she was fearless in battle. He had no reason to doubt this, and knew that it was unusual for the destrier to display such unease as she now did.

‘Be calm, brave one,’ he said, stroking its neck.

The warhorse relaxed under his trained hands, though he could still feel her agitation. Indeed, he felt a measure of it himself.

As a boy, Calard had been taught never to stare directly at a deer or boar when hunting, for the animal would instinctively feel a hunter’s gaze upon it. Calard felt that same odd sensation of being watched now, a crawling feeling in the back of his mind. He felt vulnerable, like prey locked in the sights of some unseen predator.

Tearing his gaze away from the waystone, he scanned the treeline. Shadows lurked within, but he could see no threat. Mist coiled from the gloom, insubstantial tendrils reaching out towards him. It wound around the legs of his destrier, which pawed the ground again, snorting.

‘There’s nothing there,’ said Calard, as much to convince himself as his horse.

He dismounted, and took a few steps towards the waystone. Mighty oaks towered over him, their thick branches straining to breach whatever force held them at bay. It was cold in the shadow of the forest; an icy chill seemed to radiate up from the dark soil underfoot. A vague feeling of menace pulsed from within the forest depths, as if it resented his proximity to its border. Since he was a boy he had dreamed of the day when he would see the fabled realm, but standing now in its presence as night drew in, he wondered if his desire had been a foolish one.

The previous night he had been a guest in the halls of Lord Eldecar of Toucon, an elderly nobleman of Quenelles, and a feast had been laid on in his honour. His quest precluded him for lingering though, and the entire hall had fallen silent when Calard had spoken his intention.

‘If I have caused offence, it was unintentional, and I apologise,’ Calard had said, unsure if he had broken some local protocol.

Eldecar had waved away his apology, but his eyebrows were knotted in concern.

‘No, of course not,’ Eldecar had said, finally breaking the awkward silence, ‘but you do know, sir knight, that it is the eve of the vernal tide?’

Calard had frowned and shrugged.

‘You have not lived your life in the shadow of the forest, so can be forgiven for not understanding,’ said Eldecar. ‘Even in Bastonne, you must have heard tell of the wild hunt?’

‘When the barriers to the otherworld fall, and the faerie court rides across the night sky? Surely that is merely superstition?’

Eldecar’s expression remained grim.

‘As old as I am, I would cut down any man that called me coward,’ said Eldecar, ‘and yet I would not dare venture out of doors after nightfall on the Spring Equinox. Nor would any sane man of Quenelles.’

‘It is by the Lady’s will that I must go,’ said Calard. ‘My faith shall be my shield against any fey witchery.’

‘Then I shall pray for your soul, Calard of Garamont.’

The words came back to Calard now as he stood at the edge of the forest, and an involuntary shiver passed up his spine.

‘Superstitions, nothing more.’

Walking towards the slender stone marker, he drew the Sword of Garamont. Reversing his grip on the ancient weapon, he plunged its blade into the moist earth. Dropping to one knee, he pressed his forehead against the fleur-de-lys hilt of his blessed sword.

‘You have called, my Lady, and I have answered,’ he said. ‘Grant me the vision to know what it is you would have me do, and I shall gladly do it.’

Falling silent, Calard remained motionless, eyes closed in prayer. As his breathing evened out and deepened, he felt a profound sense of peace descend over him. All his concerns and doubts washed away.

It was not long before he felt a presence nearby. Opening his eyes, his saw a majestic stag at the very edge of the forest, watching him. It was huge, larger even than Galibor, and its branching antlers were easily ten feet from tip to tip. Its thick winter coat shone, ghost-like amidst the shadows of the forest.

Never had Calard seen such a regal creature, and he scarce dared to breathe, unsure if it was real or imagined.

With unhurried movements it walked into the forest. About ten paces in it stopped and turned to stare back at him. Its intent was clear; it wanted him to follow.

Was this the Lady’s will, or some trick of the forest, attempting to lure him within its borders?

Not for the first time Calard felt the desire to ride from this place, to join the king and face the undead legions of Mousillon that were marching, even now, against his homeland. Surely that was where he belonged?

He shook his head to throw off these doubts. No, the Lady had brought him here for a reason, and he was honour bound to see that through to the end.

Rising, he sheathed his sword and took the reins of his steed. Galibor did not resist as he led her towards the edge of the forest, though he could feel her trembling. He paused at the tree-line. The stag continued to look back towards him, waiting.

‘Blessed Lady, protect your servant,’ he said, and entered the forest.

II

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold passed through Calard as he crossed the threshold of Athel Loren. The air felt instantly different, clear and crisp like a mid-winter morning, and the temperature dropped markedly. The biting chill filled his lungs, bringing with it the rich scent of the forest – a heady mix of soil, rain, rotting leaves and other less identifiable but not unpleasant aromas. His breath fogged the air. A low mist coiled around the twisted roots of the trees.

Movement flickered on the periphery of Calard’s vision, and unseen things rustled in the undergrowth. He heard fluttering and chattering in the boughs overhead, and a tumble of twigs, dead foliage and disturbed snow fell around him, but he was not quick enough to locate the source.

Massive oaks reared up, their trunks gnarled and old, their limbs heavy with lichen. Stars flickered in and out of view overhead, obscured by the criss-crossing canopy of skeletal branches. No new leaves or buds were in evidence; it seemed that winter still reigned here.

The forest was painted monochrome in the deepening twilight, as if all colour and life had been leeched away in the winter months. The leafless trees were the colour of unyielding stone, and the blanket of ferns were shining silver, as if their fronds had been dipped in molten metal. It was a coldly beautiful realm, ghostly and silent.

The white stag waited for him close by, half obscured by the low fog. It regarded him steadily, only turning and leading the way further into the forest once it was sure that Calard was following.

While the creature moved effortlessly through the woodland, Calard stumbled over rocks and roots, and twigs scratched at his face and caught in his hair. It was as if the forest were purposefully making his progress difficult, hindering his every step. Even as he discounted the notion as foolish, his foot caught between a tangle of roots that seemed to tighten around his leg like a trap. He fell to his knees with a curse. He thought he heard high-pitched, childish laughter from nearby, but it was gone in an instant, and might have been nothing more than a trick of the wind.

A glint of metal in the undergrowth caught his eye. Disentangling himself from the grasping roots, he parted the ferns for a clearer view.

A corpse lay encoiled beneath the roots of a broad oak. It appeared to be slowly dragging it down into the earth, as if swallowing it whole, yet even half-buried Calard saw enough to recognise a knight of Bretonnia.

The knight was long dead, his armour rusted and encrusted with dirt. There was not a skerrick of flesh left upon his skull, though tufts of matted reddish hair still clung to his scalp and chin.

A slender arrow protruded from his left eye-socket.

A hand on the hilt of his sword, Calard scanned the area for danger. Beams of silver moonlight speared down through the canopy, lending the forest a dream-like quality. Shadows danced around him and the trees creaked and strained like ships at sea, though there was no wind to stir their branches.

Briefly, he considered digging the corpse free in order to give it a proper burial, for no knight of Bretonnia deserved such ignominy in death. He discounted the notion with some reluctance – the roots of the tree were wrapped tight, and would not easily relinquish their prize. He spoke a brief prayer, willing the knight’s spirit on to Morr’s kingdom.

Looking back the way he had come, Calard expected to see the waystone marking the forest’s edge and the open land beyond. He had ventured no more than twenty yards into the woods, after all. The way behind him now looked as impenetrable as the way forward.

‘What in the name of the Lady?’

He turned around on the spot, wondering if he had somehow lost his bearings. The forest stretched out in every direction, dark and claustrophobic. Its edge was nowhere to be seen. Calard’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognise a single tree or rock that looked familiar, nothing providing any clue to the way back out.

The white stag too was gone. Forcing back his rising unease, Calard scoured the ground in a wide arc, but could not find its tracks. It had disappeared without a trace, as if it had been nothing but an apparition all along.

Recalling the tales that spoke of the forest luring the unwary within its boundaries, and the inevitably grim fate that awaited them, Calard cursed himself for a fool. He had been so certain that it was the Lady’s will that he followed the noble creature, but now, alone and lost in the Forest of Loren as night descended, he was not so sure.

Calard turned back. Perhaps it was just some trick of the light, he thought, and he would stumble out of the forest any moment.

The woods became increasingly dense and oppressive the further he went, and within minutes he knew that this was not the way back. It was getting colder as well, the isolated patches of snow on the ground becoming an ever-thickening layer that crunched beneath his boots.

Turning back in the face of this unnatural winter, Calard retraced his steps, intending to return to the corpse of the knight and pick another direction.

Thankfully, the snowfall thinned as he backtracked. But there was still no sign he had passed this way before.

Calard was an accomplished tracker and huntsman, and had lived for long periods in the wilds of the Old World. He was self-reliant and comfortable in such situations, confident in his own abilities. But here in the shadowy realm of Athel Loren he felt like a child lost in the woods, vulnerable and unsure which way to turn. His usually faultless sense of direction had deserted him, but he trusted his instincts enough to know that this was not some failing on his part, but rather that something was actively working to disorient him. It was as if the forest itself were conspiring to confound his senses.

He clambered over a half-buried log, but the way in front was blocked by an impenetrable tangle of branches. He turned back, intending to take a different route.

Impossibly, the log he had just climbed over had disappeared. Even his footprints were gone – the snow behind him was pristine.

‘This is madness.’

He heard a whisper of laughter behind him and turned quickly, searching. The forest was utterly still, giving nothing away.

Silence descended like a shroud, oppressive and all encompassing.

There was not a hint of movement in the undergrowth or in the canopy overhead, as if time itself was frozen. There was no breeze to cause even a ripple of movement or break the illusion. The air was charged with tension. It was the deceptive lull that came before a raging tempest was unleashed.

As silently as he was able, Calard drew his sword.

He forced himself to breathe evenly, emptying his mind of doubt and forcing the tension from his limbs. Whatever was coming would do so whether he wished it or not, and he would face it free of anxiety and hesitation.

Over the course of the last seven years he had battled hulking trolls in the blizzards of the northlands, and tracked and killed the dread Jabberslythe of Ostwald in the forests of the Empire. He had been hunted by pallid, blind ogre-kin through the labyrinths beneath the Mountains of Mourn and emerged triumphant, and had slain – several times – a monstrous wyvern that refused to stay dead. Most recently he had journeyed into the nightmare realm of Mousillon and fought the restless dead. He had been faced his own brother, twisted into a hateful vampiric creature of the night, and had not faltered, delivering him into Morr’s care.

And having quite literally travelled to hell and back – the burning heavens in the Realm of Chaos still haunted him – there were few things in the world that could truly unnerve him.

As he turned, his gaze swept across something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

A motionless figure was watching him, bathed in moonlight.

It was a knight, encased in ornate plate mail of archaic design. Utterly motionless, it stood atop a rocky outcrop that rose above the groundcover of snow and ferns. The towering figure was tinged the greenish-grey of weather-beaten rock, and Calard might have mistaken it for a statue but for the unnatural light of its eyes, burning coldly within the darkness of its helm.

Calard’s heart began to pound.

It was the Green Knight.

III

Calard stood frozen, his heart thumping.

The knight staring balefully down at him was a figure from myth and legend, and while it was the fervent hope of every boy and young knight of Bretonnia to face this supernatural avenger, few believed that they would ever be so blessed.

Calard had seen the Green Knight depicted a thousand times, in plays, illustrated manuscripts and stained glass, yet nothing could have prepared him for the reality.

Feared and revered in equal measure, some said that the Green Knight was the immortal spirit of Gilles the Uniter himself, founder of Bretonnia, and that he served the Lady even in death. Few claimed to have glimpsed the potent spectre, and those that did spoke little of their encounter.

It was said that the ancient being may appear to a questing knight nearing the conclusion of his ordeal, challenging him in order to test his resolve. Calard’s mouth went dry as he dared to think that perhaps this was his time.

The Green Knight’s gauntleted hands rested upon a broad-bladed sword – the Dolorous Blade – embedded in the earth before it. How many souls deemed unworthy had been cut down by that infamous weapon?

For years Calard had longed to face this potent being, but now that he did, he found himself transfixed, scarcely able to breathe. He felt a trembling thrill in his gut such as he had not experienced since he was a young knight errant. Sweat trickled down his back, despite the cold. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he forced himself to take a slow breath.

All the while, the Green Knight remained motionless, eyes searing through Calard’s soul, stripping him bare. Fog seeped up from the ground and billowed around the ethereal champion like a cloak.

In one smooth motion, the mythical figure drew its sword from the earth, and began to advance towards him.

Mist rolled out around the Green Knight, rushing towards Calard like a tide. It crashed over him in a soundless wave, and he was instantly chilled. Behind him, Galibor whinnied and reared, but Calard did not turn, unable to tear his gaze from the spectre bearing down on him.

Everything but this supernatural foe faded from view. The fog thickened, and the forest became vague and indistinct, then disappeared altogether. For a moment Calard heard haunting music, the refrain impossibly beautiful. He heard lyrical, inhuman voices rising in song, the sound so emotive and filled with longing that tears came unbidden to Calard’s eyes.

Roiling eddies of vapour curled and billowed around him on a sudden breeze. The Green Knight advanced, wading through the suffocating mist towards Calard, yet as it thickened, the distance between them seemed to grow. Calard hastened his pace towards his opponent, but the fog closed in.

The otherworldly figure was becoming increasingly hard to discern. Its terrible eyes and burning blade were growing faint, like the lights of a ship pulling away from port in the dead of night.

‘No,’ said Calard, hastening his step as he felt his opportunity to face the potent spirit slipping away. ‘No!’

Calard ran, straining to keep the Green Knight in view, but within heartbeats the spectre was gone, subsumed by the heavy fog. Calard was alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness.

He edged forwards, sword and shield at the ready, half expecting the Green Knight to loom up at any moment and cut him down. His steps were halting as he felt his way forward, wary of pitfalls and rocks.

The fog muffled all sound, but after a few moments, Calard realised that he could hear something: a dull roar, akin to rolling thunder or the pounding of waves on distant shores. It was impossible to gauge the direction that the sound came from, and with no point of reference, he quickly lost his bearings.

For long minutes Calard advanced blindly. The sound of rushing water echoed around him, and soft spray wet his cheeks. He was stepping through ankle-deep water. Tiny rapids swirled as it rushed over his boots.

He thought he saw something taking shape before him, a vague dancing light in the distance that might have been a lantern or torch. Again he heard that ethereal, haunting music. The light bobbed and weaved, mesmerising and strangely alluring, as if calling to him. Calard took an involuntary step towards it before he dragged himself back, recalling the tales of malevolent will-o-the-wisps leading unwary travellers to their doom.

No sooner had the thought registered than the dancing light disappeared. The fog began to retreat, rising like a curtain to reveal his surroundings.

Calard took a hasty step backwards as the forest took shape around him. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, hundreds of feet high. One more step forwards, and he would have walked out over the edge.

His senses reeled at the drop; he was looking down on the forest canopy below. It extended far into the distance, treetops glittering beneath the silver moon of Mannslieb.

Turning, he surveyed his surroundings. A second waterfall fell from above, crashing down over a sheer cliff face into a deep pool. The water’s surface was turbulent, and shimmered like liquid metal. The roar of the falls was deafening, and spray filled the air, glistening like rippling veils of diamond dust. Galibor stood nearby, drinking from the pool.

Trudging through the shallow water, Calard climbed the banks of the pool and peered into the forest. He could see no more than ten yards; it was almost impenetrable.

The sky was clear, allowing Calard to regain his bearings. He shook his head in wonder. From what he could make out, he was many miles from the forest border, closer in fact to the Grey Mountains in the east than the western fringes of Loren. He was also many miles to the north of where he would have expected to be. Still, a day and a night of travel should see him to the northern edge of the forest.

He whistled, and Galibor’s eyes swivelled. The warhorse looked at him.

‘Come,’ Calard said, and the warhorse cantered obediently through the shallow water to its master.

Calard took Galibor’s reins, readying to enter the forest. He looked over his shoulder one last time, at the clouds of vapour coming off the waterfall.

Before he turned away, Calard saw something come over the falls. It disappeared from view a moment later, swallowed by the raging torrent, but for a brief few seconds he saw it clearly as it fell. It was a body, arms and legs flailing as it tumbled.

IV

Without hesitation, Calard plunged into the icy pool. The body had disappeared beneath the thunderous white water, but he waded in deep, fighting the strong currents. He was not certain anyone could have survived that drop, and when they didn’t surface, he began to fear they had become snagged by rocks or already been carried past him and over the second falls.

Calard ducked under the surface, but it was hard to see anything. As he came up, he glimpsed the body surging facedown towards the drop of the second falls. Risking being swept away himself, Calard launched himself towards it, and caught the figure under one arm.

For a moment he was locked in an impasse with the surging waters. He was unwilling to let go, yet unable to drag it to safety. Groaning with effort, he managed to pull it from the swift moving current and haul it into the shallows. By the time he got it to shore, his chest was heaving and he was soaked to the skin.

It was a man, clothed in little more than a loin-cloth of woven grass and twigs and a heavy cloak of tawny feathers. He was lean and slender, his limbs long and powerful. Broad antlers like those of a stag protruded from a helmet of dark leather, and hair the colour of sand hung past his waist, tied in intricate plaits and knots. Dozens of necklaces, torcs and bracelets encircled his neck and arms, and a huge hunting horn hung across his back. His pallid skin was covered in swirling tattoos and war paint. Lacerations criss-crossed his flesh, as if he had been whipped to the brink of death.

Calard rolled the figure over, shifting the massive hunting horn strapped across his back so he could lie flat. For a moment he stared at the man’s pale face in shock and wonder. His features were angular and long, and tall, pointed ears poked through his tangle of hair. The face was handsome, in a fashion, yet unutterably inhuman.

Many in Bretonnia spoke openly of their disbelief in those known as the fey – the woodland elves said to dwell within the Forest of Loren – yet here before Calard’s eyes was evidence of their existence.

Calard dropped to his knees and pressed one ear to the elf’s chest. The heartbeat was weak and faltering. The elf’s chest was not rising and falling. By holding his hand before his mouth he nose confirmed the elf was not breathing.

Gripping the slender figure’s jaw in one hand, Calard leant down and breathed air into the elf’s lungs.

After several breaths, the elf jolted convulsively. He coughed up a lungful of water, and his eyes flicked open. They were large and almond shaped, and the irises were golden.

‘Noth athel’marekh, taneth’url aran,’ said the elf, struggling and failing to rise. When he saw Calard, his eyes widened. He reached for a weapon, but the scabbard at his waist was empty.

‘I mean you no harm,’ said Calard, showing his palms.

The elf cocked his head to one side, studying the questing knight with narrowed eyes.

A piercing scream tore through the air, and Calard reached for his weapon. It was not human, nor was it the cry of any bird or beast. It was cruel, seething with malice, and the promise of pain.

The elf snarled, and using the water-slick rocks to help him, he dragged himself upright, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounds. He couldn’t stand unsupported, but he searched the forest edges. Calard was surprised the elf was even alive considering his wounds.

‘Drycha noth Kournos athos,’ said the elf, spitting the words out like a curse. His strength deserted him, and his eyes rolled backwards. Without a sound, he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Moving to him, Calard pressed his fingers to the elf’s throat. The heartbeat was erratic, and the skin was an unhealthy shade of blue. If his wounds were not tended soon, and warmth restored to his body, then the elf would surely not see out the night.

Another horrid cry echoed through the trees. This scream was nearer, and though it was hard to gauge, Calard judged it to be perhaps half a league away. It was followed almost instantly by another scream, slightly further off, coming from yet a third direction. It was the sound of predators coordinating a hunt, in the manner of a wolf pack, though these were no wolves; this was something infinitely more dangerous. Another cry sounded, closer still, and Calard realised that he was already surrounded.

Calard lifted the elf onto his shoulder, surprised at how light he was. He draped him over the warhorse’s saddle, and gripped Galibor by the bridle.

They needed shelter, and fast – somewhere to hide from whatever was hunting them, and a place where he could tend the elf’s injuries. Keeping close to the sheer rock face, Calard guided his warhorse back into the forest, judging the best chance they had was to find a hollow or an overhang in the cliff wall. There were dozens of cracks in the cliff face, but few extended far, and none offered much in the way of protection from the biting wind or prying eyes.

Another scream sounded, louder than any so far. The hunters were closing in fast.

Calard spied one crack in the cliff wall that looked marginally wider than the others, and in growing desperation, he scrambled forward to investigate, guiding Galibor towards the narrow chasm. It was barely wide enough for the armoured warhorse, but he pressed on, praying to the Lady. Water dripped down the sheer sides of this natural ravine, and ferns clung to its sides.

The passage narrowed, and Calard feared that he would have to turn back. Galibor snorted in displeasure, but did not resist as Calard continued on. After twenty paces, the ravine became a tunnel, a narrow passage delving deeper into the rock.

Sliding back past Galibor, Calard used a fallen branch to cover their tracks, obscuring their prints in the snow as best he could before leading the way deeper into the dark.

The roar of the waterfall echoed up through the tunnel, becoming louder the further they went. While the first few steps were through near total darkness, the way ahead brightened steadily; clusters of glowing crystal clung to the rock walls, radiating a pale phosphorescent glow.

Calard paused beside one of these formations. It was a mass of dagger-like shards, many as long as his forearm. The blue-white illumination they emitted pulsed like a heart-beat. Peering closely, he saw tiny spider-like creatures patrolling the crystal formation, swarming industriously, like bees within a hive. Their bodies were pearlescent and chitinous, and they too pulsed with inner luminosity.

Moving on, the crystal formations became ever more complex and impressive, until the winding tunnel opened to a broad, light-filled cavern. It was like walking into a cathedral of glass.

Grand pillars of crystal rose from floor to ceiling, and huge formations hung down like delicate chandeliers, glimmering coldly.

A hushed roar echoed through the cavern, and Calard wandered through its halls, awestruck, leading Galibor and the unconscious elf. He came to a gaping aperture, like a vast arched window, though in place of glass was a shimmering veil of water. They were behind the waterfall.

Others had recently used this place as a campsite. In a hollow in the floor he found ashes and charcoal, and in a nook in the wall was a pile of dry tinder and wood. Several low shelves extended from the walls around this fire pit, and pallets of tightly bound leaves upon them indicated that they were used as bedding.

He had no way of knowing who used this place as a refuge, nor if they would return, but he cast away any concern and thanked the Lady for leading him here. Easing the unconscious elf from Galibor’s saddle, he lowered him onto one of the pallets. His skin was cold and grey, and blood was leaking from his wounds. His heart beat was fluttering and faint, and his breathing shallow. Knowing he needed warmth, Calard set to building a fire.

Within minutes he had a blaze roaring, and turned his attentions to the elf’s injuries.

His tattooed flesh was covered in scratches and raking cuts. The majority of these wounds were focussed on his upper body and torso. There were few marks upon his back, suggesting the elf had been facing his assailant. His hands and forearms were shredded, as though he had tried to ward off the attacks.

Dozens of hooked thorns, some several inches long, were embedded in his body. They leaked a pungent, sticky green sap.

Some of the lacerations were superficial – no doubt painful, but not life threatening – but many were deep enough for serious concern. Calard winced as he probed at one particularly vicious injury.

Broken ribs protruded like snapped twigs from a serrated gash in the elf’s side, and blood was flowing steadily from it. Left untended, he would certainly bleed to death. But even if the flow was stemmed survival was not certain.

Of greatest concern was a noxious discolouration surrounding each laceration. It spread out beneath the skin like the roots of a tree. These malign, creeping tendrils were dark-green in colour; poisoned.

Without delay, Calard set to removing the barbs. He concentrated his efforts on the serious torso wound first, cleaning and stitching it up as best he could. In a small bowl he ground up a mixture of herbs that he’d collected on his travels, mixing it with the last remnants of honey from a clay jar he had procured in the Empire six months earlier. The herbs were medicinal in nature, and combined with honey would aid in preventing infection. Calard applied the sticky poultice to the elf’s jagged wound. Cutting strips from a spare tunic, he bound it in place.

For an hour he ministered to the elf’s wounds. His patient cried out in his restless slumber, but his words were indecipherable. Several times he awoke, but his eyes were glazed and unfocussed, and he didn’t register Calard’s presence.

Still wearing his horned headdress, the elf projected a savage nobility even in unconsciousness. The inhuman cast to his features was emphasised by the cold light emitted by the walls, making his flesh appear luminous. It was impossible to guess his age – he might have twenty or two hundred and twenty – for the fey were thought to be long lived, perhaps even immortal. The span of their lives, so it was said, outstripped even those of dwarfen kind.

The cavern was warm now, the fire burning strong. Judging that he could do little more for the elf, Calard saw to his warhorse. He brushed her down and checked her legs and hooves for injury. Only when his steed was fed and watered did Calard allow himself to relax. He leaned his broadsword and shield against the wall and settled down upon one of the cave’s pallets. The Sword of Garamont sat across his lap. Its familiar weight was comforting. He watched the waterfall as he ate a meal of salted beef, and his mind drifted.

It had been seven years since he had set aside his lance and taken up the quest. Swearing his vow before the goddess, he had relinquished all his material wealth and instated his young cousin Orlando as his regent under the trusted guidance of Baron Montcadas. With nothing in the world to his name but that which he wore or was carried by Chlod, his manservant, Calard had ridden from Castle Garamont determined to succeed in his quest or die in the attempt.

The years on the road had hardened him, like a sword tempered in the forge. Through all the trials and hardships set against him he had emerged triumphant, and with every passing month his mind, body and soul had been strengthened.

Now, he prayed, his journey was coming to an end.

The vision had struck with all the force of a thunder bolt, taking his breath away and dropping him to his knees in the midst of battle. It has lasted just seconds, but the blinding series of images had been forever seared in his mind. Even now, he could see it whenever he closed his eyes.

He could not yet fathom the vision’s full meaning, but he had faith that all would become clear. The Lady had wished for him to follow the evening star into the east – and that had brought him here.

As loath as he had been to depart the cursed realm of Mousillon while the fiend Duke Merovech still walked, he could no more disobey the Lady’s command than choose for his heart to stop beating. And while he knew that even now Merovech and his blood-sucking seneschals were marching against Bretonnia at the head of a vast undead army, he could not ride to join the knights of the king until he had done as the Lady bid him.

Two others had ridden with Calard from the cursed realm; Chlod, his hunchbacked manservant, and Raben, a dishonoured rogue of a knight embarked upon the difficult road to redemption. Pursued by the nightmarish hounds of Duke Merovech, the three had fled Mousillon.

Knowing that haste was of the highest priority and that the path he now travelled was his alone, Calard had bid his companions farewell at Mousillon’s border and ridden hard into the east.

Chlod he had foresworn into Raben’s service, and the pair had ridden north into Lyonesse to raise the alarm. They had each seen the threat that Merovech posed, having glimpsed in the distance the army he had raised – literally – as they had fled the city. Thousands upon thousands of long dead warriors stood in serried ranks on the blasted fields to the north of Mousillon.

Calard’s gaze settled on the ashen-faced elf lying before the fire.

The Lady had led him here to save this warrior, of that he was certain. But why? Whatever the reason, he prayed that the elf would live to see the dawn. His fate was in the hands of the gods now.

The noise of the waterfall was soothing, and lulled by the sound of rushing water and the play of firelight on the crystal walls, Calard drifted into a fugue-like half-sleep. He imagined he saw slender women in the waterfall, staring in at him from the rushing waters, their naked flesh the colour of the ocean. He heard them singing, filling the crystal sanctuary with their hypnotic song.

The fire was low when he jolted awake.

The elf stood before him, holding Calard’s broadsword in a two-handed grip, the tip levelled at his throat. His golden eyes were unblinking.

The Sword of Garamont was still sheathed across Calard’s lap. With some effort he restrained himself from drawing it. He could see by the elf’s balanced stance that he was a warrior; he would be run through before he had the Sword of Garamont even half drawn.

Making no sudden or threatening moves, Calard lifted the sheathed sword from his lap and placed it beside him, flat on the pallet. He leant back against the stone wall and placed his hands behind his head.

‘Well?’ he said, his gaze steady. ‘What now?’

The elf’s eyes narrowed.

‘Aleth kegh-mon aeleth’os tark’a Loec-noth,’ said the elf. The cadence of his speech was lyrical, each unfamiliar word precisely enunciated and tinged with hostility.

‘If you were going to kill me, you would have done it by now.’

Calard could see that the elf was weak, though he was trying his best to conceal it. His limbs were lathered in sweat, and blood was leaking from several of his bindings.

The Bretonnian bastard sword was heavy, and Calard could see that the elf was straining to keep it aloft. It looked overly large and crude in his hands, which were surely used to more elegant weapons.

‘There is a poison in your flesh,’ said Calard. ‘You need healing. What was it that caused your injuries?’

‘Dae’eth Shael-Mara, noth,’ spat the elf.

‘You don’t understand me, do you?’ said Calard.

‘Kaelan noth kegh-mon,’ spat the elf.

They stared at each other for a time, neither willing to make a move. Calard shivered. The fire had reduced itself to embers, and the cavern was cold. Moving slowly, he reached for more wood.

The elf hissed through his teeth and tensed, the tip of the sword hovering like the barbed tail of a scorpion, ready to strike.

Moving cautiously, Calard lifted a chunk of wood from the pile and tossed it onto the embers. Tongues of flame rose almost instantly, licking at the dry, crackling timber.

Leaning forward, he poked at the fire, and a flurry of glowing cinders drifted into the air, dancing and crackling. Over the glow of the flames, he saw the elf sway as he fought to stay conscious. The tip of the sword wavered and dipped.

Seeing his opening, Calard flicked a scoop of embers up at the elf. In the same movement he sprang to his feet and leapt the fire pit, intending to slam the elf from his feet with his shoulder before he had a chance to strike.

Even in his weakened state the elf was far quicker than Calard had anticipated. Before he had cleared the fire pit the elf had already spun out of the way, side-stepping the tumble of glowing coals and bringing the heavy bastard sword around in a lethal arc that sliced for Calard’s neck. The blow was not a casual one; it was a killing stroke.

Calard threw himself to the side, and the blade hissed past, missing him by inches. Still turning, the elf launched himself into the air like a dancer, using his momentum to bring the bastard sword around for a second strike. The elf moved with exquisite balance, and Calard felt clumsy and heavy as he reeled back, trying to put some distance between them.

He cursed himself for misjudging the situation; he had been sure that he could disarm the elf without any harm coming to either of them.

The elf landed in a low crouch. His breathing was laboured, and a growing red stain could be seen on the bindings around his chest. The wound in his side had re-opened.

The elf’s strength was fading. His golden eyes were clouded and his legs shook. Determined to end things quickly, before the elf regathered himself, Calard surged forward. But the elf was not done yet, and he swung at the questing knight as he came at him.

The elf’s speed was not what it had been at the start of the fight, and Calard caught the blade against the inside of his left vambrace, and while it cut deep, shearing through plate metal and the chainmail links beneath, it barely scratched his forearm. He grappled with the slender elf, and the two of them fought for control of the bastard sword.

The elf was Calard’s equal in height, yet was far slighter of frame. There was a wiry strength in the elf’s limbs, though, that defied his fragile appearance, and for a moment the pair were locked together, eye to eye.

Calard slammed his forehead into his opponent’s face, breaking the stalemate. The elf’s legs buckled, and the heavy bastard sword fell from his grasp with a clatter. Calard kicked it aside and muscled the elf to the ground, pinning him face down with a knee in the small of his back. The elf struggled against him, then went limp.

Calard lifted him from the ground and put him on one of the low palettes. The elf’s breathing was shallow, his heartbeat arrythmic. Calard loosened the blood-soaked bindings. The deep wound had reopened, and Calard worked to staunch the flow. There was little that he could do to halt the spread of the insidious poison, however, and he was shocked to see that the sickness had already advanced in the last hour. The vein-like tendrils under the skin were now creeping towards the elf’s heart.

Calard swore. Without a healer, the elf would die, but he felt certain that he would never find his way back here if he left to search for help.

Calard’s eye fell upon the curved hunting-horn that he’d removed from around the elf’s shoulders. If the elf had friends nearby, they might be able to help. Calard took up the horn and moved towards the passage leading back out to the forest.

A faltering voice gave him pause.

‘No,’ said the elf. ‘You will draw the Shael-Mara to us.’

‘You speak Breton?’ said Calard.

‘Some.’

‘How did you come to learn it?’

‘One of... your people dwelled... for a time within the Halls of... Anaereth... my home.’

‘How long ago was that?’ said Calard in wonder. The elf spoke an archaic form of his language that had not been used in hundreds of years.

‘Many seasons.’

‘My name is Calard of Garamont, My quest for the Lady’s chalice brought me here, to your forested realm. It was she who led me to you.’

‘Then you are a fool,’ said the elf. ‘The forest... will claim you. You’ll not... see your lands again.’

‘Are you a seer?’

The wounded fey warrior glared at him, golden eyes blazing.

‘I do not... need to be a seer... to know the fate that awaits you.’

‘What is your name, elf?’

‘I am Cythaeros Mithra’kinn’daek of the Shenti’ae Arahain kindred,’ said the elf.

‘The Lady led me to your side, Cythaeros,’ said Calard, forming the elf’s name with some difficulty. ‘It was by her will that you were saved.’

The elven warrior was about to speak, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Blood flecked his lips when it had passed.

‘You said I would draw something to us if I used this horn,’ said Calard, handing the curved instrument to the elf. ‘What is out there? What manner of creature is hunting you?’

‘The Shael-Mara,’ said Cythaeros, taking the hunting horn and clutching it to his chest like a talisman. ‘Handmaidens of Winter. They will... be searching.’

‘Handmaidens of Winter?’

‘Betrayers... Pawns of the branchwraith, Drycha.’

Calard’s frowned, and he was about to voice his questions when he saw that Cythaeros had slipped into unconsciousness. He settled down next to him, wondering what the best course of action was.

With a gasp, the elf awoke again. He sat upright, grabbing Calard’s arm, his eyes shining with fever.

‘The compact... must be met. The King... in-the-Wood must rise.’

‘Lie back,’ said Calard. ‘Your wounds.’

‘No,’ said Cythaeros, his voice a hoarse whisper, but he sunk back onto the pallet, his strength waning. His eyes began to close.

Calard could see he was fading fast. He leant in close, taking hold of the elf by his shoulders.

‘There is a poison in you that is beyond my abilities to halt,’ said Calard. ‘You are in need of healing. Where are your people?’

‘The forest,’ breathed Cythaeros. ‘Take me… into… the forest.’

V

Snow crunched underfoot as Calard delved deeper into Athel Loren. He eyed his surroundings with both wariness and wonder, one hand resting upon the pommel of the Sword of Garamont. Cythaeros was slumped unconscious astride his armoured warhorse. Calard had tied him into the saddle to ensure that he did not slip sidewards, but he glanced back regularly to ensure he was still in place.

The elf’s condition was steadily worsening. It was still some hours before dawn, and Calard was unsure that he would ever regain consciousness. He needed help soon if he stood any chance of living.

Only hours ago, the forest had seemed impenetrable, dark and full of claustrophobic menace; now it was bright, and filled with space and air. Where before the forest had appeared to resent Calard’s presence, turning him around and hindering him at every step, now it opened up before him, as if hurrying him on. Though he did not know where he was going, he took this as a good sign.

As he walked, Calard’s gaze constantly drifted upwards. Immense trees rose all around him, soaring impossibly high, their silver-barked trunks glistening. Their scale was breathtaking, and he doubted their like existed anywhere in the world but here. Never would he have believed that any tree could grow so tall or straight; each must have been easily five-hundred feet tall. They were like vast pillars holding up the ceiling of the world.

The quality of the light was magical, with moonlight lancing down through the canopy above. Pristine, untouched snow glittered like crystal.

In the hours since leaving the safety of the cave, Calard had neither seen nor heard any sign of pursuit. Still, he remained alert, knowing that danger was assuredly all around, even if he could not perceive it.

Despite the unnatural winter, Calard glimpsed an abundance of life within the forest. He guessed it had been here before, but only now was he seeing it – or being allowed to see it.

Owls swooped through the trees, and rabbits and mink padded across the snow, oblivious to the danger above. He heard a lone fox barking in the distance, and glimpsed a pair of hawks roosting in the branches overheard. He saw a herd of deer grazing far away, though none of them came close to matching the sheer magnificence of the white hart that had led Calard into the forest. From afar, he saw the shuffling form of a great bear woken early from its winter slumber.

Once, Calard caught a glimpse of a huge white cat stalking through the trees some way off. Its body was sleek and powerful, and its ears were sharp and pointed like knives. It turned to regard him, violet eyes flashing in the moonlight, before melting with unhurried grace into the forest like a phantom.

All of those creatures were similar to ones Calard had seen outside the forest, yet there was something about them that was strange, an otherworldly quality that set them apart.

Other creatures were less familiar.

A host of glowing sprites had descended around him at one point. From a distance they looked like fireflies, but as they came close, he had seen that they were something altogether different.

Each was a tiny being of light, perfectly formed and held aloft by diaphanous, gossamer wings. They were curious of him, darting in close to look at him, then speeding away again when he turned towards them. They were irritating, however, tying knots in his hair and pulling Galibor’s ears, all the while filling the air with their high-pitched giggles. Calard had swatted at them as they flitted around him.

Most of them had soon grown bored and departed, but one of the tiny spirits stayed with him. He had given up trying to drive it off. At first it had darted frenetically, sticking out its tongue as he waved it away, but it appeared content now to sit on his shoulder, chattering away in its shrill, indecipherable voice.

Even the tiny sprite had finally fallen silent, however, and a reverential hush descended upon the forest. It began to snow. Each heavy flake fell in slow motion, descending with tranquil grace. The crunching of snow and the jangle of tack were the only sounds.

The attack came without warning.

Calard glanced back over his shoulder to ensure Cythaeros was still in the saddle, and a slender loop of rope slipped over his head. Before he had a chance to react, the rope was yanked tight around his neck and he was hauled into the air, legs kicking uselessly beneath him.

Struggling for breath, Calard clutched at the constricting noose, trying fruitlessly to get his fingers beneath the rope and ease its tension. It was crushing his windpipe, and his vision began to waver. The glowing sprite that had attached itself to him was flying frantically around him, tears of light falling down its cheeks.

As he spun helplessly ten feet above the ground, Calard saw shadowy figures in the branches of the trees. Their faces were hidden beneath deep hoods, and each levelled a nocked bow.

White spots were appearing before Calard’s eyes, and he fumbled for his knife. The glowing sprite’s tiny hands guided him, and his fingers finally closed around the hilt. He drew it quickly and slashed through the choking rope.

Hitting the ground hard, Calard ripped off the noose, gasping. He staggered to his feet and drew the Sword of Garamont. A dozen figures armed with bows had risen from concealment beneath the snow around him. The sprite hovered at his shoulder, spitting and glaring at these newcomers. Glancing up, Calard saw that easily the same number as were on the ground were crouched in the branches overhead, arrows trained upon him.

‘Wood elves,’ said Calard.

The fey beings were slender and tall, clad in heavy cloaks the colour of winter. Most had their faces covered, leaving only their almond-shaped eyes exposed, glittering beneath their shadowed hoods. Their expressions gave away nothing.

One of them dropped from the branches overhead, landing lightly. The wood elf pushed the hood back from his face, revealing a strong, masculine profile, and ashen skin. He wore a curving black half-mask, and delicate tattoos in dark green were stencilled across his flesh.

His hair was gleaming black and tied in a series of braids. He moved with the supple grace of a dancer, and barely left an impression in the snow as he strode towards Calard. He halted ten paces away, and while his bow was lowered, he kept an arrow nocked to the string. His eyes were like chips of ice. Calard was in no doubt that the elf would kill him at the slightest provocation.

With slow and deliberate motions, Calard sheathed the Sword of Garamont.

‘I found one of your people – Cythaeros,’ Calard said, gesturing towards the unconscious elf. ‘He is hurt. I have done what I can for him, but he needs a healer.’

The elf barked an order but did not take his eyes off Calard. One of the hooded sentinels stepped forwards, easing the tension from its bowstring, and moved to the side of the Bretonnian warhorse. The elf was a woman, though she was garbed identically to her companions. She spoke softly under her breath, and placed a gentle hand upon Galibor’s nose. The proud warhorse accepted her touch, nuzzling into it.

The elven warrior-woman glanced in Calard’s direction. He saw disdain in her eyes, before she turned her attention towards the unconscious figure of Cythaeros slumped in Galibor’s saddle.

The leader of the elves spoke, his tone questioning. Calard saw the female warrior’s eyes widen as she lifted the wounded elf’s chin and looked upon his face.

She looked sharply at Calard.

‘Doth kail’enaeth,’ she said in a sharp voice. ‘Cythaeros Mithra’kinn’daek, Kournos-dae!’

Several of the elves began to speak at once, but they were silenced by the one Calard took to be their leader.

‘Kaela’Anara, vish’nu,’ he said.

The air shimmered and, as if a veil were parting, the white hart that had led Calard into the forest stepped into the moonlight, seemingly from nowhere.

‘Not a delusion of the mind, then,’ breathed Calard.

The proud creature walked towards him with unhurried majesty. Its broad rack of antlers gleamed. A rider sat astride the stag’s shoulders, a lady bedecked in a gown of overlapping gossamer layers, each so delicate that they appeared to float in the air.

A veil concealed her face, held in place by a circlet of ivy around her brow. A gentle aura surrounded the lady.

Cythaeros was lowered from Galibor’s saddle by a pair of elves. Calard made to help them, but the leader of the elves hissed between his teeth, raising his bow, and Calard froze.

The veiled lady slipped from the back of her mount. Although he could not see her eyes, hidden as they were, he could feel her gaze upon him, making his skin prickle. She was a sorceress then, Calard surmised; he had felt the strange, creeping sensation before.

Cythaeros was carried towards the white stag, which lowered itself in the snow to receive him. It had no bridle, reins or saddle and knelt of its own volition. The unconscious elf was placed over its broad back, leaning forward into its thick mane, and the veiled lady climbed behind him, putting her arms around his waist.

Calard’s gaze returned to the leader of the elves, and he realised that he now stood alone. Those elves that had been nearest to him had rejoined their brethren. They now encircled him, silent, their expressions cold. Hooded and cloaked, the elves all looked as one: grim and unforgiving.

‘If I have broken any law through my intrusion into your realm, then I apologise,’ said Calard.

The elves were silent, staring with unblinking eyes.

‘You have your man back,’ said Calard, gesturing towards Cythaeros. ‘My task here is done. I ask that I be allowed to leave safely, so I can join my kin in fighting the darkness assailing my lands.’

Still the elves made no response.

‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ said Calard, grasping the hilt of his sword.

The elven leader raised his powerful, recurved bow and drew back the string, arrow levelled at Calard’s chest. At this range, it would drive straight through his breastplate.

‘It is not the will of the Lady that I die here,’ Calard said.

The elven warleader’s eyes narrowed, but he did not loose his arrow.

Confronted with the prospect of being ignobly cut down by a coward’s weapon, Calard felt nothing but calm. It was as though a blindfold had been lifted from his eyes, a weight removed from his soul.

‘Lady of mercy,’ he whispered, ‘show me the path, and I shall walk it.’

A single black feather drifted into view, falling slowly between the elven leader and Calard, like a tainted snowflake.

The ugly cawing of crows sounded nearby, shattering the silence. The tiny sprite at Calard’s shoulder gave out a shriek, and blinked out of existence. Further off, Calard heard an inhuman scream, infused with bitterness and savagery.

As if that hateful cry were its cue, an icy wind howled through the forest. Branches whipped back and forth in the wake of the sudden tempest, and Calard’s tattered cloak rippled out behind him. Something was coming, and he readied his blade, his eyes slits against the gale.

The Handmaidens of Winter had found them.

VI

Riding on the wind of the storm, crows erupted from the forest depths. Calard heard them long before he saw them, moving fast and flying in a dense black cloud. They dipped and dived through the branches, moving at tremendous speed, coming straight for the elves and Calard.

‘Shael-Mara!’ shouted the elven warleader, arrow still pointing at Calard. Without warning, he loosed.

Calard did not flinch, even as the arrow came towards him. It hissed by his ear, missing him by less than an inch, and he heard it thud home somewhere behind him, accompanied by a feral howl of pain and anger.

Glancing over his shoulder, Calard saw a figure pinned to a tree some thirty feet away. It was thrashing like some deranged marionette as it sought to free itself. It screeched horribly, sounding more like some monstrous bird of prey than anything even vaguely elven or human.

Seeing that the elves were ignoring him completely, Calard drew the Sword of Garamont and swung the battered shield off his back. It was painted red and blue with a resplendent silver dragon rampant emblazoned upon its face, but that paint was now faded and scratched, the bare metal underneath shining through. It was heavily battle-worn, covered in dents, evidence of the countless battles he had survived. As the flock of birds hurled themselves towards him, their cries deafening, he secured the shield on his left arm and readied himself for their onslaught.

They were big, more the size of ravens than crows, yet sleeker than any Calard had seen before. Their bodies appeared elongated for speed and manoeuvrability, perfectly adapted to a life beneath the forest canopy. They were not at all slowed by the dense foliage, spinning and weaving through the skeletal branches with enviable grace and swiftness. Their black feathers had a blue sheen to them, he saw now, and their beaks and talons gleamed like daggers. A dozen were felled by arrows, but the rest came on, screaming and cawing.

Seeing that they were not swerving from their course, Calard ducked behind his shield, protecting his eyes. The flock broke upon him like the tide, flowing either side of him. He was momentarily blinded, surrounded by their blurred, black-feathered shapes. He felt several impacts upon his armour, as if he were being pelted with rocks, and he wondered if what he felt were stabbing beaks, or claws. There was a sharp pain in the side of his neck and the birds were past him. They reformed into a single mass, wheeling to make another pass.

Calard dislodged a tiny splinter that had been embedded in his neck.

‘What in the name of the Lady?’ he said, examining it between his fingers.

It was less than an inch in length, and as thin a blade of grass. It looked like a tiny sliver of slate, but its tip was barbed like a hunting spear, albeit on a miniscule scale. A bead of blood dripped from the tip.

The flock of crows came at him again, filling the air with ugly cries and the flapping of wings. It was all but impossible to focus on any of the darting birds, so swiftly did they move, but Calard caught a momentary glimpse of a tiny figure that blinked into existence, perched on the neck of one of the crows as it hurtled by.

He saw it only briefly, but in that moment he discerned savage glowing eyes glaring out of a pinched face the size of Calard’s thumbnail. Its features were pointed and as black as coal. It wore a red cap, and it snarled at him, exposing a plethora of tiny fangs. It hurled a tiny barbed dart towards his eyes before blinking out of sight, disappearing completely. It was only reflex that saved Calard from being blinded; the dart hit him on the cheek as he jerked away.

He lashed out, striking air. The birds darted around the weapon like smoke.

He brushed the dart from his cheek and plucked out another that had struck him in the chin. More were stuck in his cloak and between the links in his chainmail hauberk.

The wounds weren’t deep, but they were already beginning to throb. Calard’s vision swam, and he staggered.

Poisoned.

The birds came at him again. This time the flock did not pass over, but instead swirled around him in a blinding whirlwind, a cyclone of feathers and stabbing beaks. In his peripheral vision, Calard saw dozens of tiny red-capped imps, their faces twisted in savage glee as they attacked him with poisoned shot. Most of the barrage pinged off his armour, but other darts stabbed into the exposed flesh of his neck and face.

From out of nowhere, the tiny glowing sprite that had adopted Calard blinked back into existence, darting forward to rip one of the red-caps from its mount. The two diminutive nature-spirits tumbled through the air, fighting tooth and nail.

Calard lashed out around him, feeling fragile bodies break against his shield, wings and slender bones snap like dry twigs. More were cut down by his blade, leaving a flutter of blood-specked feathers in its wake.

The veiled lady appeared unaffected by the mayhem erupting around her, an oasis of calm in the maelstrom. Elves were falling in around her, forming a bodyguard to protect her and the unconscious elven warrior from harm.

Galibor reared, hooves flailing as the crows whirled around her. Calard fought his way through the swirling cloud of feathers to grab the warhorse’s reins. The steed’s eyes were wide in fear, but she calmed under Calard’s firm hold.

An elf fell from above and hit the ground hard nearby. Calard saw the elf’s face was peppered with tiny barbed darts. He was already convulsing as the poison spread though his veins.

More arrows skewered several of the hateful carrion birds and the flock splintered. Calard swatted at them as they hurtled by him. Darts bounced off his armour, but then the birds were gone, disappearing into the forest. The tiny glowing sprite returned to him victorious. One of its wings was tattered, but it smiled and puffed out its chest.

Calard’s lips and fingertips felt numb, and his throat was so dry that it was hard to swallow. The colours of the forest seemed too bright, and the trees rippled and wavered like reflections in a lake’s surface disturbed by a hurled rock. Blinking, his vision began to return to normal – thankfully, his armour had protected him from the worst of the arboreal barrage.

Inhuman screams erupted around the glade, dangerously close. The elves were scanning the area, bow-strings taut, still ignoring Calard. Evidently, the crows were only the vanguard of whatever was now closing in.

Snow was falling more heavily now, making it difficult to see. Stalking figures lurked at the edge of the questing knight’s vision, but he could make out little of their appearance except their outline, and even that was vague and shifting.

Galibor whinnied, and Calard held her reins tightly.

Snow fell silently as they waited for the attack to come. When it finally did, it was shocking in its speed and ferocity.

Figures darted forwards and were met with a veritable storm of arrows, hissing like angry wasps as they sliced between the trees. Dozens of figures rushed from the shadows. They moved with preternatural speed, snarling and hissing like wildcats.

Calard was about to haul himself into Galibor’s saddle when he felt an icy breath on the back of his neck, and he spun around, sword raised to strike.

Like a wood-carving come spontaneously to life, a nymph was emerging from the trunk of the tree directly behind him. Struck by her naked beauty, Calard’s jaw dropped, and he held his blow.

The creature’s skin was the silver-grey of the tree’s bark. Her features were fine and perfectly formed, with high cheek-bones, youthful, full lips and wide-spaced eyes that remained closed as if in slumber. Silken hair filled with leaves and ivy fell around her shoulders as she pulled herself free and stepped out onto the snow.

Calard stared open-mouthed at this captivating nature spirit, but as its eyes flicked open, the spell of its allure was broken.

Its elongated orbs were black and filled with cruelty. As its lascivious lips parted, beetles, worms, centipedes and other nameless crawling things writhed forth.

Calard recoiled, and a sudden change came upon the nymph. Youthful features melted away, bark-like skin shrivelling and peeling back to expose a face of nightmare. Flakes of bark clung to its hollow cheeks, and its hair became a tangle of dead sticks and dry leaves. Swirling patterns were carved in its wooden flesh.

Slender elven limbs became twisted and gnarled, and its delicate hands elongated, distending into sharp, branch-like talons. Its back became hunched and stick-like ribs protruded from its emaciated, bark-flesh.

The creature resembled some ancient, spiteful crone of thorn and briar, as if the worst aspects of the winter forest had come to life and been granted physical form.

The entire transformation took place in the blink of an eye, and with a piercing scream the hellish dryad lunged at Calard, talons extended.

Calard lurched backwards, swinging his sword for its neck. The hideous creature came straight at him, raising one arm to deflect the blow. It was like striking a hunk of wood, and Calard’s blade stuck fast.

The creature’s features melted back to those of a beautiful maiden, and it licked its lips before shifting back to its horrific war-aspect. It slashed Calard’s face, and while he turned away from the blow, avoiding the worst of it, its twig-like claws sliced across his left cheek.

The wound was stinging, but Calard ignored it and planted one boot in the hollow of the dryad’s chest, shoving it back as he yanked his blade free. He felt dry stick-ribs snapping beneath his boot, and his sword came loose. Foul-smelling sap dripped from the blade. The creature recovered quickly and leapt at him again, seeking to drive its branch-like talons through his face.

An arrow struck it as it came at him, knocking the dryad out of the air. It tumbled in the snow, screeching as it sought to dislodge the shaft embedded deep in its head. Stepping in close, Calard brought his sword blade crashing down upon its crown, and its skull came apart like a sodden log filled with worm-rot, splattering woodchips and crawling things.

The dryad collapsed in upon itself, reduced to a stinking pile of rotting timber, sticks and mouldering leaf-mulch. Calard stepped away, covering his nose and mouth with the back of his hand.

Dozens of the feral dryads were among the elves now, darting forward to impale them upon branch-limbs and tear them apart. Elves screamed, and blood showered the snow.

Arrows sliced through the gloom, launched at a prodigious rate, and Calard saw scores of dryads scythed down. Still more of the vile nymphs were appearing, stepping out of the trees, their beauteous, temptress forms becoming twisted and vile as soon as they manifested fully.

The fight was equally as savage in the forest vaults as on the ground. Dryads were leaping from tree to tree, chasing elves that were running along the branches, loosing arrows as they went.

Sensing movement behind him, Calard turned. A hissing dryad was reaching for him, whipping vine-like tendrils around his sword arm.

With his free hand, Calard drew his broadsword from his back and brought it slicing around towards the side of the creature’s head. It caught the blow mid-strike. Calard’s muscles strained, but the dryad was stronger, forcing his arm painfully backwards. It drew him in towards it, and the tangle of roots that were its hair reached towards him, like leeches questing for blood.

He tried to fight it, but the horrid crone of winter was too powerful for him, and he was dragged into its embrace. Its mouth opened, exposing a feral array of predator’s teeth and writhing bugs, and the stink of rotting wood-mulch and worms filled his nostrils.

The dryad jerked, and an arrowhead burst from its chest. The tip of the arrow was just inches from Calard’s own chest. The dryad, refusing to give up its grip on him even in death, dragged him towards it.

Another arrow struck the dryad, this time in the back of its head. It collapsed, reduced to a lifeless husk that Calard kicked away in disgust.

The warleader of the elves stood behind it, lowering his bow, and Calard gave him a nod of thanks. The warrior turned away to rejoin the fight, barking orders to his warriors.

Dozens of dryads had been cut down, yet still more were emerging from the shadows, bursting from the trees. Reading the battlefield, Calard could see that this was not a fight that could be won.

The elves were pulling back, smoothly loosing arrows as they retreated. Those overhead vaulted from branch to branch, moving almost as fast as those below, raining shafts down upon the baleful creatures.

Calard ran to Galibor’s side, and hauled himself into the saddle. He could see the white stag galloping through the deep snow, surrounded by an escort of winter-clad elves.

Urging Galibor into a gallop, Calard set off in pursuit. Trees streaked by, and glancing sidewards he saw the forms of winter dryads matching his speed, leaping and bounding like horrid puppets of wood come to life.

The warhorse pounded through the snow, relishing the sudden release of energy. Calard tensed his muscles and leant forward in the saddle as Galibor leapt a fallen log. The sense of speed was exhilarating. He was amazed at how swift the elves were – he was having difficulty keeping pace with them, and they were travelling on foot. They darted through the trees like shadows.

He saw the elven warleader throw a glance in his direction. The grim warrior mouthed what might have been a curse.

Calard couldn’t suppress a wild grin. With a shout of encouragement, Calard urged Galibor on.

VII

The ride through the forest was like a dream. Calard urged Galibor between the towering silver-barked trees for hours, ducking low-hanging branches and leaning forward in the saddle as the mighty warhorse leapt fallen logs, red and blue caparison rippling.

With cloaks billowing out behind them, the elves incredibly kept pace with them. For the time being they appeared to tolerate Calard, though they did not even so much as acknowledge his presence.

The white hart was tireless and swift, galloping ever onward, leading a twisting and turning path through the forest. Huge firs gave way to glades of leafless birchwood and yew, which in turn gave way to wintery oaks and ash.

They passed crumbling ruins overrun with ferns and twisted roots, and Calard marvelled at a pale stone tower that rose like a needle, disappearing into the canopy. They passed through a grand archway created by two enormous trees whose trunks had came together and entwined around each other, like lovers. At one point Calard glimpsed a wide and fast-flowing river, half-hidden by banks of weeping willow, but the stag’s path veered away from this, turning what might have been north, or south; Calard’s sense of direction was completely befuddled.

On the occasions when the canopy opened up, he glimpsed the constellations overhead, but far from allowing him to regain his bearings, he became ever more confused. At some points, it seemed as though the silver moon Mannslieb was higher in the sky than it had been previously, as if they were going backwards in time, and at other times he could not even recognise the flickering celestial formations. For one who prided himself on his knowledge of the astral bodies of the heavens, and had navigated his way across the Old World by their guiding light, Calard found this perhaps more disturbing than any of the other wonders he had seen that night.

Through water-slick ravines and narrow canyons they travelled, always at speed, as if the dryad hunters were still snapping at their heels, though Calard had seen no sign of them for many hours. The screams of the Handmaidens of Winter could be heard on occasion, echoing in the distance.

They passed an immense green-grey statue of a bare-chested elf – easily a hundred feet tall – with cloven hooves and the horns of a stag jutting from its brow. It was carved from a rocky spur jutting up beside an icy spring, and covered in ivy and lichen. Calard saw each of the elven warriors avert their eyes as they passed by, making a gesture of warding, or perhaps of respect.

Thousands of glowing sprites joined them for a time, emerging from the boles of trees and from beneath fern-fronds. The tiny pixie that had attached itself to Calard hovered at his shoulder, tattered wings a blur of movement. She was garbed in glowing plate armour in mimicry of Calard’s own, and she wore a serious expression upon her tiny, pinched face. She clutched a miniscule lance under one arm, a ribbon-like pennant fluttering from its tip, and on her left arm carried a shield with the device of a man spewing forth a torrent of leaves and ivy from his mouth.

Finally, the white stag eased its relentless pace and drew to a halt in a protected glade along the banks of a frozen river. The elves spread out, many of them ghosting back into the trees. Others took up positions nearby, leaping lightly atop snow-covered boulders where they crouched, bows in hands, watchful for danger. As soon as they were still they became virtually invisible; even those in the open were almost impossible to see once their cloaks were drawn around their shoulders and their hoods lowered.

The white stag knelt in the snow, allowing the veiled lady to slip from its shoulders. Cythaeros was eased off its back by the leader of the elven warparty and laid gently upon the leader’s cloak, which he had spread out upon the ground in the lee of a stand of rocks. The wounded elf still wore his antlered headdress.

Calard reined in Galibor, and slipped from the saddle. He moved towards the elven leader, who was kneeling beside Cythaeros, inspecting his wounds.

‘How is he?’ he said as he approached.

His words were ignored, but Calard could see that the green-black tendrils beneath the unconscious warrior’s skin had spread. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark rings. He still clutched his large, curved hunting horn to his chest, even in unconsciousness.

For a moment Calard was unsure if the elf was still breathing, and he feared that the frantic ride had killed him. Then he saw the faintest of breaths misting the air around the elf’s nose. For now at least, the elf lived.

‘I will pray for him,’ said Calard. The elven warleader grunted in what might have been acquiescence, and Calard moved around to stand at the feet of the injured warrior.

He drew the Sword of Garamont and reversed his grip on the hilt before driving its point into the snow and kneeling before it. Ignoring the pixie kneeling in the snow alongside him, mimicking his every move, he closed his eyes.

Lost in prayer, he did not hear the veiled lady approach.

‘He is the Morning Star,’ she said in fluent Breton, interrupting his communion.

Her voice was strange, like three voices overlapping and speaking as one, yet he recognised it – it was the voice that had spoken in his mind just before he had seen the Green Knight.

Calard kissed the fleur-de-lys crossbar of his sword, and pushed himself back to his feet.

The veiled lady stood nearby, looking down upon the unconscious elf. Of the elven warleader, there was no sign. The white hart and Galibor stood together, drinking melt-water from the lake.

‘The Lady of the Lake would not have brought me to him if he were not important,’ said Calard, sheathing his blade.

‘We are all of us important,’ said the lady in her trinity of voices. ‘And yet as insignificant as leaves on the wind.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Calard, to which the lady merely shrugged.

‘Those creatures,’ he went on, seeing that she was not going to offer any further explanation, ‘what were they?’

‘The Shael-Mara,’ said the veiled lady. ‘Handmaidens of Winter. Dryads. They are furies, as twisted and bitter as their mistress.’

‘Are they... daemons?’ said Calard, realising only now that the sky was brightening. Dawn was close at hand.

‘In a sense,’ said the lady. ‘They are of the forest. They are the forest.’

‘But the fey and the forest, are they not bound to each other? Why would the forest seek to harm its elven protectors?’

The veiled lady laughed at that, the sound strange and unearthly.

‘Have you never thought that perhaps it is not the elves that protect the forest from intruders, but rather that they protect intruders from the forest?’

‘Is that true?’

‘Yes. And no.’

Calard shook his head in exasperation.

‘He is dying, isn’t he?’ he said, looking down at Cythaeros, whom the lady had called the Morning Star.

‘He is.’

‘Is it not in your power to save him, lady?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘but I cannot.’

‘Why? You said he was important.’

‘He is of the highest importance, but it is not allowed,’ said the veiled lady.

‘And what of me?’ said Calard.

‘You will do what is right for you to do.’

‘And that is?’

‘The path you walk is yours to choose freely.’

‘My place is in Bretonnia,’ said Calard.

‘A great darkness has risen. It threatens to engulf your homeland in eternal twilight,’ said the lady. ‘I see a black grail, overflowing with blood.’

‘Merovech,’ said Calard.

‘The same,’ said the lady. ‘His legions are on the march.’

‘Have you the gift of far-sight, lady? Can you see how far from Couronne Merovech is?’

‘He is close,’ whispered the lady. ‘He will cross the Sannez within days.’

‘How can that be?’ said Calard in shock. ‘It would take him months to march through Lyonesse and L’Anguille!’

‘Time flows differently within the bounds of Athel Loren,’ said the lady. ‘It is like the river that you call the Upper Grismerie, and the Asrai call Frostwater – in places it runs swift and deep, while in other places it slows and pools, barely moving at all. Months have passed in the realms beyond the forest’s borders since you stepped foot within its bounds, Calard of Garamont.’

‘Months?’ said Calard. ‘My place is alongside the armies of the king! I must be away!’

One of the elves standing sentinel cried a warning.

‘They come,’ said the veiled lady.

The forest seethed with movement in every direction. They were surrounded.

The warleader was shouting orders, and the elves formed a pocket of resistance upon the banks of the frozen river, facing outwards. He ushered the veiled lady into the protective cordon, and she remounted the proud white stag. Calard too slipped through the semi-circular arc of elves, who were preparing themselves for a final, last stand. They knelt in the snow, arranging their arrows point first in the ground within easy reach, and readied their bows.

The sky was growing brighter. Dawn was less than an hour away.

Forest spirits in all manner of forms were emerging from the forest on all sides, and the ground resounded to the rhythmic step of immense, as yet unseen, creatures of wood and branch drew near.

Mounting Galibor, Calard turned the warhorse and moved into the wood elf battleline, ready to do his part in the coming battle.

‘No,’ said the ebony-haired elven warleader, his face stern.

‘I would fight alongside you and your kin, elf,’ said Calard.

‘No,’ repeated the elf, shaking his head. ‘You are needed elsewhere.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The King-in-the-Wood must be reborn come the first rays of dawn, lest the compact be broken,’ said the veiled lady. ‘We must away.’

‘How?’

‘Over the ice,’ she said.

Calard turned in the saddle to look across the frozen river.

‘Then we all go,’ he said. ‘I will not flee like some craven coward while others fight my battles for me.’

‘No,’ snapped the elven warleader, his eyes hard. ‘It will not hold the weight of us all. Go!’

The white hart was already stepping out onto the frozen lake. The ice groaned beneath its hooves, and cracks began to appear.

‘This is madness,’ said Calard.

The creatures of the dark forest were starting their advance now, and the elves began to launch their first arrows high into the air. Each warrior had loosed three arrows before the first had even struck home, all with unerring accuracy.

‘Head towards the rising sun,’ said the pale warleader. ‘The Oak of Ages is near. Now go!’

Calard glanced along the line of elves. Each of them knew that they would die here, yet they remained stoic and calm, showing no fear. Cold and defiant, their leader flicked his braided black hair over his shoulder, and turned his gaze towards Calard.

‘Go, kegh-mon,’ he said. ‘May Kournos guide you.’

‘Fight well,’ said Calard, before turning Galibor towards the ice. The white hart was standing twenty feet out on the ice, waiting for him.

‘Go!’ snapped the elven leader, ‘Now!’

Calard nodded, and guided Galibor onto the ice. It shifted beneath Galibor’s armoured weight, and Calard swore. The mighty warhorse resisted him, trying to step back onto solid land. With a firm hand, Calard urged Galibor forward, stepping out fully onto the ice, praying that it would hold.

The ice groaned, and he saw deep arcing cracks spreading across its surface. Swearing again, he kicked Galibor forward, racing the reaching cracks. The white hart began to gallop towards the centre of the frozen river, and Calard guided Galibor to follow.

He saw the huge, curved hunting horn drop from Cythaeros’s lifeless fingers, falling onto the ice, unnoticed by the veiled lady. Calard made to ride on, then swore to himself and hauled on his reins, dragging Galibor to a halt.

The sounds of the battle echoed out across the lake but the shore was hidden in mist. Deep cracks in the ice were reaching towards him, as if in pursuit.

Calard slid from the saddle and dropped to the ice, which groaned alarmingly beneath him. Spider-web cracks were already appearing beneath his heels. Stooping, he picked up the hunting horn and swung back into the saddle as larger cracks began to appear.

With a yell, he kicked Gringolet forward, even as the ice began to break up behind him. He raced to catch up with the white stag, the biting wind making his face sting.

The sounds of the battle echoed out across the lake behind them. Calard turned to look back, but the shore was hidden in mist.

The sky ahead of them was steadily lightening with the dawn, and the pair turned their steeds towards the rising sun.

Without knowing exactly why, compelled by some sudden, wild instinct, Calard drew in a deep breath and raised Cythaeros’s curved hunting horn to his lips.

A deafening blast issued forth, the note deeply resonant and sonorous. The sound boomed out across the lake of ice like a shockwave, before bouncing back moments later, reverberating off the distant tree-line and cliffs. Calard’s ears were still ringing when he heard an answering horn in the distance.

Cythaeros stirred, raising his head briefly, golden eyes blinking. He mouthed a few words of elvish, before he slumped forward one more, unconscious.

‘The Wild Riders come,’ said the veiled lady.

‘Wild Riders?’ said Calard.

‘The Untamed,’ said the veiled lady. ‘The Pyremasters. The Hounds of Kournos.’

‘Are they friend or foe?’ said Calard, and even though the wind whipped his words away from him, he was confident that she heard him.

‘Neither, and both. They are dangerous, but they will see us safely on our path.’

‘Where? What path?’

‘The Oak of Ages.’

VIII

Racing the rising sun, Calard leant over the neck of his powerful warhorse, urging her on. She was tired, but galloped hard through the wilderness alongside the majestic white stag.

It had grown steadily colder the nearer they came to the Oak of Ages. Frost had formed upon Calard’s eyebrows and unkempt beard, and he pulled his cloak around his shoulders, shivering. He kicked the ice off his stirrups, and brushed snow from his shoulders.

He could sense that this was an old part of the forest, and he suspected that it had been here long before the birth of the Bretonni, perhaps even before the elves.

Oaks large enough to hold small villages aloft within their branches rose above them, their gnarled limbs thick and heavy.

An icy mist hugged the ground, despite the imminent daylight.

Calard could not have said when the Wild Riders arrived. One moment they had been alone, the next they were surrounded by a great ethereal host of savage, unearthly warriors. It was as if they had materialised from within the mist itself, like wraiths or vengeful phantoms. At first Calard was unsure if they were truly beings of flesh and blood, or merely echoes of warriors long dead. Certainly they were more forest spirit than elf.

Tall and proud, they rode snorting steeds as ferocious and untamed as themselves. Naked from the waist up but for sweeping fur cloaks, they appeared oblivious to the cold. Their torsos and arms were covered in intricate tattoos and war-paint that baffled the eye. The painted designs were in flux, shifting and writhing across their flesh, forming ever more complex patterns and swirling knot-work.

Their flesh was tinged green, and their eyes blazed with fey light and callous savagery. Curving horns like those of young bucks protruded from their temples, revealing their animalistic nature, and they bared their teeth at Calard like wolves. Their mane-like hair was braided and long, filled with sticks and ivy and bones.

They carried spears and swords bound in runes and blood, and scorned the use of saddles and bridles. Skulls and severed heads hung from their belts, and bones and teeth were strung upon necklaces of sinew.

They radiated a ghostly inner light, as if moonlight were trapped within their flesh, and they exuded an untamed fury that threatened to be unleashed at any moment.

In some ways, the power emanating from the otherworldy beings was similar to that he had felt in the presence of the grail knight Reolus, though this power was far less refined, wilder and less unpredictable, and certainly more dangerous.

As if hearing his thoughts, one of the Wild Riders turned and grinned savagely at Calard, white fire flaring in his predatory eyes. He saw the warrior’s muscles twitch, as if he were restraining the urge to lash out. The tattoos upon the warrior’s chest and arms writhed like constricting serpents.

Transfixed by the gaze of the savage rider, Calard found his heart beating faster, and his breath quickening. Images of blood and destruction filled his mind, and he felt a sudden urge to howl at the moon and let his baser instincts overwhelm him.

He wanted to run with the wolves, to join the hunt and hear the plaintive cry of the quarry as it was run down. He wanted to experience the joy that came as the prey was caught and torn apart in a glorious frenzy. He wanted to rip and rend at flesh. He wanted to taste hot blood in his mouth.

Calard blinked and turned away, severing eye contact with the grinning, fierce warrior. Breathing hard, he mouthed a prayer to the Lady and clutched at the fleur-de-lys pendant around his neck. The barbarous creature laughed at his resistance to its savage nature.

Others had joined their ride towards the Oak of Ages. Painted warriors with their hair stiffened into garish spikes ran alongside them, throwing themselves into acrobatic leaps and somersaults to the frenzied beat of drums, and immense warhawks the size of draught horses corkscrewed and dove through the branches overhead. Incredibly, elves were crouched upon the shoulders of these great hunting birds, and Calard marvelled at their preternatural skill and balance to stay mounted as their feathered steeds spiralled through the canopy.

Cloaked archers darted through the shadows, and ranks of elves bedecked in curving, leaf-shaped armour and carrying slender, twin-bladed spears jogged through the snow.

Calard could not guess how many warriors had joined them. For all he knew, the entire forest was marching with them.

If Calard had felt in awe of the Forest of Loren beforehand, that paled in comparison to what he felt as they drew near their final destination. His breath caught in his throat. Surely few men of human birth had ever set eyes upon what he did now.

It was tree of such scale that if defied belief. Every oak, ash and fir he had seen thus far was dwarfed by this arboreal titan, and he was left in no doubt that this was the Oak of Ages, their destination and goal.

A thousand men could have stretched out their arms around the bole of the ancient tree without ever touching fingertips, and he felt certain that had it been somehow transported to the very centre of Couronne its branches would spread from one side of the city to the other. It was larger than any castle in the known world and as high as a mountain, its upper reaches lost in the clouds. Even its lowest branches soared above every other tree in the area, casting them in shadow. Snow was heaped upon its bare branches, and ice encased its ancient gnarled trunk. Slender waystones carved with elegant runes that glowed with fey green light surrounded the immense oak.

Without any doubt, Calard knew that he stood in the presence of one of the oldest and largest living things in the world, and he felt humbled. The air was freezing here, and Calard realised that this was the source of the unnatural winter that had engulfed the forest.

The white hart came to a halt, and Calard and the savage wild riders fell in behind it. An expectant hush descended.

A mighty arch was set into the bole of the gargantuan grandfather oak, a shadowed gateway large enough for fifty knights to ride through side by side with room to spare. Icicles hung from the arch like the teeth of a dragon, ready to clamp down on any who dared pass beneath. Mist rolled out from this darkened entrance into the tree’s secret depths.

Calard felt a strange tingling sensation across his flesh as he gazed upon the yawning archway. It prickled at his skin, and he tasted an acidic, metallic tang upon his tongue.

‘Sorcery,’ he muttered, drawing his sword.

The Wild Riders evidently felt these magicks at work as well, for they snarled and bared their teeth, brandishing weapons. Their horses stamped their hooves and tossed their heads in agitation, manes thrashing from side to side.

The knotted bark and gnarled wood of the Oak of Ages began to shift and warp, frozen branches contorting and twisting as if the tree were in silent agony. Ice cracked and fell from its flanks in great sheets, and snow tumbled from immense branches. An angry murmur rippled through the elven ranks.

The ground trembled, and roots as thick as tree-trunks burst from the ground in front of the white stag, throwing up a wave of snow and sodden earth, forcing it back. The roots of the Oak of Ages rose into the air, coiling and twining together into one thick, rope-like stem. It climbed twenty, thirty, forty feet straight upwards, and its tip bulged like a rapidly growing rose-bud the size of a small house. The petals of this bulging bud curled back, revealing a single figure. Icy fog spilled around it, falling towards the ground like a waterfall. It was a creature at once alluringly feminine and horrifying in aspect.

‘Drycha,’ spat one of the Wild Riders, and the name was repeated a hundred times around the glade, spoken with hatred and venom.

An ancient creature of malice and bile, she nevertheless had the body of a goddess. Her naked flesh was silvery-green and thick hair of tangled roots and dead leaves coiled down her back, writhing like a nest of vipers. Her slender arms became elongated branches at the elbows, and her hands were blade-like talons, each the length of a short sword.

Her inhuman features were exquisitely beautiful, yet disturbing. Her eyes were large and sharply elongated, and they shone with green light and murder.

The roots of the Oak of Ages coiled around her legs, twisting around her calves and thighs, encircling her slender waist. The roots retracted, and Drycha was lowered to the ground. She came to rest before the arched entrance into the frozen heart of the Oak of Ages, and the roots disappeared beneath the earth.

She regarded the white stag and the warriors arrayed against her with undisguised disdain. Her luscious green-tinged lips curled in a sneer.

‘Begone, elvenfools,’ the malicious forest spirit hissed, the words spiralling around in Calard’s mind. ‘Athel Loren no longer welcomes your presence.’

Her whispering, insidious voice made a chill ripple down Calard’s spine. It was the sibilant voice of a serpent, filled with bitterness and poison. Her words were spoken in the lilting, musical tongue of the elves, yet he found he could understand them.

‘The King-in-the-Wood is ash and dust, and his consort-queen lies sleeping, locked in winter’s embrace,’ continued Drycha. ‘Too long have those of elvenkind kept the forest imprisoned, and it rages to be free. Come the first rays of dawn, it will be.’

Calard could feel the mounting fury of the Wild Riders, a rising anger that threatened to erupt at any moment.

Alone, the veiled lady seemed unaffected. She slid from the back of the majestic white hart, and began to walk out to meet Drycha. The malign forest spirit regarded her with hatred, her talons flexing and her tangle of hair writhing.

‘Stand aside, Drycha of the deep forest,’ said the veiled lady, coming to a halt twenty feet away from the branchwraith. ‘The Equerries of Kurnous have come, as they have on the eve of the vernal equinox since the Winter of Woe, so long past. They bring with them He-Who-Would-Be-King, the Morningstar, and you have no right to bar their progress. There is still time for the offering to be made, and for the forest to be appeased.’

‘You are not of this place, mortal being,’ hissed Drycha. ‘You have no authority here, no right to speak or act. Dawn approaches. The offering is too late.’

As she spoke, Drycha began to walk backwards, hips swaying. She allowed her war-aspect to come upon her, and her face twisted into that of a murderous hag, her features becoming cracked and wooden and sharp, matching the vile darkness of her soul.

She stepped back into the shadow of the archway of the Oak of Ages, her glowing green eyes shining in the gloom.

‘The dawn rises, red and bloody, and the compact remains unfulfilled,’ Drycha hissed. ‘The time of the Asrai is over.’

She raised her hands into the air, and an icy tempest billowed around her. She stretched her splayed talons towards the elves, and a storm of ice and frost blasted across the glade to engulf the veiled lady and the elven war-host arrayed behind her. Calard cried out as the veiled lady disappeared in the tempest. The temperature plummeted, and he was forced to shield his face as the howling blizzard crashed over him.

Elves were sent sprawling, their cries ripped away by the gale and their faces sliced by ice. Horses reared in panic and many lost their footing as the tornado raged around them, blinding and deafening.

As abruptly as it had come, the wind died away, and Calard saw the veiled lady still standing, untouched in the centre of the glade. Of Drycha, there was no sign, but he became aware of thousands of pairs of eyes twinkling in the shadow behind the Oak of Ages.

The darkened forest came alive, rippling with movement. A host from the deepest wildwoods came forth, a bewildering array of creatures united by hatred.

Flocks of crows took roost within the branches of the Oak of Ages, cawing and bickering, the red-caps perched upon their feathered backs waving tiny spears and bows.

Dryads emerged from the gloom to take up position before the great tree, their claws twitching in eagerness, eyes flashing. Some were ready for war, their features twisted into horrific masks of deadwood and briar, while others appeared as elven nymphs, their skin tinged green, their bodies youthful and deceiving.

Behind them came behemoths of wood and bracken, hulking monsters infused with the life-force of malevolent forest spirits. Some resembled uprooted husks of dead trees, while others appeared as little more than sodden piles of rotting wood and fallen branches crudely pulled together to form a vaguely humanoid form. Most were more than eight feet tall, while some were closer to twenty. Ivy and lichen clung to them, and many had ferns and brightly coloured fungus growing from their hunched backs. Crude parodies of men, they lumbered forward to smash and destroy, driven on by Drycha’s hatred.

Clouds of shimmering sprites flitted between the boughs, hissing and spitting as they brandished tiny weapons, glittering wings beating fast. Others rode owls, weasels or large, powdery-winged moths while some merely swarmed across the snow, leaping and cavorting between the legs of their larger kin. Glowing will-o’-the-wisps bobbed and weaved through the air, and tiny beings that seemed to be made of nothing more than leaf and thorn stomped forward, black eyes glittering with the promise of violence. Spider-like beasts of bramble and sticks crept through the branches overhead, sap-like venom dripping from clicking mandibles. White-furred wolves slunk through the shadows, snarling and baring their teeth.

The sheer range of wildwood creatures that surrounded the Oak of Ages was staggering. Calard even glimpsed a small band of elves among the dark forest’s ranks, outcasts who had blackened their faces with soot and bore twisted spider-web tattoos upon their flesh.

Towering over them all strode a creature fifty feet tall, an ancient and twisted oak come to life, its gnarled hide blackened by fire. Roots burrowed into the earth as each immense leg came crashing down into the snow, making the ground shudder and shake, and huge branch-arms capable of pounding a castle to dust swung heavily at its sides. Clusters of vindictive spites hid within the knots and hollows that pocked its charred bark-flesh, and a gaping maw filled with splinter-like teeth opened halfway up the monster’s trunk. Above this vicious mouth, a pair of tiny, deep set eyes blinked.

‘Ancient Coeddil walks among us, freed from the glamourweave’s prison,’ came Drycha’s voice, hissing forth from within the Oak of Ages. ‘Know fear, petty lordling mortals; the time of reckoning is come.’

With a booming roar, the gigantic tree-lord, Coeddil, thrust its arms into the ground. The earth shivered and bulged, as if things were burrowing beneath it, shooting towards Calard and the elven host. A heartbeat later, and a forest of roots burst up through the snow. They whipped around the legs of elves and horses alike, gripping tight and pulling them down.

They clutched at the white stag, reaching up to ensnare the kingly beast and its riders. White light flared and the clawing tendrils turned to ash, falling harmlessly to the ground.

Others were not so protected, and there were shouts of pain and fear as elves were yanked down by the clutching vines. Calard saw a dozen Wild Riders fall as their steeds were dragged to the ground, whinnying in panic. They fell hard, and were instantly covered by a tangle of roots that wrapped around arms, bodies and necks. The savage warriors strained against the living bindings, but could do little as they were dragged to their graves beneath the icy soil.

Galibor reared to avoid a cluster of worm-like tendrils that burst up through the snow beneath her, and Calard slashed at them as they coiled upwards, reaching blindly.

‘Ride!’ shouted the veiled lady.

Dozens of hunting horns echoed across the glade, and the elves surged forward to meet the dark host of forest spirits in battle, whooping and howling as they charged. Arrows darkened the sky, which was now the subtle grey-blue of pre-dawn, and formations of warhawk riders screamed down through the canopy from above, the huge hunting birds tucking their wings in tight. Painted elven warriors cart-wheeled forwards, their dance of blades both elegant and deadly, and fur-cloaked elves ran to join the fray, spinning their double-bladed staff-spears deftly.

The white stag galloped forward, surrounded by wild riders, and Calard felt himself pulled along with them. The veiled lady turned, and he felt her eyes boring into him, even though her face was obscured by her veil.

The branchwraith Drycha must be expelled from the Oak of Ages before the king-to-be can be reborn, she said, her strange triad of voices speaking in his mind. Yet such is the geas that Drycha has woven upon the oak that no forest born creature nor one of elven blood can enter.

‘This is my task,’ said Calard. ‘This is why the Lady brought me here.’

Perhaps, brother.

Calard’s eyes widened.

‘Anara?’

‘Ride, Calard!’ cried the veiled lady, his twin sister, and the white stag leapt forwards.

The battle was savage, each side fighting with fury and passion.

Dryads cut down elves and impaled them upon their blade-like limbs, while others were ripped apart by towering monsters of the forest. Slender warriors were pounded into the ground by heavy wooden arms and set upon by swarms of dark faeries, wings fluttering and knives glittering. Ancient Coeddil sent elves flying with each sweep of his massive arms, and he dragged dozens more to their deaths, his clawing roots reaching up beneath them to ensnare them.

Through the confusion, the unearthly wild riders cleared a path for Calard and the white stag, selling their lives dearly. They were only fifty yards from the immense tree when Calard spurred Galibor on, breaking free of the entourage of savage warriors, riding hard for the shadowy archway.

Dryads screamed their fury and leapt into his path, their raking talons slashing at him, but he cut them down and was past them, galloping on.

He kicked Galibor into a leap, and they sailed through the huge archway. A wave of vertigo assailed him, and he felt his skin tingle strangely.

Then he was falling, surrounded by blinding, icy mist, and then... nothing.

IX

With a gasp, Calard awoke.

He lay upon a plush four-poster bed and could hear birds singing their morning chorus outside. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, and the scent of spring wafted through the high-ceilinged bed-chamber borne on a warm breeze.

He swung his legs from the bed and looked around in confusion. An open chest at the foot of his bed was overflowing with clothes – his clothes – and a half-eaten meal of quail and duck lay on silver platters on a side-table. His armour hung from a wooden stand in one corner of the room, and his sword leant against the unlit fireplace.

He was within his bed-chamber in Garamont. He was home.

Strange, half-remembered images flickered through his mind. He saw a forest filled with malign spirits, and trees that walked like men. He saw one of the fey folk, with slanted golden eyes and pointed ears, and he shivered, remembering an unnatural winter that had blanketed the land in snow.

His dreams were fading fast, dissipating like lake mist under a rising sun. He knew there was something important he had to do, something important that he had to remember, but he could not recall what it was.

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and padded towards his washbasin. The familiar sounds of the castle reached his ears. He could hear peasants in the fields, and the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchens downstairs. He heard weapons clashing and a yeoman bellowing orders as he put his men-at-arms through their training drills, and he could hear the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer upon an anvil. He heard a dog barking, and from somewhere, he heard a washer woman singing tunelessly as she went about her chores.

Calard filled the basin with a jug of water and splashed cold water across his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was smooth and youthful.

The door burst open, and he turned to see his brother Bertelis stagger into the room. He threw himself down upon Calard’s bed, groaning theatrically.

‘I’ll never drink again,’ said Bertelis. ‘What a night!’

Calard grinned.

‘My head feels like it is going to explode,’ said Bertelis. ‘Make it stop!’

‘I had the strangest dreams,’ said Calard, turning back to his wash basin and staring into the mirror. His reflection seemed almost like a stranger...

‘Oh?’ said Bertelis. ‘Did you dream you could beat me at the joust? Because that would be strange.’

‘No,’ said Calard. ‘I was embarked on the quest. My clothes were torn and covered in dirt, and my armour battered and worn. I had a beard, and my hair was long and streaked with grey. I was tired. So tired.’

Bertelis snorted.

‘You have such boring fantasies, my brother,’ he said. ‘Now mine, on the other hand...’

‘I came home after many years of questing, but Garamont was in ruin,’ said Calard. ‘And Elisabet was dead. You killed her, my brother. It was an accident, but I was angry and grief-stricken. A distance grew between us, and you left. I had not seen you for many years.’

‘Enough, Calard,’ said Bertelis, sitting up. ‘As you can see, Garamont is as intact as it ever was. I am here, and Elisabet is alive and well. The wedding is next week, after all.’

‘The wedding?’ said Calard.

Bertelis laughed.

‘Your wedding, yes, you dolt,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Calard.

‘Forget the dream. This is all that is real,’ said Bertelis, gesturing around the room. ‘This is all that you need.’

‘I... I think I went to Mousillon, in my nightmare,’ said Calard. ‘Yes, it is coming back to me now.’

‘Ranald’s balls, man! It was a dream, nothing more. Forget it!’

Calard could not understand why his brother was getting so angry, but he gave it little thought. He shivered, casting his mind back, struggling to latch onto the elusive memories. It had all been so real.

‘Merovech,’ he whispered. ‘Duke Merovech the Mad. He had returned. He had raised an army of the living dead, and was preparing to launch an attack against the king. A great battle was coming. I wanted to fight, but something called me away – a vision, I think. It led me far away, to the haunted forest of Loren...’

‘Enough!’ snapped Bertelis. ‘I don’t want to hear it, brother.’

‘You were there in Mousillon, brother,’ said Calard, frowning as he remembered. ‘You were there, but you were not yourself. You were... You were–’

‘I was what, brother?’ said Bertelis, his voice hostile and cold.

‘Dead,’ said Calard, flatly.

‘Yes, dead,’ said Bertelis. ‘You killed me, remember?’

He was suddenly standing close behind Calard, though he made no reflection in the mirror. The hair on the back of Calard’s neck stood on end. This wasn’t his brother at all, Calard realised.

‘You cast me aside, brother,’ said Bertelis. ‘You cast me aside to assuage your own guilt. You drove me to into Merovech’s arms. It was your fault. And then you killed me. Now it is your time to die.’

Calard had a blade in his hands, and he spun around as the thing masquerading as his brother attacked.

He saw a horrific snarling face that seemed to be carved from wood coming at him, and the scent of rotting leaves filled his nose. Blade-like talons lashed for his face, but he fended them off with the Sword of Garamont, which blazed with white light.

He felt the blade bite deep into woody flesh, and the creature screeched. Claws raked across his face. He was knocked flying by the strength behind the blow and hit the ground hard. For a moment he thought he felt snow beneath his hands. Blood was running down his cheek, but he pushed himself back to his feet, bringing his blade around to defend himself.

His attacker was gone, and a cold wind was blowing through the blackened ruins of Castle Garamont.

‘What in the name of the Lady?’ he whispered, turning around on the spot.

He stood within his old bedchamber, but its walls had crumbled. The sky was dark overhead.

A movement behind him made his spin. A figure came forward from the shadows, and Calard’s eyes widened in horror.

‘No,’ he said.

The figure glided into the moonlight, looking up at him with pleading, sorrowful eyes.

It was Elisabet, the young noblewoman whom he had given his heart to so long ago, and who had betrayed him. Her face was pale, and she was dressed in a flowing mortuary shroud that billowed around her. She reached for him, silently imploring for forgiveness.

‘You’re dead,’ said Calard, backing away.

She nodded sadly, and blood began to flow down the side of her head, gushing from the wound in her temple, where her skull had cracked. He remembered the horrible sound as she hit the cold marble steps of Lyonesse. The blood began to soak her flowing gown, making it cling to her body. Tears ran down her face.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Calard as he backed away further, only stopping when he was pressed up against the fire-blackened wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again as she drifted towards him. Her feet were hovering an inch above the ground. In trembling hands, he lifted the Sword of Garamont before him.

‘Her death is on your conscience,’ said a hollow, familiar voice.

‘Father?’ said Calard, looking around.

His surroundings had shifted again, and he found himself standing within the crypt below his family castle. Garbed in the deathly robes, his father stood motionless, staring at him with cold, dead eyes. His skin was grey.

‘That poor, restless spirit wanders lost in the between worlds because of you,’ said the former castellan of Garamont, Calard’s father.

‘She was poisoning you, father,’ said Calard.

‘Not a bad likeness,’ said Lutheure, glancing down at the carved stone sarcophagus that held his own remains. The marble top had been crafted to look as Lutheure had in his prime, strong and proud, arms crossed upon his broad, armoured chest. ‘She did what she thought was the best thing for her, and for you. She didn’t deserve the cruelty that befell her.’

‘It was not my fault, father,’ said Calard.

‘You are no son of mine,’ said Lutheure. ‘Not anymore. I had but one son I could be proud of, and you destroyed him. Had I not been so weak, I would have strangled you at birth, you and that witch of a sister. I should have seen your mother burn in the cleansing flames. Her tainted bloodline has destroyed Garamont.’

‘No,’ said Calard.

‘If you had any courage yourself, you would have taken your own life,’ said Lutheure. ‘But in your craven cowardice, you could not even do that.’

‘Father, please,’ said Calard.

Again, his surroundings shifted. He stood outside the ruin of Castle Garamont, only now the shades of a hundred knights and peasants stood amongst the devastation, staring at him forlornly. They were as insubstantial as mist, and their eyes were filled with accusation.

‘They all died because of you,’ came his father’s voice. ‘If you had been here, doing your duty, they would yet live.’

‘I was embarked upon the quest,’ said Calard weakly.

‘You swore an oath to protect them. Your place was here.’

Two figures pressed through the crowd of restless spirits, and Calard felt his heart wrench.

A slender adolescent, little more than a boy, led a barrel-chested bear of a man towards him. The youngster had wavy, shoulder-length hair and was garbed in the rich clothes of a nobleman. His face was honest and open, and he had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. The older man had a thick beard that was running to grey, and wore a scarf tied over his eyes.

The boy was Calard’s heir, his nephew Orlando, whom he had named castelan of Garamont when he had set aside his duties to take up the quest. He had been a child when last he had seen him. The older figure was Baron Montcadas, who had pledged to look after Orlando while Calard was away. Both had been slain in one bloody night, a night that had seen Castle Garamont razed to the ground.

‘You never came back,’ said Orlando. His voice was empty, as if all his youthful joy and mirth had been sucked out of him. ‘You should have been here.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Calard. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen.’

‘Your empty platitudes don’t count for anything here, lad,’ said Montcadas in his rumbling voice. ‘This boy was an innocent. His blood stains your hands.’

Calard clenched his eyes shut, despairing, feeling the weight of guilt pressing down upon him. When he opened his eyes, his surroundings were once again altered.

He stood within a chirurgeon’s tent, surrounded by the dead and dying. Laid out upon a table before him was the corpse of a grey-haired knight. His armour was rent in dozens of places, and tattered chainmail hung where it had been sundered. Broken spear-tips protruded from his body, and an axe was still embedded deep in the flesh above his hip.

‘Gunthar,’ said Calard, staring down at the body of his old weapon master and friend.

Gunthar had been more of a father to him than Lutheure ever had. The guilt of Gunthar’s death still plagued him.

Foolishly, Calard had become embroiled in a challenge with Maloric of Sangasse when he had been just a young knight errant. Maloric had appointed a champion, as was his right – Ganelon, a murderous knight that had never been bested. Calard knew that he could never win, but Gunthar had stepped in as his own champion, and though he had slain Ganelon, he had been fatally wounded in the process.

Gunthar’s lifeless head rolled to the side and his eyes flickered open.

‘I died that you might live, Calard,’ he said, ‘but you have brought nothing but dishonour upon your household.’

Tears of shame rose to Calard’s eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

He stood on an island, surrounded by fog. He could hear the roar of the ocean, crashing against the rocks just off the coast. The pebbled beach was strewn with corpses of knights and savage Norscans.

Amidst the devastation walked a single figure; a knight, tall and proud, striding towards Calard. A regal blue cloaked whipped behind him, and his blue tabard was edged in silver. His armour was ornate, and he wore a tall unicorn-crested helm, surrounded by candles. None of them were lit.

‘Reolus,’ he said.

‘He was the best of men, the most chivalrous and noble of paladins,’ said a voice behind him. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was that was speaking; he recognised his sister Anara’s voice. ‘He was my lover and companion, and he died needlessly.’

‘He died an honourable death,’ said Calard, eyes locked on the silent figure of the grail knight making his steady progress towards him.

‘There is nothing honourable about death,’ said Anara. ‘We are born alone and we die alone. Death cares not whether we are good and noble and just in our brief time upon this world, nor if we are murdering savages. We are all just dirt in the ground in the end. You say he died a noble death. It means nothing. He is still dead, and the world is the poorer for it. His death was meaningless. It changed nothing.’

‘He did not believe that.’

Reolus came to a halt before Calard, who dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

The ocean boomed, and sea birds screamed.

‘He died because of you, my brother,’ said Anara.

‘No,’ said Calard, shaking his head.

‘Think of it, brother. There would have been no war with the Norscans had you died in place of Gunthar, on the fields of Bordeleaux, as things should have played out. It should have been you who fell beneath Ganelon’s blade. Elisabet would have ceased poisoning our father – he would have lived to see grandsons taught under Gunthar’s tutorage. Action and consequence.’

‘Grandsons?’ said Calard.

‘Bertelis’s children,’ said Anara. ‘They would have grown up to be strong and proud, with none of our mother’s taint in their blood.’

‘You could not know any of this would come to pass,’ said Calard.

‘I am a prophetess of the Lady, my brother. I speak the truth. Had you died in Gunthar’s place, Garamont would have flourished. The Lady Elisabet would have had no reason to seek out the witch-crone Haegtesse. She would have mourned your death, but lived a happy, fulfilled life. She would have grown old gracefully and passed away peacefully in her sleep, without regrets. Without her, the Norscan warlord Styrbjorn would never have come to our shores. He and his kinsmen would have perished in a meaningless feud with a neighbouring tribe, and his name would have been forgotten.’

‘Stop,’ said Calard. ‘Please stop.’

Anara ignored him, stepping in close to continue her tirade.

‘No daemon-child would have been spawned in Elisabet’s womb. There would have been no war fought in Lyonesse to save her. Tens of thousands of lives would have been spared. That unborn child meant everything to the Norscan warlord – when you stole Elisabet from him, he would have torn the world apart to get her back. And in a noble attempt to save further bloodshed, my Reolus accepted the Skaeling’s challenge – and paid the ultimate price.’

Calard was shaking his head, trying to blot out his sister’s voice.

‘Action and consequence, my brother,’ said Anara. ‘He died because of you. They all died because of you.’

Calard found himself upon a windswept plain beneath a featureless heaven, utterly devoid of colour. The dead stood in serried ranks as far as the eye could see, motionless. They were all there: his father, Elisabet, Gunthar, Reolus, Orlando, Montcadas, and tens of thousands of others. They stood in silence, staring, and the weight of accusation crushed down upon him. Bertelis stood nearest of all. Calard could not look him in the eye.

‘It should have been you,’ they said as one.

Without knowing how, Calard found himself holding the Sword of Garamont reversed in his hands, its point touching his throat. Tears were running freely down his cheeks. All he had to do was press forward, and all this pain, all this misery would end. A moment of pain, and then... nothing. All his guilt would be washed away, like a leaf on a stream...

‘Do it, my brother,’ urged Bertelis.

‘Prove that you are indeed my son,’ said Lutheure. ‘Finish it now!’

‘Do it!’ brayed a thousand deafening voices.

Calard tensed, closing his eyes as he prepared to end his own life.

‘Lady of mercy, forgive me,’ he breathed. ‘I have failed you.’

An unpleasant, cloying scent gave him pause. An earthy smell of rotting woodwork and leaf-mulch filled his nostrils, confusing him for a moment.

‘Do it!’ screamed the army of the dead, but Calard ignored them as his memories flooded back and the illusions woven by the branchwraith Drycha began to unravel around him.

He remembered that it was the Lady that had led him to the Forest of Loren, and that is was by her divine will that he was here at this place, at this moment in time.

Calard’s eyes flicked open and he surged to his feet. The Sword of Garamont burst into white flame, and he heard Drycha scream in frustration.

The illusion of the endless plain of the underworld shattered like crystal beneath a hammer, and the frozen heart of the Oak of Ages was revealed.

It was unlike anything Calard could have imagined. He stood within a vast, subterranean hall, a magical, frozen realm that stretched in all directions. Spheres of light bobbed gently through the air, radiating a diffuse glow akin to predawn. The earthen roof curved far overhead, and the vast roots of the Oak of Ages hung down low, entwined together to form pillars that came down to the ground. Other roots wove down the sloping, distant walls, forming archways leading off into other halls, deep beneath the forest.

The strange realm was like a small version of the world above. The crust of snow crunched beneath Calard’s boots as he turned, gazing around in wonder. Gently sloping hills rose to meet the walls on every side, forming a natural valley in the centre of the otherworldy hall. A wide, frozen lake spread out in this depression, its surface mirror-like and gleaming, and in its centre rose a small island.

Calard found himself drawn towards the lake. Sheathing the Sword of Garamont, he began to walk, trudging through the powdery snow. His eyes were locked on the island. It was lightly wooded, its trees leafless and barren, and a winding path led to a low rocky headland jutting out from the ice.

The snow was knee-deep, but Calard picked up his pace, urged on by some ethereal impulse. He hurried down the powdery slope, passing through icy woods. The land levelled out as he came to the lake’s edge, and without delay he stepped out upon its frozen surface.

The air was cold and crisp and still as he reached the island. He climbed a twisting path through ice-shawled trees, and passed through a stone archway carved with ivy and spiralling runes. He walked slowly out onto the low rocky headland, the highest point on the little island.

A circular dais was situated there, and it was to this that Calard was drawn. He hardly dared breathe as he approached. An elegantly designed stone plinth was carved into the dais, and lying upon it was a goddess.

Tall and slender, and so coldly beautiful that it made Calard’s heart ache, the elven goddess slumbered. She might have been carved from marble, so perfect was her countenance and so porcelain-pale was her skin. Her hair was the deep blue-black of a midnight sky, matching her dress that spilt down the sides of the altar on which she lay and spread out over the dais. Frozen leaves encircled her slender waist and brow, and tendrils of ivy wound around her flawless, alabaster arms. Frost glittered upon her cheeks, and ice-crystals had formed upon her eye-lashes.

She was a vision of ethereal perfection, a frozen deity locked in the deathly sleep of winter.

Calard felt the presence of Drycha before he saw her. She ghosted up behind him, materialising like vapour. He tensed, grip tightening around the Sword of Garamont, and turned to face her.

He saw her talons hastily retract, and she came towards him wearing her most appealing form. Her emerald eyes were unblinking. She passed through the archway, moving with unhurried, feline grace, slender fingers trailing across the carved stone.

She was naked. All that protected her modesty was the serpentine flow of her hair, wrapping around her willowy form. Filled with twigs and ivy, her hair was like a living mass, caressing her body. Her feet were bare yet she walked through the snow as if untouched by the cold.

Calard felt no lust or desire stir within him as he watched the otherworldy creature approach. She was physical perfection beyond any earthly being, but nevertheless, he remained unaffected. He knew what vileness lurked beneath her veneer of beauty and grace.

‘You should not be here, mortal,’ said Drycha. Her voice was throaty and seductive. ‘This is a sacred place.’

‘You are the source of this unnatural winter,’ said Calard. ‘Can you keep spring at bay forever? Will your goddess not be displeased with you for having imprisoned her so?’

‘She is no goddess. And with the compact sundered, she will be no faerie queen, either. You are not of the forest, and have no understanding of what you speak,’ said Drycha, stalking closer, eyes glittering. Her hair began to writhe.

‘I know enough to know that your heart is rotten,’ said Calard.

‘I walked this earth long before the birth of your short-lived race,’ snarled Drycha, her full lips curling. ‘And I shall walk it still when you and all your wretched kind are but a forgotten memory.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Calard.

‘I remember the arrival of the elves, long before they became the Asrai,’ continued Drycha. ‘I watched as they first ventured into the green. They were so full of fear. I laughed as their blood was spilt upon the forest floor. I screamed my fury when our fate became entwined with theirs. It was a mistake, but their time among us has come to an end.’

Drycha paced back and forth before Calard, and her voice grew bitter. Her fingers elongated into thorny claws, and her hair whipped around her.

‘It was foolishness to have ever granted them the aegis of the forest. It was wrong to have put such faith in them. What could they offer us? We did not need their protection; they needed ours. We did not fear the bearded mountainfolk and their axes, nor the savage greenskins and their fire – it was the elves who needed us.’

Calard watched Drycha warily, his hand still clasped around the hilt of his sword. He had witnessed the speed and agility of Drycha’s handmaidens, and knew that she could turn on him in an instant. He would not be taken unawares.

‘They were ever weak-willed beings, filled with slyness and tricks. It was wrong to have trusted them as we did. They ingratiated themselves with us, taking from us what knowledge could be gleaned, giving back little. They stole our magicks and our secrets. They caged us, fencing us in with their wicked stones. The forest rages to be free,’ said Drycha, ‘and with the foolish compact between elf and forest finally annulled it shall be unleashed, and the world shall tremble.’

Drycha ceased her pacing. She stared at Calard with unmasked venom, her hands clenching.

‘Leave this place, mortal,’ said Drycha, her voice filled with ice. ‘You are not welcome here. This is none of your concern.’

‘No,’ said Calard. ‘It is by the Lady’s will that I am here, and I shall not fail her.’

‘I know all your hopes and desires, mortal,’ said Drycha. ‘Nothing is hidden from me. I can give you what it is you want. I can guide you along the darkling paths that wend and twine. You can stand alongside your kinsmen to face the darkness that threatens, even now.’

‘No,’ said Calard.

‘Would you like to see the battle for your homeland? It is already underway. Why are you here, when that is where you ought to be? Is that not part of your duty? Is that not part of your sworn oath? “To defend the honour and life of the king, above your own”?’

‘Get out of my head,’ said Calard.

‘The dead surround the stone prison you call Couronne, even now. The battle has been raging for many hours – its outcome hangs in the balance.’

‘Silence, witch,’ said Calard.

‘I do not lie, Calard of Garamont,’ hissed Drycha. ‘The battle is close to lost.’

‘I do not believe you,’ he said.

‘Look there,’ said Drycha, pointing.

‘I see nothing,’ said Calard.

‘Look again, Calard of Garamont.’

A wave of vertigo passed over him, but soon he realised that he could see something. The carved stone archway was dark now. He ought to have been able to see the trees and snow through it, but as he blinked he saw that it led into a shadowy tunnel. Torches burst into life, lighting the way. The passageway stretched on and on, and at its end he could just make out...

‘Couronne!’

He could see the towering outer walls of Bretonnia’s capital, pennants fluttering in a wind Calard could not feel. Stormy skies roiled above the white towers and battlements, and lightning flashed. Tens of thousands of warriors were embroiled in desperate battle, and Calard’s eyes widened. Scores of trebuchets were firing from atop Couronne’s walls, hurling great chunks of masonry into the endless horde, and the sky was dark with arrows. Thousand-strong formations of knights sallied forth in glorious charges, only to be surrounded and dragged down by the endless ranks of the dead.

Calard’s breath caught in his throat. He was witnessing the death of his nation.

‘How...?’ he gasped.

‘You know in your heart that what you see is true,’ said Drycha, and he did, though he railed against it. ‘Go. Join your people. Die with them. That is your wish, is it not?’

‘What difference could I make?’ said Calard, despairing. ‘What effect could I alone have on the battle’s outcome?’

‘Go or stay, the choice is yours.’

The tunnel stretched out before him, and he thought he could hear the sound of the distant battle. That was where he ought to be, fighting and dying in the defence of his king. That was his duty.

It was with considerable reluctance that he turned away.

‘No,’ he said. ‘My place is here.’

‘Then you are a fool,’ said Drycha. ‘I’ll flay the skin from your bones and feed your entrails to the ban-sidhe. An eternity of torment awaits you.’

‘You are a pitiful creature,’ Calard said. ‘You are nothing but a slave to malice and resentment, consumed with bitterness and poison. Your heart is rotten. You bring nothing but shame to this ancient and magical forest. You failed to destroy me with your lies and your illusions. Your threats mean nothing to me. You fear me, or why would you bother with temptations? You fear me, and you know that my path is true.’

Drycha’s alluring beauty sloughed away, replaced with a mask of vileness and fury. Her cracked, wooden lips slid back to reveal green needle-like teeth and oily black gums, and her slender, nubile body became a wasted cadaver of wood and thorn. She leapt at him, fingers fusing into points, and drew her branch-like arms back to impale him.

Calard had drawn the Sword of Garmont as soon as the change had come upon her. The light of the Lady filled him, guiding his arm and eliminating all doubt.

He stepped in to meet her as she hurtled through the air towards him, and taking hold of his sword in both hands, he thrust it up into her body, skewering her upon its flaming blade. The blow stopped her momentum dead, and she hung there transfixed, her face inches from his own. Black, sap-like ichor slid down over the hilt of his sword.

‘It is over,’ said Calard.

‘Only for you,’ hissed the branchwraith, breathing the stink of wormwood and rot into his face.

Calard looked down, frowning. Both of the branchwraith’s thorn-ridged arms had punched through his breastplate.

Drycha’s blade-edged arms had driven straight through him, and three feet of their lengths protruded from his back. He felt no pain, but blood was flowing freely from the twin wounds in his chest. It looked incredibly bright and vibrant as it ran down his armoured body and legs.

For a moment the two were locked together – Drycha impaled and held aloft by Calard’s sword, and he run through by her. Then she slid her arms free, gnarled talons becoming slender elven hands, thorned bark becoming smooth skin. Her slender arms were coated in gore, from fingertip to elbow, and Calard gasped as they were extracted from his body. Blood gushed from his wounds in a torrent, and choking red foam rose in his throat.

The white flame of his sword flickered and died as he relinquished his grasp upon the grip, and Drycha fell. She dropped to her knees in the snow, now wearing her elven form. Calard’s blade was still embedded to the hilt in her belly, and she seized it in both hands, attempting to pull it free. Still, even through her pain, she smiled cruelly at Calard, enjoying his suffering.

Calard staggered, his lifeblood rushing from his body. His wounds were mortal. He tried to speak but blood filled his throat, making his words incomprehensible. Dimly, he registered that Drycha had become as insubstantial as mist, her eyes glittering as she faded away, leaving the Sword of Garamont lying on the ground. He tried to move to towards it, but reeled, stumbling and falling in the snow. He hauled himself back to his feet, determined to retrieve the blade, but staggered over the edge of the low headland. Turning as he fell, he reached forlornly towards the sleeping goddess.

Cold air rushed by him. He hit the ice hard and lay there on his back, blood pooling beneath him.

He knew he had to get up, but he felt so tired. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He lay there on the ice, his lifeblood forming an ever-widening circle around him. He didn’t feel cold, and while dimly he knew that was a bad sign, he could not muster the energy to rise.

Calard turned his head, struggling to maintain consciousness.

He could see the plinth on which the goddess slept, and a ghost of smile touched his blue lips. He blinked, seeing a second figure standing beside her, but he was having trouble focussing and could not make it out. It wasn’t Drycha, for she was gone. He had banished her from this realm. It looked as though the second figure had horns. No, he realised a moment later, it was a helmet. Cythaeros.

He saw the elven warrior kneel down besides the sleeping goddess, kissing her ice-cold lips.

A sudden transformation came upon Calard’s surroundings. The unnatural winter broke, and spring began to flourish. Grass-shoots and saplings pressed up through the rapidly diminishing crust of snow, and buds sprouted and unfurled upon the branches of the trees. Bluebells burst into spontaneous colour, and butterflies filled the air. The ice beneath Calard melted, and he plunged into the lake below.

The weight of his armour dragged him down, and he had not the strength to fight his descent. He felt no fear or regret as he watched the sparkling light of the surface receding above him. Ribbon-like strands of weed waved serenely around him, and the light began to fade. He felt utterly at peace as he settled gently to the bottom of the lake.

A thin trail of bubbles trickled from his mouth, then stopped.

X

Cool hands were upon him, and he felt himself rising up through the water. He didn’t want to wake; he wanted to stay in the silence at the bottom of the lake.

He tried to struggle, but there was no strength in his limbs, and despite his efforts, the gentle hands dragged him up to the surface.

Calard was on his hands and knees, coughing up lungfuls of water. He sucked in deep breaths, and slowly regained his senses. Two savage holes were punched through his breastplate, but the flesh beneath was unscathed, even unscarred.

He rose to his feet. He was on the banks of the lake, within a small glade overrun with bluebells, surrounded by mist.

The Green Knight loomed out of the dense fog. The immortal spirit’s eyes flared, and its huge blade sang through the air as it sliced towards him.

Had that mighty sword struck it would have cloven him in two. Calard jumped back to avoid the blow, narrowly avoiding being cut down.

He reached for the Sword of Garamont but found the scabbard at his waist empty. The Green Knight swung again, and Calard hurled himself to the side to avoid being decapitated.

Reaching over his back, Calard drew his heavy bastard sword. The Green Knight came at him again, and he readied to block the fey spirit’s next attack. Calard held the blade in two hands, yet even so he was brought to his knees by the force of the blow. Desperately, he regained his footing and brought his blade around to block yet another attack, this one coming around at him in a lethal arc, striking at his mid-section.

The blow shuddered up his arms, and he was knocked back two steps. The Green Knight came on relentlessly, allowing no time to recover. There was no subtlety or guile to the unearthly warrior’s assault. He came on without pause and without remorse, delivering a tireless barrage of attacks. Each blow was delivered with staggering power, and any one of them would have felled Calard had it landed.

The fey knight stood over a head taller than Calard, and each strike sent him reeling. His hands were numb from the jarring blows, and he had no time to even consider launching a riposte.

The roiling mist continued to build. All that existed was the two of them. Nothing else mattered.

Calard frantically backtracked, using all his skill and battle-honed instincts to stay alive for another few seconds. His arms were tiring, the bastard sword in his hands a leaden weight. By contrast, the Green Knight was indefatigable.

Finally, Calard found an opening. He deflected a heavy overhead blow, letting his foe’s dimly green-glowing blade slide down the length of his sword before whipping it around to parry a low attack. Sidestepping neatly, Calard spun around the immortal spirit’s next blow and slammed his bastard sword into his neck, putting his whole body weight behind the strike.

His blade landed between archaic plate armour, sliding between helmet and gorget and cutting through the links of chainmail beneath – but it sank no further. It was as if the immortal spirit’s flesh were made of iron, and the force of the blow rang up both of Calard’s arms.

The Green Knight backhanded Calard across the jaw and he hit the ground hard, spitting blood. Scrambling, he threw himself aside to avoid the Dolorous Blade as it came again. The weapon embedded itself in the ground, and Calard staggered upright.

His arms were aching, and he backed off, panic clawing its way into his heart. He had put everything he had behind that blow, and its timing was perfect. Had he struck any mortal foe, their head would have sailed into the air, hacked clean from their shoulders, but onwards the Green Knight came, unharmed.

Clearing his mind, Calard pushed his fear aside and invoked the name of his goddess. Pale fire flickered along the edge of his bastard sword, and he felt fresh vigour infuse his limbs.

With a cry, Calard threw himself at the unyielding knight, thrusting and slashing. He feinted high and came in low, swinging his heavy sword around in murderous arcs. Every blow was met by the Dolorous Blade, and sparks flew as enchanted metal came together again and again.

Calard and the Green Knight battled toe-to-toe, trading blows, neither giving ground. Infused with the holy light of the Lady, Calard was able to match the fury and power of his foe, and for a time it seemed that the battle might rage on forever, a never-ending duel within the mists. Time lost all meaning. All that existed was the contest. Neither warrior was able to overcome the other, and their blades were a blur as they cut and thrust.

No end was in sight, but understanding came upon Calard in a rush.

‘This is not a test of prowess,’ he said under his breath, shaking his head that he had not realised it earlier.

He parried an attack slicing in towards his neck and reversed the grip on his blade suddenly, holding it like dagger in both hands, blade pointed downwards. With a sudden thrust, he drove it into the earth, and knelt on one knee. He lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck, and closed his eyes. He felt the Green Knight step in close, raising his sword for the fatal blow.

‘I offer my life to the service of the Lady,’ said Calard.

The Dolorous Blade came slicing down upon his neck... and stopped. The sword’s edge was cold against his skin. Then it was whisked away, and the Green Knight stepped aside.

Opening his eyes, Calard saw the mists part before him, opening up a passage through the fog. A beauteous figure rose from waters of the lake, wreathed in light and garlanded with ivy and lilies. No ripple marred the lake’s surface as she emerged. Her hair was long and the colour of sunlight, so bright that it made tears run unashamedly down Calard’s cheeks. No power in the world could have made him turn away from this holy vision.

The Lady of the Lake floated towards Calard, her bare feet inches above the surface of the water. White lilies fell like rain from her hair, tumbling down to float upon the surface of the lake behind her. She was garbed in layers of flowing gossamer, and she smiled as she came towards him, holding aloft a chalice overflowing with water.

The goddess drifted near to the lake’s edge, scant yards from where Calard knelt and wept. Her eyes sparkled like autumn leaves, filled with gold and amber and bronze, and she held the grail out towards him. Like sunlight in liquid form, water spilled from the holy chalice.

Barely daring to breathe, Calard rose to his feet and stepped into the shallows to meet his goddess. Light spilled from every pore of her being, warming his face, and with faltering hands, he reached out and took the chalice.

It was heavy, and he felt a strange tingle run up his arms. Looking down into the magical grail’s fathomless depths he saw silent images of his past and future mirrored there, playing out before him. He drew the chalice up towards his lips, but he hesitated for a moment before drinking.

It was said that only those pure of heart and devoid of any hint of taint upon their soul could drink from the Lady’s grail and live.

Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, Calard lifted the golden chalice to his lips and drank.

XI

The battle beyond the Oak of Ages had been fierce and brutal. Sunlight revealed the corpses of elves scattered around the glade. Their blood was soaking into the sacred soil now that the snows had melted. The dead were being gathered up by their kinsmen, laid upon shields and biers of woven branches and carried away into the forest.

Mouldering piles of sticks and leaves marked where Drycha’s handmaidens had fallen. No one moved to disperse them. Clusters of rotting logs, bones and deadwood were all that remained of the tree-kin that had marched to battle, abandoned by their animating spirits as soon as the unnatural winter had broken. A handful of larger shapes were scattered around the glade – leafless dead trees that had a short time before been guided by malign intent, smashing aside elves and horses with every sweep of their wooden branches. Now they were hollow and motionless, empty husks that would soon collapse in upon themselves and be forgotten.

The vicious carrion birds, winter wolves and other rancorous creatures that had emerged from the wildwoods to join the slaughter had been scattered, slinking back into the darker reaches of the forest to lick their wounds.

Hunting horns echoed in the distance as the Wild Riders pursued the last remnants of Drycha’s host, hounding them back into the shadows, slaughtering any too slow to outpace them.

Colour had returned to Athel Loren, and the forest was flourishing with new life. Birds and butterflies filled the branches, and an abundance of flowers burst open, turning their faces towards the rising sun. Ivy-vines crept up the trunks of trees like serpents, growing rapidly. Ferns blanketed the ground, their fronds waving gently in the spring breeze.

New leaves had sprouted from the fingers of the mighty Oak of Ages, and it stretched its branches upwards, reaching towards the sun. Squirrels bounded along its limbs, and swarms of sprites and pixies spiralled through its branches. Great eagles screeched a greeting to the spring from their eyries in the oak’s upper reaches, and flights of warhawks wheeled above the canopy, elven riders perfectly balanced upon their shoulders. Dozens of their kind had been slain in the battle, and they bore their dead off towards the distant mountains, clutched in their mighty talons.

The majestic white stag had fallen too, pierced by the blade-arms of a dozen dryads. The Lady Anara, her veil now removed from his face, knelt upon the forest floor just beyond the immense arched entrance to the Oak of Ages, cradling the mighty beast’s head in her lap.

She looked up as a shadow fell upon her. Tears were running down her heart-shaped face.

‘Hello, sister,’ said Calard, looking down upon her as he emerged from the Oak of Ages.

His eyes flickered with holy witchfire, and he was surrounded by a vague halo of light, as if the early morning sunlight were drawn to him. He stood taller than he had before, and the faint lines around his eyes had been smoothed away. The effect did not look young so much as ageless, and his eyes spoke of things unknown to mortal men.

‘The Lady’s light burns strong within you, my brother,’ said Anara. ‘You have drunk from the grail.’

‘I have,’ said Calard, nodding. ‘We are both eternal servants of the Lady now. Our lives are no longer our own.’

‘Father would have been proud.’

‘He would,’ agreed Calard, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

A hush descended upon the clearing. Every elf dropped to their knees as one, bowing their heads in honour and reverence.

Calard turned and sank to one knee, bowing his head down low.

‘Rise, Calard of Garamont,’ said a gentle, musical voice.

Calard lifted his gaze and looked upon the two godly beings emerging from the Oak of Ages.

They walked together, glowing with fey light. The one who had spoken was the goddess that been sleeping upon the stone dais, though her icy countenance was now filled with the warmth of spring, and her midnight black hair was now golden, like honey or sunlight. Inhumanly slender, she moved with effortless grace and poise, radiating calm and serenity.

She stood several heads taller than Calard, yet her features were fine and beauteous, and she wore a regal tiara of silver and ivy, a large green stone glistening at its centre. A tall staff of pale wood was held in her right hand, and she walked with her left arm resting upon that of her companion, her consort-king.

He was a towering figure of grace and elemental power, striding bare-chested at his queen’s side. He stood almost twelve feet tall, and his flesh was the green of new forest growth. His skin was inscribed with swirling patterns, and his legs were furred, his feet hooved. A huge rack of antlers rose from his temples. A hunting spear of gigantic proportions was clasped in his hand, thumping the ground with each step, and a large curved hunting horn that Calard recognised instantly hung over his back. He glared across the forest glade, his eyes filled with fury and rage.

‘My Lady Ariel,’ said Anara. ‘My Lord Orion.’

In every way, the pair were each other’s opposite. Where Ariel reflected tranquillity and peace, everything about Orion spoke of violence and aggression.

‘Athel Loren owes you a debt of gratitude,’ said Ariel, addressing Calard directly. ‘Ancient Coeddil has been banished back to the darkness of the eastern fold, and winter has given way to spring. Balance has been restored.’

Calard bowed low.

Orion stepped away from Ariel’s side then, and he strode towards Calard, his eyes filled with untamed fury. He stalked around the newly risen grail knight, staring fiercely down upon him.

‘I remember you,’ said Orion. His voice was deep and powerful, resounding with authority and magic.

Calard looked into the face of the vengeful god and saw something familiar there.

‘Cythaeros?’ he said.

Orion tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing.

‘The one who bore that name is gone,’ said Orion, ‘yet something of him remains within me. His memories and thoughts linger on.’

Orion’s gold-flecked eyes were untamed and dangerous, and for a moment it seemed he might lash out, but the moment passed and the living god turned away, stalking back to rejoin his queen.

‘Is there any boon that we may offer by way of thanks for your service?’ said Ariel.

‘I ask for nothing but the wisdom of your counsel, lady of the forest,’ said Calard, his voice unwavering despite the unblinking stare of Orion upon him. ‘Drycha spoke of a great darkness besieging my homeland. She said that the battle for Couronne was already underway, and that the blood of my king had been spilled. I fear there was no falsity in her words, yet I would know the truth.’

‘Drycha spoke the truth, Calard of Garamont,’ said Ariel. ‘The battle balances on a knife’s edge.’

Calard nodded his thanks, though his expression darkened.

Orion gestured, and Calard’s warhorse, Galibor, was brought forward by an elven attendant. The loyal steed nuzzled at him, and he stroked her nose, still frowning as he thought of the battle underway at Couronne, many weeks ride away.

Another elf came forth, holding in his arms a lance wrapped in rich cloth.

‘You asked for no boon, yet I would not have you leave our realm empty handed,’ said Ariel.

Calard took the proffered lance in both hands, marvelling at the artistry of its design. It was crafted from pale wood inlaid in silver, and its curving vamplate guard had been carved in the likeness of a dragon’s head. He felt potent magicks stir within it as he held it, and he marvelled at its lightness and strength.

‘Her name is Elith-Anar – the Dawn Spirit,’ said Ariel. ‘She was brought to the forest long ago, from distant Ulthuan. She will serve you well, Calard of Garamont.’

‘Lady of the forest, this is too much,’ said Calard.

‘Take it, with thanks,’ said Ariel, smiling. She turned her gaze towards Anara, still seated upon the ground, cradling the noble head of the slain white stag. ‘You have made your decision, cousin of the forest?’

‘I have,’ said Anara.

‘You are not coming back, are you?’ said Calard. Anara shook her head.

‘My place is here, now,’ she said. ‘There is nothing for me beyond the forest any longer.’

Ariel turned towards her consort-king, laying a slender hand upon his heavily muscled, green-tinged arm.

‘It is time, my love,’ she said, and Orion nodded, his eyes blazing with witch-light.

He dragged free his large, curling hunting horn, and lifted it high into the air. As if with an afterthought, he glanced down at Calard, pausing before he sounded the mighty horn.

‘Will you ride with me, Calard of Garamont?’ he said. ‘Will you join the Wild Hunt?’

‘I will, my lord,’ said Calard.

Orion gave him a savage grin, and lifted the horn to his lips.

XII

Booming thunder rolled across the heavens like the war-drums of the gods, and wind and rain lashed the battlefield. Jagged spears of lightning struck down through the roiling clouds, and with each blinding flash, the full extent of the desperate battle raging before Couronne’s mighty walls was revealed.

The plains before Couronne were choked with the living dead, their endless ranks extending as far as the eye could see. The mass charnel graves of Mousillon had been emptied, the corpses of those slain by plague, pestilence and war exhumed and raised to cursed unlife. They shambled forward in endless ranks, impelled by the will of their vampiric master to rend and maim. Many were nothing more than skeletons clad in the tattered remains of tabards and scraps of rusted armour, while others, the more recently deceased, were walking cadavers, their flesh rotting and pallid. Some clutched the swords and spears they had borne in life but others carried no weapons at all, slaughtering the living with nothing more than filth-encrusted nails and rotten teeth.

Great clouds of arrows were launched from thousands of bowmen positioned along the battlements, but they made no visible dent in the endless horde. Mighty trebuchets hurled huge chunks of masonry high into the air, spinning end over end through the driving rain before smashing down into the foe, crushing hundreds as they bounced through the densely packed ranks. They marched on through the quagmire of mud and blood, knowing nothing of panic or fear.

Ten-thousand men-at-arms bearing the king’s colours were locked in desperate battle before the gates of Couronne, and the screams of the dying and horrible wet sound of blades hacking into flesh rose to those stationed along the city’s walls. Yeoman wardens and foot-knights bellowed their commands, desperately trying to maintain order as the terrifying horde came at them again and again, clambering over the bodies of the fallen.

The two armies had been locked in brutal conflict for nearly six hours, and the Bretonnians were close to breaking. Exhaustion and the horror of their undead foe was taking its toll, and the resolve of even the staunchest warriors was beginning to crack.

Trumpets sounded as dozens of lance formations of knights that had gathered from all over Bretonnia charged yet again into the enemy ranks. Young Knights Errant rode at the fore, still hungering for glory, desperate to prove themselves. They carved through the undead, scything down hundreds with lance and sword, while countless more were crushed beneath the flashing hooves of their heavy warhorses.

The knights kicked their steeds on, desperate to maintain their momentum. To become bogged down in combat was death; with their impetus lost, the brave knights would become quickly surrounded and overwhelmed. One by one, the knightly formations faltered, ground down by the sheer number of foes pressing in against them. They laid about them, shattering skulls and chopping at reaching hands, yet were being dragged from their saddles and set upon by the ravening hordes. Their steeds screamed in fear as they too were pulled down into the mud, disappearing beneath the tumble of undead bodies clamouring to feast on living flesh.

Above the battling armies, great swarms of bats wheeled and dived through the lashing rain and clouds of arrows. They descended on the living, latching onto any exposed flesh to feed, biting and clawing. Some of these creatures were immense, bearing fully barded warhorses to the ground before wrapping leathery wings around their prey and draining them of blood.

At the centre of the fighting, Duke Merovech of Mousillon and his elite cadre of vampire knights, his seneschals, carved a swathe through the Bretonnian lines, butchering everyone that stood against them. Mounted on black warhorses with eyes that glowed like coals, they thundered forwards, smashing knights from their saddles, cutting down Bretonnia’s finest with contemptuous ease. More knights pressed in to halt their rampage, but all fell before their murderous wrath.

Faster and stronger than any mortal man, these vampire knights fought with callous ferocity. Their eyes were red-rimmed and savage, their slitted pupils dilating as their bloodlust surged. They struck with such force that shields shattered beneath their axes and blades. Their lances punched straight through armoured breastplates, lifting warriors from the saddle and tossing them aside like children.

Merovech fought like a daemon, lips pulled back to expose his elongated canines. Blood splattered across his snow-white face as he hacked a questing knight’s head from his shoulders and thundered on, driving his heavily armoured nightmare towards the immense gates of Couronne. He slashed left and right, killing with every stroke.

The centre of the Bretonnian battle-line was buckling inward, threatening to break at any moment. Desperate to hold the line, reserve companies of knights charged forward to bolster the defences, but the line continued to strain.

A shadow descended from above, and King Louen Leoncoeur joined the fray.

Mounted on ferocious hippogryph, the king landed amongst the vampire knights, smashing several aside with the force of his impact, stopping their momentum dead. One of the deathly pale knights was impaled upon his glittering lance, and two more were killed in the blink of an eye, ripped savagely apart by his beast. Gore stained the hippogryph’s six-inch claws and dripped from the curved tip of its beak. It screeched a deafening challenge, talons clawing up the ground. The king hurled his lance aside and drew his ancestral sword, its blade shining like the sun.

A dozen knights each mounted upon the back of a snorting royal pegasus landed with their king, flailing hooves and well-aimed lance strikes smashing more of the enemy warriors from their saddles. One of them unfurled the king’s standard, and a cheer rose from the Bretonnian ranks as the king’s resplendent heraldry was revealed.

Leoncoeur slew the first of the dark knights that came at him, taking its attack upon his sacred lion shield and driving his blade through the vampire’s chest. He swayed back in the saddle to avoid the thrust of another foe, and his lightning riposte took the undead knight in the face.

Leaping forward, the king’s hippogryph bore another vampire knight to the ground, pinning it down beneath its eagle-taloned fore-limbs, claws biting deep into plate armour. The hippogryph tore the vampire’s throat open, spraying blood and almost decapitating the undead creature.

With a deft twist of his blade, the king turned aside a serrated blade thrusting towards his heart. The vampire’s fangs were bared, its eyes little more than glittering points. It hissed and recoiled from the blinding light of the king’s sword, its face blistering as if in direct sunlight. Leoncoeur’s blade struck down onto the vampire’s head, carving through its helm and skull. With a twist, he freed his weapon and cast his fiery gaze around him, seeking the next foe.

A lance thrust into the chest of the king’s hippogryph, the blow delivered with such power and force that it drove up through armour and muscle, pushing deep into the mighty creature’s body, seeking its heart.

Every soldier stationed upon the walls of Couronne watched as with a final, piercing cry the king’s royal hippogryph fell, collapsing in a heap upon the muddy plains. The rain continued to pelt down, and lightning flashed, throwing the terrible figure of Merovech into stark relief as he loomed over the king from the saddle of his nightmarish steed. Leoncoeur was pinned beneath the bulk of his slain mount, and he was unable to rise. He glared up at the vampire lord, mouthing a curse. The vampire duke smiled, exposing his elongated fangs. He swung himself from the saddle of his infernal steed, and drew a massive serrated sword, stepping forward to deliver the killing blow.

‘The king! The king!’ roared the royal battle-standard bearer, and knights surged forward to protect their liege-lord. They were met with the fury of Merovech and his warriors, and a desperate melee erupted. Dozens of loyal knights pushed forward, interposing themselves before their king and the murderous vampire knights, selling their lives dearly. Merovech began to laugh as he killed, the hideous sound booming out across the battlefield.

The outcome of the battle balanced on a knife’s edge. Merovech hacked down the knights standing between him and the king. He slammed his mighty sword into the standard bearer’s neck, the blade biting through armour, bone and flesh, and the king’s banner fell.

Knights and men-at-arms all the way along the battlefront saw that resplendent tapestry fall, and their resolve shattered.

It began as a trickle, one man-at-arms turning to flee from the overwhelming horde, but soon became an uncontrollable torrent. The panic was infectious, and soon thousands of peasant soldiers were turning and fleeing back towards the gates of Couronne, trampling each other in their haste to escape, ignoring the barking orders of nobles and yeomen to hold. The rout became unstoppable, gaining numbers with every passing second. It surged blindly, and the undead poured over their lines.

‘The king lives!’ roared a dark-featured knight, lifting the royal banner from the ground, but only those nearby heard his cry. His voice was lost in the tumult of panicked voices, and word of the king’s fall continued to spread.

Trumpets sounded the retreat, and the Bretonnian army turned to quit the field, Merovech’s sinister laugh echoing over the battlefield.

A resounding clarion horn sounded suddenly, echoing across the heavens, drowning out even the rumble of thunder and the terrible clashing of weapons. It was the sound of the hunt, and it came from the east, behind the undead army. Those soldiers upon the battlements turned their gaze, while those on the ground paused in their flight, necks craning to see what was happening.

Against the horizon the storm clouds broke, and sunlight speared down through the gap. The deafening hunting horn sounded again, and an army emerged from the woodlands behind the forces of Mousillon. With a mighty horned figure leading the charge, this newly arrived army streamed from the tree-line and surged down the hillside to smash into the enemy’s rear.

A murmur rippled across the Bretonnian ranks.

‘The fey,’ said voices filled with awe. ‘The fey have come to aid us!’

Orion led the charge, the deafening resonance of his hunting horn still echoing across the heavens. The mighty horned god of the hunt bounded down the hill towards the army of the dead, as fast as the swiftest elven steed, launching arrows from an immense bow as he ran. Each shaft was the length of a man and struck with titanic force, skewering half a dozen of the living dead with every shot.

Calard stormed down the hill alongside the living god, white fire flickering up the length of his magical elven lance, Elith-Anar. His heart was filled with rage as he saw the vast undead army besieging Couronne, and his eyes blazed with holy fire. He kicked his noble steed Galibor on to match the speed of the furious god of the woods, lowering his lance as he neared the enemy battle line.

The wild hunt thundered forward in the wake of their enraged king. All manner of creature, elf and forest spirit had been caught up in the rampaging hunt, unable to resist the bestial call of their lord. All were filled with Orion’s insatiable bloodlust.

Painted in swirling warpaint, unearthly wild riders howled at the heavens as they galloped hard, leaning eagerly forward over the necks of their elven steeds, faerie-fire blazing in their eyes. Vengeful dryads wearing their war-aspect darted forwards, snarling and spitting, their limbs elongated into killing spikes and barbed talons. Lumbering tree-kin made the ground shake as they pounded forwards, emerging from the forest, their deep reverberating hoots akin to brazen war-horns.

Wolves, stags, boars and wildcats had all responded to the king-in-the-wood’s clarion call, and they flowed behind him, gathering pace and numbers, driven mad by the enraged king’s fury. Clouds of black-feathered crows, eagles and owls flew at his shoulder, wickedly sharp beaks and talons ready to rip and gouge.

Elves borne upon the backs of horses and warhawks streamed from the woods, spear-tips glittering. Others ran forward on foot, launching arrows as they came, their faces masks of animalistic fury.

Amongst the panoply flew vast clouds of spites, some riding upon the shoulders of birds or beasts, others flying through the air, borne aloft upon flickering, crystalline wings. Garbed in shining armour and with a tiny lance clasped under its arm, one diminutive sprite flew at Calard’s shoulder, adding her own high-pitched war-cry to the din of roars and shouts.

Even the branchwraith Drycha had joined the hunt, focussing all her malice now upon the legions of the undead.

The hunt slammed into the rear of the undead legions, Orion scattering the walking dead before him. The forest lord did not slow his pace, thundering through the undead ranks, smashing dozens into the air with each sweep of his mighty barbed hunting spear. Calard galloped hard at his side, the enemy falling in droves beneath the thrust of his lance and the cut of his sword. Others were brutally knocked aside by Galibor’s armoured bulk, or crushed beneath the warhorse’s hooves.

The wild hunt charged into the enemy with untamed savagery, an unstoppable tide that swept through the army before them. On they rode, butchering and slaughtering, driving a wedge deep into the heart of Mousillon’s ranks.

Skeletal men-at-arms clutching rusted polearms were smashed aside, their bones shattered, their skulls trampled into the mud. Fighting side-by-side, elves and dryads and wolves and sprites ploughed through the enemy, cutting, hacking, biting and clawing, leaving the wreckage of their fury in their wake.

Calard fought like the holy paladin of the Lady that he was, flames coruscating from his sword, his eyes flaring with fey light. He alone remained unaffected by the fury infusing the others that rode with Orion, yet he was no less dangerous for that. His every blow brought ruin upon the enemies of Bretonnia. He could feel the power of the grail pounding through his veins.

The enemy fell before him like wheat beneath a scythe. He foresaw the strike of every spear and rusted sword moments before it happened, and he turned them aside effortlessly, countering with devastating blows that splintered bones and shattered blades.

He saw the battle standard of the king through the press of battle, and his eyes narrowed. Sensing his intent, Orion glanced in his direction. His face was a mask of bestial savagery, yet there was nobility there. He nodded his horned head towards Calard in acknowledgement, and for a moment, he saw the young elven warrior, Cythaeros, in the living god’s features. Calard bowed his head to the forest king, then, guiding Galibor with his knees, he veered away from the ride of the wild hunt, angling towards the king’s banner.

He saw Merovech then, looming over the stricken figure of the king, and with a shout, he urged his warhorse into one last burst of speed. The undead fell before him as he galloped towards his reviled foe. He was a shining light spearing through the darkness and the driving rain.

‘Merovech!’ roared Calard, his voice suffused with the power of the Lady.

Unholy seneschals moved to interpose themselves between him and their dark lord. Their eyes were filled with hatred, but there was fear there too – the shining light of the goddess Calard exuded was anathema to these creatures of the night, and it caused them pain even to look upon him.

Garbed in archaic armour of ancient design, each was a mighty warrior and dark champion in their own right, but even so, they could not hope to slow Calard’s furious charge. He plunged the elven lance Elith-Anar through the chest of one, skewering its blackened heart and hurling the blood-sucking fiend from its saddle. His sword flashed, and a dragon-helmed head flew into the air, mouth locked in a silent scream.

‘Merovech!’ he bellowed again, and another dark knight fell beneath his blade. He batted aside a vicious swinging broadsword, and his lightning riposte stabbed deep into the face of a further seneschal, the white flame flickering up the Sword of Garamont’s blade making the devil’s flesh blacken and blister.

The fell duke of Mousillon swung towards him, turning away from the fallen Bretonnian king, still trapped under the weight of his steed.

His face was the white of untouched snow, his expression arrogant and dismissive. His hair too was like alabaster, hanging down his black-armoured back. He held his jagged sword loosely. The blade would have taken a strong man to lift it two-handed, yet the undead warrior drew a second blade as Calard bore down on him, twirling the twin-blades.

Calard had seen the vampire lord fight; he knew of his ungodly speed, and the brutal power that was contained within him.

‘Lady guide my blow,’ he breathed, readying his lance.

Time seemed to slow.

Galloping at full speed, Calard saw every detail of his foe in the moment before they clashed. He saw the aristocratic disdain in Merovech’s eyes, eyes that gleamed like a wolf’s, reflecting back at Calard the holy light that surrounded him. He saw the dimly glowing runes along the length of the vampire’s swords, and he saw each individual raindrop coming down, splashing off his enemy’s fluted black armour.

He saw the king looking up at him, and he saw Raben, the disenfranchised knight that he had fought alongside in cursed Mousillon, holding the king’s banner high. Even more of a surprise, he saw his erstwhile man-servant, the hunchbacked wretch Chlod, in the thick of the fighting, battling fiercely at Raben’s side with his heavy, nail-studded club.

Calard rose in the saddle to deliver the strike. Elith-Anar speared towards the vampire’s chest, but with preternatural speed, one of Merovech’s blades swung up to deflect it with an elegant circular parry. With the smallest twist of the wrist, Calard caused the tip of his elven lance to roll around the vampire’s blade, avoiding the deflection. Merovech’s other blade came up, but in a display of skill and speed that surpassed even the vampire lord’s abilities, Calard again rolled his wrist, and the flaming tip of Elith-Anar flicked around his second blade.

The lancetip took Merovech in the throat, punching out the back of his neck in an explosion of dark blood. Calard released his grip on the lance and continued on past the vampire as it fell to its knees.

Hauling on the reins, Calard brought Galibor back around sharply. Dark blood pooled beneath the vampire, and his eyes registered the creature’s shock. He tried to speak, but nothing emerged from his mouth but a splatter of blood. Calard swung from the saddle of his warhorse, and stormed towards the Duke of Mousillon, the Sword of Garamont blazing in his hand.

The vampire tore the lance from its throat and rose to meet him. Merovech had lost one of his swords; the other one he gripped in both hands. He hissed, and hurled himself at Calard.

The Sword of Garamont came up, smashing Merovech’s sword aside. Calard’s allowed his momentum to carry him around, so that he had his back turned to his enemy. With a movement so fast it was little more than a blur, he spun his sword around so that he was holding it in a downward, dagger-like grip, left hand resting upon the pommel. He surged backwards, driving his sword into Merovech’s chest.

The blade slid deep, only halting when the hilt was pressed against the vampire’s breastplate.

‘It is over,’ breathed Calard.

The vampire’s mouth opened wide in final, soundless scream. His flesh began to wither and blacken, like parchment beneath a candle-flame.

Calard wrenched his sword free, and the creature that had been Merovech fell to the ground, collapsing to grave-dust. The entire army of the dead dropped, the dark magic binding and animating them dissipating. The rain ceased, and a howling wind began to clear the sky.

Knights leapt forward to aid the king, while others, bloodied and battle-weary, gazed around them blankly, not yet comprehending that the battle was over. Chlod was staring at Calard in slack-jawed astonishment.

‘You took your time,’ said Raben with a wry smile.

Freed at last from the weight of his slain hippogryph mount, King Louen Leoncouer was helped to his feet, and Calard dropped to his knees, a move that was mirrored by every warrior on the field. Chlod was still staring open mouthed at Calard, and had to be dragged to his knees.

‘Rise,’ said the king, and Calard lifted his head. Leoncouer nodded, and he stood.

‘What is your name?’ said the king.

‘Calard of Garamont,’ he answered, holding his head high. ‘Grail Knight of Bretonnia.’

EPILOGUE

A lone knight knelt in prayer upon the rocky beach as thousands of Norse longships ploughed towards the shore. An icy gale was blowing down from the Chaos, filling the vessels’ sails, driving these barbaric warriors of the Dark Gods towards the Bretonnian coastline.

One of the ships, larger than the rest and its sail painted with ruinous sigils, pulled ahead of the pack, its dark iron ram slicing through the waves as it drove onwards. Heavily armoured huskarls hauled on the longship’s oars, to the beat of a brazen war drum.

The longship rose upon the crest of a wave, but the steersman knew his trade, and the vessel was kept straight, hurtling towards the beach. Even as it ground ashore, driving a furrow through the black stones of the beach, the lone knight did not rise from his prayer. Nor did he so much as lift his head as the horn-helmed huskarls dragged the longship up the beach.

A huge fire-blackened throne was set into the stern of the longship, and from it rose a giant of a man, silver-haired and fork-bearded. He was the warlord Styrbjorn, High Jarl of the Skaelings, and while he looked perhaps sixty, he was in truth far, far older. Nevertheless, his arms were still strong and thick, and his battle-fury as potent as ever. Twin axes were strapped across his back, and he nodded as he saw the lone knight awaiting him upon the beach, as if he had expected him.

Only when this towering warrior approached did the knight rise to his feet.

An old hunched shaman cloaked in matted fur stood at the Norscan’s side. He spat on the ground at the Bretonnian knight’s feet.

‘It is good that you are here,’ said High Jarl Styrbjorn, his words translated by his shaman, who spoke Breton in a thick but recognisable accent.

‘I said that I would be waiting,’ said Calard of Garamont, his eyes shining with the light of the Lady, ‘and I am not a man who breaks his word.’

For more than fifty years Calard had fought the enemies of Bretonnia as a grail Knight, and his deeds and exploits were renowned across the lands. Nevertheless, his face was as unlined as it had been since the day he had supped from the grail, and there was no hint of silver in his hair.

Over the past half a decade he had seen sights that few men ever dreamed of, and had mourned the death of many brave and honourable men.

He thought of his old friends often, though they had long since passed over into Morr’s eternal realm: Raben, who had risen to become a respected nobleman before he had disappeared seeking the grail in the arid sands of Nehekhara; the Empire nobleman, Dieter Weschler, who had married his Bretonnian mistress in something of a scandal and gone on to become an extremely wealthy and powerful political attaché in the king’s court; and even his lowly manservant Chlod, who had risen far beyond anyone’s expectations.

The High Jarl’s gaze wandered past Calard, surveying the vast Bretonnian army that waited on the grasslands beyond the beach. Thousands of knights and peasant men-at-arms were gathered there, watching and waiting, just as behind the jarl waited his own army, blooded in decades of brutal warfare.

The icy wind continued to howl from the north, and thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. It was a good omen.

‘The eyes of my gods are upon us,’ said High Jarl Styrbjorn.

‘And the goddess of this land is with me,’ said Calard. ‘Let us finish this, Norscan.’

‘As you wish,’ said Styrbjorn. He turned and waved one of his men forwards.

Calard watched the warrior approach, his expression grim. He was not as large as some of the Norscan huskarls, but he was no less impressive for that. His skin had a strange coppery sheen to it, and his eyes were disconcerting, black with silver irises. He stared at Calard unblinkingly.

Calard could feel the daemon writhing within this warrior’s flesh, but more disturbing still was the fact that he could see the features of Elisabet, the woman he had once loved, reflected in the creature’s face.

This was the offspring of Stybjorn and Elisabet, the daemon-child for which so many had died.

‘Fight well, my son,’ said Styrbjorn, stepping aside.

The daemon came towards Calard, unsheathing the massive double-handed cleaver from a scabbard strapped across his back. Dark flames rippled along the length of the blade.

Calard drew the Sword of Garamont and stepped out to meet him, his own sword wreathed in pale fire.

‘Lady guide my blade,’ murmured Calard.

Thunder rumbled across the heavens, and under the watchful gaze of the Bretonnian and Norse armies, the two champions of the gods came together.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2011 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Jon Sullivan

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