Inside Athel Loren
Robert de Grail had been well-trained when the Breton civil war had begun. A drill that asked for combat encased in 30 kilograms of armor could not result in anything else. Like his peers Robert had been able to somersault from a standing start in full armor. When the Lady honored him beyond measure by having him drink from the Grail this had been enhanced past the limits set for humans.
Currently he was drawing one labored breath after the other, marching on legs the weight of lead which burned like fire. His feet were a mass of blisters, many of them having broken a while ago. He was marching as fast as humanly possible and then some and still he was goaded both by Dryads who did not dare to approach him and the duty the Lady had given him. He wore neither the armor nor any other gear, that was borne by a Treeman who probably did not even feel the added mass. His sole load consisted of death.
The wooden box rested on his back, insulated by many layers of cloth and still it burned his skin whenever it rested in the same place for more than a few minutes. None of the Treekind or the Forest Spirits could stand to be close to it for but the briefest of times and to touch it would be death to them. It would fall to him to employ the thing when they arrived at their destination, provided he lived that long. The artifact he had retrieved from the Chaos Desert was killing him.
Somewhere inside Robert`s head a small voice insisted that this was not good. He tried to silence the voice as it was speaking out against the Lady`s wishes.
Robert de Grail understood too well what this was about, even when the Lady did not deign to tell him. A "Rebel" force would kill the Asrai Gods and would deny them the Gestalt called Athel Loren. They would want revenge, badly so, and would take it on the people who had allegedly done them harm. The Wood Elves were deadly if anything Robert had heard was correct. The Asrai might very well turn the tide of the Civil War in the Lady`s favor. They would seek refuge in a new divine harbor and the Lady would only be too happy to grant them that refuge.
The small voice insisted that the Lady might even prefer the Asrai over the Breton Knights who had failed her so. The old Robert would have despaired at such prospects, the new one knew only the Lady`s wishes. The Grail Knight had learned that there was enough of the old Robert left to mourn the demise of this ability. The Grail Knight argued in his head while his legs propelled him forward like a well-made automaton sent on his way by the Lady.
The box on Robert's back would be instant death for any Forest Spirit that touched it, even came near it. Even packed in a crate made with the Lady's help and warded as well as possible it killed Robert bit by bit. The Grail Knight and whatever remained of Robert de Dubois agreed that this was probably a good thing.
Close to the World Oak
It was a most glorious day, with a bright sun that shone through snow-wreathed branches on a ground covered with virgin snow. The weather and a sleeping Athel Loren had conspired to make a breathtaking backdrop for the last day the Wild Hunt was to have.
Fog emerged from Great Stags and the Wild Riders both. They were mostly in the forest that bordered the great clearing that was before them. The Wild Riders were a boisterous unit when the Wild Hunt was about, cries, boasts and chants expressed their elation at being part of the hunt. Their god was dead for now, the forest quiet, sleeping and not helpful. They knew they were about to give battle and feared they would be overwhelmed by numbers and the nature of the enemy. Today the bright winter sun shone on melancholy and silence.
Lord Araloth's Stag grubbed for something to eat under the snow. Normally the Asrai Lord would have stopped, now he did not care. He cared for one more day, or two. If he had that then more Asrai warriors would join the fight, more Spellsingers and others would support them. A week might even see Ariel wake up from her slumber, such had happened before when Coeddil ran rampant. He might as well wish for a month, or spring, or the sword of gods, he would not get them. The enemy was close, so close that he could already hear them far off.
The Wild Hunt, some Glade Guard and a few Spellsingers would be all that was in the way of the End of Athel Loren, the end of his way of life. He would not be there to see what would become of the Asrai and he was glad for it. One more fight, one more battle and then it would be decided.
He had to wait for the enemy to leave the dense forest, anything else would have robbed the Wild Hunt of the few advantages they had. He should be used to waiting, it was a warrior's and a hunter's bread and butter. Given what was coming his way it was not easy, it was the hardest thing he had done so far in a very long life. That he had to look confident and good while doing it made it even harder.
The wait was over before he had anticipated and the manner of its arriving surprised even him. The flying monsters were there before he had really realized their approach and that they had been prophesied in a way did not soften their arrival.
30 kilometers from the World Oak
The Dryad covered the ground at a speed that no human could hope to best. Wooden limbs blurred with speed, branches were bent backwards by the slipstream. Snow dropped from the trees she passed and she zigzag-zagged at dizzying frequency. Creaks, rustling and maniac laughter accompanied her run. She was even more independent than most of her sisters and currently running point for the army of Forest Spirits that followed her. It was such an interesting experience, she had never been this active in winter. The crunch of snow under her feet, the chill, the steam that rose from the blood of her victims in the cold air were all new to her.
So far her erstwhile jailers had been unable to muster any effective resistance, she resented that. She wanted revenge for the years of boredom, she wanted to carve her hate in their flesh and have some fun. For that Coeddil`s forces needed to find the Asrai, preferably before they set another ambush.
She stopped at the edge of a clearing, turning her head here and there, trying to spot any movement and hear something. She saw a blink of light for a second, but her brain had not made anything of that when something hit her with the force of a hammer. Whatever it was hit her nearly at the center of her torso. There was a small hole in her chest and she felt that so much was destroyed inside. She would have to form roots and wait for a long time to heal. Whether the frozen ground would allow her was not..
Then all thought ended with the pain. Something hurt, hurt so very much and she could not see what might cause that. Her spirit had fused with the living wood for so long that she found it hard to leave, found it impossible to concentrate. It took her nearly half a minute to see the small plume of smoke that rose from her chest and nearly as long to make any sense of it. In the very short time that she had left in this form she would never learn about the tiny phosphor bit that burned her from the inside.
Other side of the clearing
"Human, 11 o'clock, 500 meters, behind that bush."
Bam
"Another one, ten meters left."
Bam
"Two Dryads, 1 o'clock 450 meters, besides the rocks."
Bam Bam Bam
A sniper works much better when paired to an observer as his scope has a severely restricted field of view. And while Aeolus would shiver for the rest of his life when taking up the Walther 2000 that took the life of three princes of Ulthuan and any chance of a life among the Asur he was making the most of it.
There was a small break in the emergence of beings from the treeline on the far side of the clearing. It could mean only one thing and Aeolus was not surprised when a great many beings ran into the open at the same time.
He was about to use his wireless when the shooting started. Lots of rapid-fired single shots came from a copse of trees a hundred meters to his left. A group of Dryads formed and started to move in that direction when two streams of tracer converged on them. The screams that followed made the Asurian sniper's hairs rise.
"Mage at 12, 400 meters."
Bam
Things got a bit hectic from there, especially when a few giant treemen entered the clearing. They wouldn't go down when the machine guns started working on them and seemed more enraged than inconvenienced when Aelous managed to shoot the eyes from one of them. Before the young Asur could order much a fiery bolt came from another space and a ball of fire briefly engulfed one mobile giant. That gave him pause enough for another bolt of magical fire to reach the ancient treeman and transform him into a giant torch that crashed all through the enemy.
That was when the enemy retreated back into the treeline.
"Well done Master Kreuger. Everybody else get some ammo and get ready. They will be back."
Aeolus had the right of it, but never saw the combat that ensued. There were several low-key "whooshing" sounds to his right and brief orange glares lit up the forest there. Two of his Norscans liked the flamethrowers they had acquired from Furgil Damnison a bit too much to his taste. He was not looking forward to coaxing the weapons from their hands when this was done and shivered at the prospect of not being able to do that.
There was the crackling of full-auto fire and more whooshes. At his left side the flat cracks of mines announced the presence of enemies that tried that flank.
"All foresters, this is forester actual. We are being flanked, retreat to first rally point. Repeat, go back to first rally point."
He pushed his rifle into its sheath before packing it on its back. His observer managed to move fluently despite his armor, a sword and lots of kit.
"Are you sure boss, we have hardly tested our mettle."
"This is not about honorable combat Werner and you know it. We slow them down so we can have a good battle later."
"Yes yes."
Elf and Blood Knight vanished into the woods behind them, carrying modern weapons made by a renegade Dwarven weapons-smith. Behind them a part of the old Warhammer World tried to come to grips with the new one.
Close to the World Oak
Robert de Grail had searched the remains of his soul while he made his way through Athel Loren. He had moved like the fleshly automaton he had been made while he tried to work out whether there would be a Lady for the Bretons when this was done. He had made his peace with the fact that these were his last days. He had marched till ordinary men would have dropped dead and even his legs burned from exhaustion. Robert had accepted that he would have to fight and die in a uniform he loathed, showing a false flag to fulfill the Lady's commands.
All of that had vanished like fog under a hot sun when the first sounds of renewed fighting reached his ears. A hate the likes he had not believed he possessed any longer ran through his veins and burned all doubts, all exhaustion and all caution away. He did not know who used the firearms that made such distinctive sounds, but no matter whether German or Rebel, he hated any of these with equal fury.
He had to restrain himself from dropping the box and joining combat with all the willpower he possessed, but he could and would release his guard to do that for him. The servants of the Lady were well-versed in the ways of the warrior and powerful mages, they would help the Forest Spirits even when he could not. And by the sounds of battle and the few reports he received they succeeded.
They gave the Blessing of the Lady even to beings that had hardly heard of her so that many of the shots fired were foiled. They healed grievous wounds and they hardened wood that moved as flesh to the hardness of stone.
The Spirits of the Forest would have overcome the new enemies without such help. Their numbers, their resilience and their hate that made them abandon all caution would have seen to that. If they would have won so quickly or with acceptable losses was another question. The Treemen drove the pests forward, meter by bloody meter. And while they might use the weapons that were turning this world on its end, while they would flee like cowards they still died.
He had seen the corpses of two huge humans, who would have topped Robert by a head easily. They had spewed fire like bipedal dragons till they could do that no longer. They had still stood their ground, fighting with gun and ax till the Dryads tore them limb from limb. More humans of more normal size had stayed too long behind a gun that sent an unending stream of bullets into his allies. They had not looked out and the Forest Spirits had taken them from behind. He had seen rags that would have clothed others. And all they had bought with their lives had been time. They had forced Robert's allies to slow down, they had to find the coward's flanks before they could go on. And now the games would end. A few more steps, a little more dying and he would enter the Glade of Kings. He would see the World Oak and then he would kill it and all that was in it. The Lady wanted it, he would do it.
And while his allies might have lost, while they had bled, they were still many. They might mourn the lost companions they knew for millenia, they might pause when threatened with fire. But they had a hate even he could barely fathom, they had a flesh that was hardly scratched by weapons that would kill him outright and they had no choice but to win or they would all die.
Glade of the Kings, Athel Loren
Lileath, the Lady of the Lake for those Bretons who still professed loyalty to King Leoncour had many vantage points from which she could watch the battle that was about to unfold. All the mages that she had formed in her image were readily available for her taking and the lone Grail Knight that commanded them would do in a pinch. She could have shifted her own gaze to that place, but that would be an unacceptable risk. Not only a risk to herself, but the risk to be recognized by those that could question the narrative that she was about to spread. It was such a nice tale, one of treachery and betrayal by those who had already abandoned their honor when they choose to rebel against their betters. It made for a much better truth than the one that she had to live through presently.
The army that marched on the Glade of Kings was vast, strong, full of fury and hate. Only the smallest part of it was hers, the male mages she had hoarded against an emergency. There were the ancient Treemen, older than her, as big and strong as any dragon. They had seen so much, endured such things and learned such arcana that their most logical moments were sheer madness for any mortal. There were at least a dozen of them, a forest on the move on a mission of mayhem and murder. There were the lesser Treekin, smaller than their towering elders, but still able to rip an Asrai limb from limb with ease. In between the giants and milling about in a great mass were the Dryads. Where the Treekin were old, their convictions written in stone and their minds tranquil the Forest Spirits were like quicksilver. They moved at dizzying speeds here and there, they screamed and laughed. They were like energetic children on an outing, always testing the will of their custodians. And like some children they were capable of terrible cruelty. They would not need hate to kill, not have to recall ancient injustice to march or need madness to murder. They were simply doing it when they felt like it and they could finally kill those who curbed their fun.
They were a grand sight, their capabilities and numbers far surpassing the meager number of defenders. Lileath could see their front ranks through several spectators: beautiful Asrai on horses and stags, clad in light armor and wielding spears and bows. They were like a molehill about to be swept away by a flood, but they stood without wavering. They handled their weapons with a grace nobody but other elves could copy, they were calm in the face of impending death. They would fight to the finish, that was for sure and their last stand would be the stuff of legends.
Their kind would make an excellent army, one that would beat the Rebels in their own game of hiding, of hit and run. Their bows would out-shoot anything the Rebels mustered in numbers, their mobility making up for numbers. Too bad they would not heed her, for now.
She found herself in a position where she used beings she disdained to kill those whose worship she strove for. The Forest Spirits were really at odds with her, being of a very different heritage. The Bretons had always been a second prize, used as a power base when the Athel Loren kept her from her chosen people. Her disdain for these crude, ignorant, short-lived humans had increased over the last centuries and in her more introspective moments she had to concede that this had bled over to her subjects. The way Breton nobles often treated their servants might easily be a mirror of her feelings. Some nobles had developed some strange foibles and harsh methods of government, might these be a reaction to suspecting their goddess despised them anyway? It did not matter at all, either way she would not govern these brutes and losers much longer. Either her Asrai would do it for her or the Rebels would plow them all under.
Looking through other's eyes restricted what she was able to perceive, even when said eyes belonged to a warrior-mage bonded to her personally. The other side of the field was a few hundred meters away, and while winter had robbed the trees of foliage, snow made up for that lack. Something was hiding in the shadow cast by the World Oak and its lesser siblings. In the end she managed to see something by deforming the eyeballs of the mage she used past specs. That worthy would have bloodshot eyes for weeks or the end of this life, whichever came first.
That end very nearly came right then and there. Lileath recognized what she saw well enough. A lesser being might have despaired at what she saw, others would have succumbed to the fit of rage that nearly overwhelmed her. She barely resisted that temptation and merely modified her plans. Now all who were here had to die, but given what was about to happen this would not be hard to arrange.
In the shadow of the World Oak, Athel Loren.
Pierre Troisime should be freezing, tired, hungry and afraid, like nearly any other soldier in history at times. He felt none of that as his mind was still overwhelmed by the things and sights the last two days had brought.
He had flown. Really now, he, a former serf and the son of a serf had flown in a flying ship crewed by humans who said very little but for warnings and orders. The ship had flown the length of Bretonia in a night and a day and deposited him in a region of fairy tales. Well, fairy tales, fables and horror stories. And by the look of it the stories were true. He was among beings so beautiful that it hurt and so full of disdain towards him that it bridged the language and species gap with ease. He was used to that, the only beings who did not despise him were his fellow Rebels.
If he needed something, anything, to tell him how much had changed and how far the Rebels had come he just needed to look forward and a bit to his right. There they were, beings fierce, graceful and as deadly as any. Mounted on Great Stags they wielded spears and bows as if they were born with them. Pierre had heard so much about them, had seen glimpses of them once and had nightmares about them for years. These Asrai were the Wild Hunt and they would take any Breton serfs who were careless enough to be outside on the night of solstice. Ever since then Pierre and his nightmares had grown up considerably. It was still inconceivable that he and his likes had been flown in to aid these beings.
The 11th Rebel Stormtroopers had deployed in a crescent that followed the King`s Glade edge, taking advantage of whatever concealment there was. The Rebels were not about being seen, they were not about to give others nightmares. They were about killing people and smashing things and they had become good at that.
