Tears of the Oak Father
by JaggedOldRed
Deep in the ever-changing glades of Athel Loren, a woeful mood emanated
from the ancient forest. One by one, the great treemen were being
hunted and brought down. An enemy that struck unseen, but left an
unmistakable mark. Pain and rage seethed through boughs and roots that
had laid dormant for centuries, whipping the wild spirits of Loren into
a single formless entity, all powerful in its domain, yet blind, and
lost for the first time since Creation. In that darkness, a grim
resolve coalesced amongst the oldest of the old. Their silent cry of
outrage reverberated throughout the forest. The Compact has been
broken! Strike back and avenge our ancient brothers!
As the waxing moon rose through the unquiet branches of the forest. Athel Loren was on the brink of civil war.
*****
The wayfinders were Asrai, the finest hunters in the world, but
even their peerless woodsmanship afforded them scant progress against
the forest’s own will. Their only hope of reaching their target rested
with the nine Seers whose lore guided and sheltered them from the
malice that possessed the woods. Stoically they pushed on, chanting in
a trance. Exhausted, surprised, they stepped into a glade where the
forest’s heavy hand seemed to lift, a blind area where the trees and
spirits held no sway. As if pushing mightily against an unresisting
door, the Seers stumbled and fell forward. The Guards entrusted with
their safety took only fractions of an instant to react to the new
threat. It was not fast enough. Swan-feathered Asrai arrows fell on
them like angry birds. Four Seers died before they hit the ground.
Fourteen Guards gave their lives to save the others.
The glade exploded with frantic motion and the shouted orders of
war. Their ambush exhausted, the kinslayers were no match for the host
assembled against them. Wayfinders’ arrows scoured every shadow,
extracting bloody penance for their dead; Sentinels arrayed into
phalanxes advanced with unearthly precision, while elven cavalry rode
fast, weaving through the trees, and flushing their prey towards the
unyielding center. No enemy in that cursed glade survived the night.
The traitor’s host had been broken, but their master was nowhere to be
found. Some say that its soul was carried off by demons, others that
his foul magic, stolen from tortured treemen, concealed his escape
through the woods, as it had done before. The elven Lords and Seers
broke through the remaining defenders only to find the bound husk of an
Oak Father ancient beyond recollection, its limbs burned to a cinder,
its trunk scarred with the vilest of runes. The mark of the treacherous
Asrai Lord known as the Rabid One.
In a last act of betrayal, the Rabid One used his misguided kindred
as bait. As he fled the glade, the dark magic that kept the forest
spirits at bay failed. In their wild rage, they would not tell friend
from foe. Advancing in a tide of green they overwhelmed the lesser
wards of the surviving Seers, condemning all Asrai to perish at the
hands of those they swore to protect. But as the two armies were about
to clash, a shrill sound of cymbals and horns filled the glade. In its
wake, in strode a god, his antlered head and eyes radiating with
uncontrolled fury. As he strode across the field, treemen and Asrai
kneeled to their Lord. As they rose, the spirits of the forest could
finally see beyond the sorcery of the Rabid One.
Surrounded by elves and spirits, Kurnous reached the centre of the
accursed glade. It is said, by those who were there, that the Hunter
God then cried by the husk of the Oak Father. But as he looked to the
sky, lightning struck the site countless times, so much that all but
three of elven Lords had to protect their ears and shield their eyes
kneeling in fearsome awe of their god. When the lightning ceased, only
ash remained from the lifeless husk. Stepping forward, the bravest of
the three standing Asrai stuck his hands into the hot ash and retrieved
a single fire-hardened arrow, which he fletched with the treeman’s last
leaves. Next, the wisest of the Lords blew away the ash to uncover the
Oak Father’s gnarled heart, which he took and cleaned, and brought to
his lips. Once again, he blew mightily and the call of a great hunting
horn resonated through the forest, bringing back with it the pounding
of running hooves and the baying of fearsome hounds. The host and the
spirits once again fell to their knees, for the Lord was now as Kurnous
himself, and his horn had summoned the Wild Hunt.
Then, the Hunter God spoke. To the first Lord, older brother to
the other two, he said: “You are now my Hound. Bring down and sacrifice
to me your Forsaken kin”. He then faced the second Lord: “You are my
Huntsman and will lead the hunt in my name. Take the Hearthorn. You
have blown it once, and can blow it twice more. Lead the host where the
Hound will strike!” Upon hearing that, Lord and host left in haste and
with the blaring of the Horn still echoing through the forest.
For a long time after the Hunt had departed, a young maid stood in
the glade. She was the third Asrai to endure Orion’s fury
unflinchingly, and younger sister to the other two. Kurnous’ great
horned head finally turned to her: “You belong to me not at all, but
still I beseech your favour, for without it all hope will falter. Join
your brothers to remind them of the gift of Isha”. For a moment, the
God’s eyes betrayed a great suffering, then he turned and disappeared
into the woods. The Lady then went to the place where Kurnous had been
standing, and digging briefly retrieved a single acorn.
The Wild Hunt swelled with those who heard the call of its baying
hounds as it marched for Skavenblight where the Rabid One schemed with
its foul denizens. This close to the Athel Loren it reached its
destination with the momentum of a raging river, routing foul Skaven
armies in a flood of arrows and steel. But the Rabid One had already
fled. The Hunt pursued him throughout the span of the peninsula,
destroying every Skaven hole it came across, freeing their slaves and
collapsing their warpstone mines. Eventually, they reached the very
southern shores of Tilea. Standing on a tall cliff, the Hound looked at
his brother and once more pointed seawards. Their quarry had eluded
them, taking ship to the empire of Nehekhara. The Hunt came to a halt
with a growing sense of fear. How could they give chase now? As if in
answer, the Huntsman took and blew the Hearthorn for the second time.
As its echo spread over the high cliffs and waves of the cold
Tilean shore, a cold wind began to rise. The resonating call of the
horn played amongst the clouds, bringing again the sounds of horses at
a gallop. Hound reared his warhorse and leaped from the cliff, as if in
pursuit of that heavenly call. For a moment, there was no sound but the
keening of the wind and the breaking of the waves. Then came the sound
of drumming hooves racing through the water, followed by the Hound’s
joyful, manic laughter. By twos, threes, and soon dozens, the Asrai
leapt from the cliff into the hands of their God. The Wild Hunt had
taken to the skies of the Old World.
-------
It had been a cold night in the Royal Port of Zandri. A chill from
the sea spread through the docks as a red-horned moon rode in the sky.
The sailors at port shivered and made signs against evil spirits, as
the Royal guards chuckled and joked at their barbarian superstitions.
Riding the North wind, the Wild Hunt hit the sleeping sea-port like so
many strikes of lightning, taking its garrison completely unawares and
from within. Its defenders died before any alarm had been sounded.
Then, the wrath of Kurnous turned on those who aided the Rabid One’s
escape, and the docks filled up with the burning hulks of Nagash’s
fleet.
Leaving Zandri, the Asrai chase the Rabid One through verdant
valleys to the outskirts of mighty Khemri, Capital of Nehekhara and
unholy sanctum of one who would deem himself a God. Here, there was no
element of surprise. The elven host had been seen from the lofty
pyramids days before its arrival. Eager to avenge the humiliations of
Zandri, the proud nobles of Nehekara flocked to their capital in droves
assembling themselves in traditional fashion across the wide open
plain. First, a hard and unyielding center fielded by legions of
archers and fearless undead. On the left flank, the huge Tuskers and
gleaming chariots of the Southern nobility; on the right, heavy
cavalry. More than enough troops and space to envelop and crush the
smaller Elven army. As one, the flower of Nehekaran nobility lowered
their spears and charged; pinions gleaming in the desert sun in a mad
dash for glory. It was over almost before it begun. The Asrai lifted
their longbows to the sky and started picking targets at a range and
with accuracy never seen before. Every bowman would more likely than
not hit his intended target. The Hound alone killed four necromancers
before the others realized the danger and fled leaving their skeletons
to crumble in the dust. Princes, Generals and Captains died according
to rank. Leaderless, the soldiers attempted to retreat for the walls,
only to be cut down by Asrai cavalry.
That very day, Khemri fell thanks to a rebellion of the Dwarven
slaves that had been brought into the city by Nagash to work on the
pyramids or fight in the arena. Through the years of slavery, their
spirit had never been broken, now, seizing their opportunity, they rose
as one to gain control of the Northern gate and hold it open long
enough for the Hunt to enter the city as a flock of vengeful angels.
The necromancers, morgues, and unhallowed obelisks of Khemri burned
that night, but not a single slave was harmed. The next day, as the
Asrai prepared to leave once more in pursuit of their elusive kin, a
contingent of 50 dwarves swore themselves to the Asrai Maiden who took
them as their own, and treated them as kindered.
The crossing of the desert was harrowing. Nagash had poisoned the
wells as he fled towards Karak-Eight-Peaks, wining through treachery
what could not be had by force of arms. Scores of Asrai and most of the
spirits perished in the sands. Thus weakened, the Hunters would have
all perished, were it not for the intervention of the Lady’s dwarven
bodyguards, who steered the forces past the hordes of undead besieging
the mountains, through tunnels and passes never before seen by
non-dwarven eyes until they reached the forested slopes of that great
mountain fastness of Karak-Eight-Peaks.
The Dwarven Capital was under a strange siege. Nagash controlled
most of it, but deep in the tunnels resolute leaders continued to fight
the invader. To deny the trapped dwarves reinforcements from above or
bellow, Nagash split his army in two. The undead were kept by his side
in the bowels of the mountain, while the humans camped on the outside.
The size and built of Karak-Eight-Peaks was such that the either force
could reinforce the other in a matter of moments.
The situation was desperate. Neither dwarves, nor elves could hope
to win against such overwhelming odds. This far from the sources of its
power the spirits were also weakening, and becoming dormant. There was
no time to lose. The Huntsman agreed to participate on a combined
assault with the Dwarves. Both forces would strike from above and
bellow, and if the Hunt could delay the Nehekharan’s long enough, the
dwarven armies could deal a decisive blow to Nagash. He knew that even
if the Dwarves achieved their goal, the Hunt would be wiped out. His
only hope was that their attack would draw forth the Rabid One, and
give the Hound a chance to fulfill his destiny. His sister had other
plans.
As the last moon of spring rose in the sky, the Wild Hunt charged
down the forested slopes like night raptors in search of pray. Silent
as death, their arrows reached the first ring of guards before an alarm
could be raised. Never stopping, the hunters bounded over the earth
ramparts protecting the tents and fell upon their enemies. Surprise,
speed and darkness almost carried the Asrai all the way towards gates
they were to hold. But their path had been blocked by the Rabid One
himself and Nagash’s elite undead bodyguard. A shivering blast of
energy destroyed the Hound’s bow and right hand. Rearing his horse to
protect his remaining sibling, the Huntsman managed a strangled blow to
his Hearthorn, before having his horse was cut down from under him. It
blared harmlessly over the Rabid One’s head before disappearing in the
distance.
With an evil cackle, the Rabid One ordered the death of his former
kin. Surrounded, elves and dwarves joined in a shieldwall to protect
their Lady, forcing their enemies to send more men and horses into the
press. As the small circle of defenders was about to break, The Maiden
cast her sacred acorn on the soft soil with a prayer to Isha.
Immediately the ground began to tremble as old and new roots received
the Goddess’s gift. Horses bolted, chariots became stuck soldiers
fought with the grasp of vines come alive.
A feeble attempt, thought the Rabid One, as he summoned enough
energy to blight the elfling’s desperate attempt. Too late he realized
his danger. The Hearthorn’s power had not been aimed at him, but at the
mountains. Now, Kurnous’s call rebounded in echoes from the verdant
slopes of the Karak-Eight-Peaks calling to war every tree and plant who
received the living gift of Isha through its roots. As one, mighty
trees rose and charged down the mountains slaying every enemy on their
part. He attempted to redirect his magic, to make render himself again
invisible to the trees, but as he tried to speak, his breath left him,
and his arms started to flail about chaotically. Before the end, he had
time to hear the Hound’s manic laughter as the wildling twisted with,
his one remaining hand, the Oak Father’s arrow in his heart.
With their quarry brought low, the Wild Hunt disbanded, the
remaining Asrai making their way back through various routs. All but
one, that is, for it is said that the Maiden still resides on a secret
glade on the slopes of Karak-Eight-Peaks, attended by a secret society
of dwarven rangers, where she veils for the tomb of her fallen brother
and the young sapling of the new Oak Father. |
