***Authors note - this started as a bit of background fluff for a character and kind of grew up out of that, the charcter in question is based on a converted model I have of the Archaon of Chaos. Thanks to the people who have given me some feedback and tips on it so far. I hope the rest of you enjoy it.***
About a Champion of LawStudents of Classical History in the University of Altdorf, may, should they be academically minded, take time to browse the library there. In it they may find an obscure book by the scholar Erasmus Weiss; “The Legends and Myths of the Old World”, printed some two centuries ago.
As they read through it, about halfway, they will find a folded up piece of paper, old, but still newer than the book it rests in, and on this paper, in neat, well formed writing is a commentary on an encounter between the unknown author and, it seems, the eponymous hero of the story it bookmarks…***
It was evening before the summer solstice when I met the questing knight. As young students we were ever taking any reason to carouse the days and nights away, and the summer Solstice was no different.
One of my fellows had the bright idea of taking drink, food and any of the better women to a standing stone he knew close by the city, or so he said, where we could spend the night and watch the sun rise and since it seemed a thing poets might do and so we readily agreed.
It was my task to take a dozen bottles of wine and a side of ham, but I picked them up late from the victuallers and the sun was already beginning its descent as I hurried out of the city and out into the country.
Truth be told I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t really know where I was going, but how hard could it be to find a party of drunken students in the countryside? As you may guess, curious reader, it was harder than I imagined.
By the time dusk came I was worried, with no idea how far I was from town, no idea where I was going and well off the beaten track, your humble author was well and truly lost.
After getting more and more desperate, and no doubt wandering round in circles as dusk turned to darkness a stroke of luck brought me back to the road. Which direction to go was still beyond me, but one way was as good as another, it seemed to me, and so I picked a direction and set off to the left, if one must make note of this trivia.
Before too long I came to one of the larger way shines that dot our highways and so went to make camp there for the night, at least I would be out of the elements, though it was a clear, warm night and so had no real need of shelter, but there is something comforting in four walls and a roof to those who are lost.
I lit my fire, after some effort, opened a bottle of wine and cut off a piece of the ham I had carried about all over the wilderness with me. As the wine began to warm me, life seemed not to be so traumatic any more and I began to think of myself as some great wilderness voyager, surviving alone, but half a days journey from home for all of half an afternoon.
The sound of the steady clop, clop, clop of a horses hooves approaching down the road threw me into fear again. I clutched the hilt of my rapier, and peered down the road. In the dim moonlight I saw a rider approaching, as he approached, I took stock of him, praying he was friend and not foe.
The rider was a giant of a man; riding a warhorse the size of which I had never seen before, not even the Grand Master of the Reiksguard rode such a beast. My mind raced, of course I had heard tell of the marauding warriors from the north, champions of the ruinous powers and in the dark he seemed to match the tales I had heard of them.
But then he called out to me, in a voice gentle and melodious that soothed my fear, he simply asked for leave to join me at my fire, and he would gladly share what vittles he had with me.
I bade him welcome and as he stepped off his horse and led it over to me, as he approached into the firelight I saw him clearly.
The knight was indeed a giant of a man, very tall, very powerfully built, perhaps approaching seven feet tall and with the muscle and physique to match but his bearded face had a noble cast to it, his eyes clear blue and speaking of deep wisdom and experience, his face most handsome and gentle in seeming.
So too his warhorse is of immense proportions. It is a dark, dapple grey and standing taller than any warhorse, larger by half even than the fabled horses of Bretonnia, the tack and saddle is of rich, deep black leather, and as the knight strokes and whispers to the horse, I heard him call its name “Macha”.
His armour is of a golden hue, of an ancient design of plate and chain, covering him from his toes to his neck and fitting as if made for him and I thought it had the finest engraving and scrollwork, almost too light to see. About his shoulders he wears a cloak of exotic fur, deep orange and striped with black, the claws of some mighty beast still adorning it. Cradled in his arms was his sword which is a size to match all the proportions of this man, a massive war sword of glittering mithril engraved in the glyphs and markings of the Old Religions and upon his shaved head he shuns a helmet, instead wearing laurels of bright green leaves that could have been placed there by the Emperor for the way he carried himself.
I bade him welcome, and introduced myself, he told me simple he was called Cadeyrn, with no more fanfare than that.
As he removed his armour I continued to study him, never had I seen such a man, nor heard of one except in legend, under his armour his clothes are simple, warriors clothes, unbleached canvas arming coat, tough brown breeches and a soft silk shirt, his tan leather boots are knee high, buttoned and proofed against all weathers. About his neck he wears a pendant, a simple golden chain from which hangs a tiny shard of clear blue crystal.
We sat drinking wine and eating ham with bread and cheese, a simple meal but with the richest accompaniment as our discussion turned to all manner of things through the night; poetry, history, philosophy and religion. This huge man, every inch a mighty warrior was also a scholar of the highest order, he asked me much about myself and perhaps he is the reason I turned from a rake and a wastrel into a passably good student, making me question what I wanted from life, what life I wanted to live and what legacy I wanted to leave. It was deep talk for a partially drunk student whose thoughts till now were little deeper than if he preferred blondes or brunettes.
When though, I questioned him on his life and deeds, he simply shrugged, telling me he was on a quest. I pressed him further and he looked at me, his eyes deeply serious, staring at me for the longest time and I felt as if my soul were bared to him. Then as if he had passed judgement on my character, then he told me of his quest, of the Goddess Arianka and her imprisonment at the hands of the ruinous powers, that there were four keys to her prison and it was his calling to find them and free her.
The next day, we parted company, he put me on the road back to the city and he himself simply road into the wilderness. Ever since I have wondered of him and his quest, and looked for reports of his coming and goings until a chance comment to a history tutor led me to this tome and this note to add my tale of his journeys.
It pleases me to know that the powers of good and order also have their champions, and I pray daily, to Arianka now, as well as Sigmar, that his quest meets with victory.
***
Taken from “The Legends and Myths of the Old World – Cadeyrn the Far Travelled, sometimes known as the Knight of Arianka”, Edited by Erasmus Weiss of Altdorf, IC2346The story of Cadeyrn’s birth is lost now in time, but tradition says that he never knew his father, a strange and handsome warrior from a far off land, and that his mother was a beautiful noble woman, who ever pined for the man who fathered her son. Where this took place, we can but guess.
His childhood too is cloaked in the mists of time, though the most common telling is that his mother gave the education of the young warrior to a priestly hermit. It was this hermit who would set Cadeyrn on his life’s path, teaching him the lessons of Arianka, of her imprisonment and the quest her followers should undertake to free her. In these lessons Cadeyrn was taught the languages and general customs of many lands, of geography, history, philosophy and rhetoric and even perhaps the arts of sword, stave, bow and brawling.
It has been told by bards that when Cadeyrn was full grown a man the old hermit was close to death he called Cadeyrn to him and said. “My span has come to an end, and with it my own quest, I call on you, my pupil to follow in my path, take to the road and seek out the Keys of Arianka, and take with you this holy relic, a shard of the blessed Laihtero crystal so you will know the keys when you find them.”
“Master, how will I know where to look?” asked Cadeyrn. “Signs…portents…omens.” replied the old man in a tired voice. “Now go my child, seek the keys and restore balance to the world”. With that, the old man breathed his last, the small piece of clear, blue crystal slipping from his grasp into Cadeyrn’s hands.
That night Cadeyrn built a pyre for the hermit, and as the body was consumed and taken into the sky he turned the small piece of crystal over and over in his hands, staring at it in the firelight, as he did so he felt it tingle under his touch, giving him the thought that he should go to the north. It is said, by scholars of such things that the shard of Laihtero crystal weaves an enchantment about Cadeyrn leading him to other shards of the same crystal, and stilling the pass of time upon his body, keeping him the same age he was when he first put the crystal about his neck on a pendant some two or even three centuries ago.
And so Cadeyrn travelled and we can be sure he still travels, searching for the Keys and the Tomb of Arianka, the sagas do not tell of all of his travels, or even if he has had any success as yet, only he would be able to tell of that. We can though, piece together how he may have come to bear his other relics, his sword, his mighty warhorse and his armour.
Of the sword, Calad BolgDeep in a forest, it is told, on the very edge of human lands, perhaps even beyond, Cadeyrn travelled. He sensed the taint of chaos all about him, the trees twisted, the air foul and the insects too large and of strange hues, but this is where his pendant of Laihtero crystal had led him, already he had slain many evil creatures on his journey, his mighty axe blade nicked in many places and the haft weak with defensive blows, but he pressed on.
Soon he found himself at a fork in the path, either onwards, or turning deeper into the twisted forest. The path deeper into the forest though was marked with two tall stones, each as tall and wide as he, wrapped in creeping plants. Slick with water and covered in green algae though it seemed to his eyes with some carving underneath, which he could not decipher.
Cadeyrn turned his horse and pushed his way down the path, through the clinging undergrowth and along the little used path.
His path led him but a short distance before the thick forest floor cleared out. Before him rose a small hillock, ringed with these same stones but taller this time covered red brown daubs of blasphemy and ruinous sigils of power, atop the hill was a pile of skulls, all manner of skulls, men and beast, and some that could not be placed and the ground about the dread altar was stained deep in old blood.
Directly in front of him though was a stone lined tunnel, leading straight into the mound and so with no other creature about Cadeyrn cautiously made his way forward following the tunnel as it turned into a flight of steps heading down.
Deep under the hill was a pentagonal chamber, perhaps the size of the hill itself, the floor scattered with bones and the same red brown daubings over thick, stone doors, one in each of the four other walls of this room. In the centre of the chamber was the broken remains of some statue, now smeared in filth and decorated in offal, blood and excrement, other than that, there was no other being in this chamber.
Cadeyrn moved slowly round to the first stone door, pushing against it he found it shut fast, but his gauntlet had brushed some of the daubings off, revealing the carved symbols of the Old Religion underneath, each other door was the same, stuck fast and unmoving.
When he had passed the last of the doors though, he turned back into the centre of the room. Where the statue was stood now an apparition, the figure of a fey creature, taller than a man, broader than a dwarf, matching Cadeyrn in height and build but having about him the look perhaps of the Elvin race, his features twisted with grief and pain.
Cadeyrn stepped back, muttering a word to his Goddess. At this, the figure’s face eased for but a moment, and its seemed that it took more solid form.
An ethereal voice issued forth, pain and sorrow filling each syllable as the apparition spoke. “Son of man, child of Law, I beg of you, cleanse this place of the evil done here and I will aid you on your quest”. With that the apparition faded again as its words echoed round the chamber.
As Cadeyrn took stock of what had happened he heard, or rather felt the beating of drums and stamping of feet about the mound above. He quickly brushed of the very worst of the grime from the ruined statue, and knelt in prayer.
“Arianka, who is my Goddess, and to the Old Gods whose names men have forgotten, grant me the strength to bear arms against those who are your enemies and to drive them from this sacred place.”
With that, he stood up, pulled his mail coif about him and strode up the stairs; with each step he took he felt the power of the Old Gods arise in his limbs and the strength of Arianka fill his thoughts.
Breaching the stone corridor of the hill he found himself amongst a cavorting, gibbering horde of beastmen and could see in their midst a small clutch of terrified captives being carried to the top of the hill in triumph.
For a moment the beastmen had not seen him, Cadeyrn raised his axe high, a nimbus of eldritch energy surrounding the blade. The drums, the shrieking and even the screaming of the captives stopped. A heartbeat later Cadeyrn’s axe fell onto the nearest beastman, cleaving him in twain from crown to codlings and the shrieking began anew, louder and angrier as the beastmen rushed to their doom.
Cadeyrn’s axe fell time and time again, he himself had his mail pierced and tattered in many places by the wicked blades and spears of the beastmen, but his strength held as he hacked his way to the top of the mound with supernatural skill and fortitude.
At the summit, a huge beastman, clearly the leader of this band, hurled itself at Cadeyrn, swinging its own massive war club down towards his shoulder. Cadeyrn blocked the blow with his axe but the immense force of the blow forced him to his knees. Blow after blow fell on Cadeyrn until there was a shattering of the haft of his much-used battle-axe. The monster roared in triumph, and Cadeyrn leaped backwards drawing his short sword, a meagre looking weapon to slay such a monster.
But the gods were with him here in this place and as the beast hefted its war club he leapt inside the monster’s guard, driving forward with a rage and fury he didn’t know he possessed, his short sword plunging hilt deep through the beasts heart, the deep red blood welling out around the hilt as he twisted the blade.
Cadeyrn let go of the hilt of his sword and the monsters body hit the floor with a mighty thud. The only sounds now to fill the sky were the wailing of the captives, his ragged breathing and the dripping of blood from his hands onto the gore sodden floor about him.
He heaved his short sword from the beastman’s chest and walked down the hill to where the captives lay bound. As he approached they looked upon his gore-drenched and grim countenance and began to mewl more lamentations until he calmed them, saying in his clear, commanding voice “Fear not my friends, I shall free you and see you safe home once we have finished in our duty here”
That night with the help of the now free captives he built a huge bonfire on the hilltop to burn all the bodies and began to clean all the daubings and filth off the stone both on the hill and inside the chamber. Once the inner chamber had finally been cleaned he found that the once shut solid doors swung open to his touch and so he bade the captives return to the summit of the mound and search for his horse, which had fled at the first sign of the beastmen.
Behind each of the doors he found a burial chamber to some mighty hero, containing treasure, weapons and armour of ancient design and other grave goods. In the largest of all, was the most impressive grave, and a figure whose long dead corpse was attired akin to the apparition he had seen the night before. In this grave, unmarked by the passing of time was a mighty sword, its blade the height of a man, its breadth that of two full hand spans, its cross piece two curved serpents of gold and jewels and the hilt large enough for both hands and bound in platinum wire.
Where Cadeyrn expected his arm to strain with the lifting of it, he instead found it was light and well balanced and as it’s blade caught in the light, the same runes and inscriptions in the old tongue could be seen to cover its surface, and as he swung it his arm thrummed with the power it contained.
Stepping back into the main chamber again he saw the apparition of the fey creature again, his face now lined and handsome, no longer twisted by pain and anger and seeming almost solid and real.
Where before his voice had been full of sorrow and hate, now it carried weight and timbre and was the voice of a king.
“Cadeyrn, you have done a mighty deed this day, I and my brothers who are long dead are in your debt. The sword you now bear was once mine, its name is Calad Bolg, it is deep in the power of the earth and the land about you, ancient and everlasting, from the time before even the Old Ones came and doomed this world.
May it serve you well in the dark places, and may it bring your quest to an end so that the balance of the world can be restored.
Your Goddess is far away and I can but hear snippets of her whispers to me but I hear she speaks of the Isle of the Mists and so you must journey there.
Fair thee well, good Knight.”
With that, the form faded and vanished, leaving Cadeyrn alone in the dim chamber, which felt suddenly cold and old, but feeling safe nonetheless.
