Dream of Legends (60 page)

Picking up his shield from the ground, Dragol clutched the reins lightly in his left hand again and started forward. The two resumed their trek on the path that they had been taking before the tribal warriors’ simulated bird calls had suspended their progress. The route would take them away from the place where the war party had passed, and they were also heading in the opposite direction from where the distant shouts had come.

It seemed that Dragol’s ongoing caution had transferred to his steed, as both Harrak and Trogen moved soundlessly through the woodlands. Nothing could be assumed in a chaotic environment where invader and defender were crossing throughout, and furiously contesting the region. The presence of the war party, and the audible cries of distant battle, confirmed that stark reality.

Dragol took each step with great care. It was as if just one mistake, such as a branch snapping loudly enough, could result in the termination of his mortal life.

After passing no more than a league, the hackles on the back of his neck began to rise. He slowed his step gradually, as the uneasy feeling intensified, finally bringing himself to a complete halt.

Dragol’s senses were at the highest level of alertness that he could muster. Physical and instinctive, they conveyed a deeply unsettling dread, that something sentient was observing him. Looking about, he vigilantly surveyed the area around him. The focused scrutiny was to little avail, as nothing could be found to justify the foreboding feelings swirling within him.

Making him worry even more that his mind was now playing tricks on him was the demeanor of his steed. The Harrak, whose sensitive nature was even more acutely refined than his, appeared to be perfectly relaxed, as it followed Dragol’s lead through the forest.

Dragol began to wonder whether the shackles of a full-fledged paranoia had finally been clamped down upon him. He knew those shackles had been threatening to do so for some time. They had teetered at the edges of his existence ever since he had stepped beyond the Trogen lands to take part in this foreign campaign. Cultivated steadily after the sudden immersion into the foreign territories, after spending all of his previous years within his homelands, the mounting climate of distrust and apprehension had quite possibly reaped a bitter harvest.

Moving his head very slowly, he swept his gaze once again across the still surroundings. He spent a few more moments looking cautiously behind him, off in the direction where the enemy war party had been sighted.

There was not even the slightest outward hint of anything amiss among the trees, as gentle breezes swished through their leaves, gently swaying some of the upper branches to and fro. A few small birds chirped merrily from their high perches, apparently unconcerned by anything in the vicinity. Nonetheless, the distinctive feeling of being closely watched did not diminish, in even the slightest.

Restless and troubled, Dragol grudgingly resumed his hike. The Harrak continued to maintain an extremely calm bearing, and Dragol strove to derive some conscious encouragement from the steed’s unalarmed disposition.

Keeping a constant watch about him, the Trogen was nevertheless reluctant to relax his mind fully, for fear of giving some unknown enemy a gate of opportunity through which to strike at him.

As he continued to move farther and farther along, the general feelings of disquiet still did not abate in the least. If anything, the discomfiture increased slightly. Dragol had an inclination that he would not find his mind settled until he was back among his own kind, safely within the encampment outside of the forest’s borders.

As Dragol had done before the encounter with the tribal war party, he started to look for a place where he could surmount the upper heights of a tree, to take a look above the forest canopy at the skies. He also hoped to come across another opening or meadow, as he had a similarly increasing urge to take Rodor up for a brief foray.

Taking the Harrak into the sky would certainly carry Dragol beyond the reach of whatever was causing him such extreme unease. Though he had long been very guarded in his thoughts, ever since he had left the Trogen lands, he did not think that his own mind was deceiving him. The gut instincts that protected him so often, and had just warded him in the skies above the Five Realms, were rarely wrong.

Something was out there among the trees, present within the stillness, and shadowing his every move.

*

Aethelstan

*

The shield wall continued to hold, though many had fallen in the tempestuous furor of the battle. The slope running up to the top of the ridge was now littered with the bodies of slain Avanorans. The ground near the top of the ridge was so cluttered with the dead of both sides that the fallen bodies created obstacles and hazards, threatening every step that a warrior took.

Aethelstan issued commands for the shield wall to pull back just far enough so that the Saxan warriors could achieve better footing. The enemy was much more numerous, and kept climbing, stumbling, and maneuvering through the fallen bodies to hack and slash at the shield wall.

Many who had begun the day in the deeper ranks of the Saxan defenders had now moved forward to fill up gaps, reinforcing the places where those in the front had fallen. The stream of arrows and other missiles between both sides had lessened, as more casualties took their toll, and the number of remaining arrows, bolts, and stones decreased. The archers, slingers, and crossbowmen were being much more selective in the targets that they aimed at, and those who had thrown javelins had nothing more to hurl after the early exchanges.

Aethelstan’s eyes stung harshly from the sweat and blood covering his face, and his arms had grown very weary. His entire body felt heavy and slow, his chest heaving as he took an assessment of the course of the battle. Another Saxan shield that he had taken up was now missing about a quarter of its size, no longer fully round, as many chunks had been cut and smashed out of it during the intensive fighting.

An excited, deafening cry erupted from the right of the Saxan line. Aethelstan saw that the enemy was falling back in a loose and disorganized mass; or at least it seemed so.

Though many signals throughout the battle were being delivered by Avanoran horns, he had not failed to perceive the three distinctive, short blasts that had just preceded the mass fallback.

He was also quick to observe the forms of a large number of horsemen manifesting quietly as they moved up towards the front areas of the battlefield, across from the Saxan right flank. The trees below had, to a large extent, screened the riders’ movements until they emerged into the view of those along the ridgetop, as the riders pressed forward in an orderly line.

The horsemen bore long lances, some bearing pennons, and were well-protected with mail shirts, helms, and lengthy kite-shields. The muscular destriers that they rode snorted and pawed at the ground, as the ranks drew to a halt, waiting and watching.

A small number of Saxan warriors broke off individually from places along the right flank of the shield wall, to head downhill after the chaotically retreating Avanoran warriors. It was just a trickle at the present moment, but could soon become a torrent that would threaten the stability of the entire Saxan line.

The appearance of the enemy’s resolve breaking was far too tantalizing for many of the thanes and household warriors who were looking for a decisive moment to carry the hard-fought day. Tiring and bloodied, they were undoubtedly hungry to bring the battle to a conclusive end, and the scent of potential victory made the opportunity far too tempting to contemplate.

It was exactly what the Avanoran leaders were counting upon. Before the dam broke, Aethelstan had to move with haste to keep the shield wall stable, and the discipline of the men in place.

“A ruse! A ruse! Hold the shield wall! Obey my command!” Aethelstan shouted out urgently.

The men close around him hurriedly signaled upon horns, while others shouted, relaying his orders onward with alacrity and volume. The thanes down on the right side of the line, who yet remained in their positions, urgently yelled out at the few who had left the lines. Elated and vigorous, those latter warriors were slashing and stabbing as if victory was imminently within grasp, striking at the rear of the enemy warriors who were still retreating haphazardly back down the slope.

Several of the men paused and looked back up the hill, hearing the insistent shouts and horns. Their expressions held disbelief, outwardly stunned and dismayed that so few were taking advantage of the apparent fracture in the enemy lines.

As exhausted as he was, Aethelstan called upon a few last reservoirs of energy, running expeditiously down the back of the shield wall, and exhorting the men of the line to continue recalling the pursuers.

The lives of every man that had left the shield wall was now under the gravest peril. Aethelstan knew that the instant that those men reached just beyond the base of the hill, they would hear another horn blast, as a vicious trap was sprung.

The retreating enemy footsoldiers would suddenly come to a halt, and the sound of hoof beats would fill the trees as a host of knights cantered forward upon their warhorses. The encroaching, mounted force, which had only recently come within view deep in the trees, would then descend on the stranded, tired Saxans. No quarter would be extended to any warrior that the intended ruse had so ably manipulated away from the shield wall.

“Call them back! Call them back now! Their lives depend on it, do not tarry!” Aethelstan shouted at the upper limits of his lungs.

The men of the front and rear ranks took up his cry, calling on their fellow fighters to hurry back to the shield wall. The sense of alarm was rife in their tones, as their calls reached out to the warriors descending the slope.

Realizing that most of their number had stayed above along the ridge, and hearing the dire urgency in the outcries, the strayed fighters ceased in their pursuit. Most of them were a little more than halfway down the ridge, close upon the enemy, but not yet far enough along to spring the waiting trap.

They took one more frustrated hack or jab in the direction of the fleeing enemy warriors, before turning back and trudging reluctantly up the slope. Disgruntled and not entirely understanding what faced them, they made slow, half-hearted progress at first. They were spurred into haste just a moment later, as horns blared angrily from the forest below.

The Avanorans, in frustration, moved their mounted force forward, vibrating the ground as the fleeing Avanoran warriors on foot came to an abrupt halt, turned, and started back after the now-retreating Saxans.

Casting some quick glances over their shoulders, and frantically picking up their pace, a stark realization dawned upon the returning Saxans. They now saw what had been waiting for them a short distance from the base of the ridge’s slope, and knew that they had been saved from certain death by their comrades’ persistent warnings.

Aethelstan called earnestly for any archers on the right flank to come forward with him. The Saxans coming back toward the wall still had about a fourth of the length of the ridge’s frontal slope remaining for them to surmount. The mixed Avanoran force, of mounted cavalry and the returning lines of foot soldiers, were now climbing steadily up the slope of the hill, rapidly shortening the gap between them and the tiring Saxans.

“Archers through, send one volley on my signal, then fall back!” Aethelstan shouted.

The shields in the front were parted to allow the archers through to the outer edge of the ridge top. Aethelstan raised his sword high into the air, passing between two stout thanes, whose mail and helms were spattered copiously with blood.

“Hold!” Aethelstan called, as the warriors hurrying up the hill finally reached the top, passing in relative safety back within the confines of the shield wall. The instant that Aethelstan saw the last few men reach the refuge of the shield wall, he brought the sword down in a forward slash, crying out, “Loose arrows!”

The concentrated volley greeted the regrouped Avanoran pursuers, striking indiscriminately into the ranks of the forward-most spearmen. There were some arrows that found fleshy targets a little further behind, bringing down a few horses and riders.

“Behind the shield wall! Archers fall back!” Aethelstan called loudly.

The peasant archers needed little prompting, with the oncoming Avanoran warriors, as they hurried back with Aethelstan, hustling between the masses of round shields through channels that remained parted to allow them through. The shields then overlapped once again, as the Saxans of the front line closed their ranks.

It was not much longer before the right flank was engaged by the Avanorans, who had been thwarted in their designs for easy quarry. The ridge on that end had a more gentle slope, and the enemy’s horses continued their ascent, pacing their steeds up behind the screen of foot soldiers.

Their attempt offered Aethelstan the first opportunity of the day to strike hard at the core strength of the enemy force; the mounted knights.

Aethelstan wished that he had archers with full quivers available at that moment. He commanded the men of the back ranks who had anything that they could use as a missile to ready themselves. As the clash of steel resumed along the right flank, and the cries of battle carried through the air, Aethelstan called for another volley to be loosed.

A horde of projectiles went flying, ranging from arrows, to stones, to makeshift missiles, the latter consisting of everything from crude war clubs, with stones lashed by leather thongs to short wooden shafts, to hand axes once used for farm duties. The deadly, arcing cloud soared overhead, showering down upon the mounted Avanoran ranks.

Combined with vicious axe, lance, and sword thrusts along the front of the shield wall, the enemy’s left flank was gored. The Avanoran spearmen, having greatly tired themselves in the retreat down the hill, and the pressing climb back up it, splintered quickly. The mounted fighters, unable to use the full strengths afforded a mounted warrior, were stalled in their advance, providing ample targets for missiles and hand weapons. Horns called out urgently from the enemy ranks, and the spearmen and mounted warriors began backing down the slope.