Dream of Legends (89 page)

After working their way through the damp passageway, ascending upwards on a pronounced incline, they found themselves in a small cave entrance that exited out of a hillside, just beneath a wide rock overhang.

The light of day again cascaded down through the leaves of the trees, the overhead sun having reached its zenith, at the summit of midday. Lynn, Lee, and even Gunther had to pause for a few moments, to take in several deep breaths of the fresh, clean air when they emerged from the cave’s mouth. Gunther blinked and squinted as his eyes readjusted to the daylight.

The Jaghuns took to the natural settings with open enthusiam. They were not creatures that could ever be entirely happy down in the dank, moist, shadowy underground world that the Unguhur had fashioned. They looked elated to be surrounded by forest and sky once again. They bounded sprightly down from the cave mouth, sniffing the air, trotting around the trees, and circling back to where Gunther and the others stood.

“I wish that I could let them run free for awhile,” Gunther commented, watching the creatures with a little regret. “Perhaps we will find your companions soon, and this will all be nothing more than a nice respite for my Jaghuns.”

His face did not crack a smile, as he looked around him. He took out some hemp-line, and set about restringing his longbow. As welcome as he found them, the woods were nonetheless a very unpredictable place, and precautions always had to be taken. It was not called a wilderness region without reason.

“I would think they would not go too far away,” he continued. He finished stringing the bow, and called out some signals to the Jaghuns, making a deliberate, sweeping hand gesture towards the trees before them.

The Jaghuns fanned out wide in the area before the cave, lowering their muzzles and sniffing the ground diligently. Examining the bow, and tugging on its line, Gunther started down from the mouth of the cave towards them. The creatures then appeared to hone in upon one track in particular, and padded away towards the trees.

“Come, we have fools to find,” he said to Lynn and Lee, before trotting off into the forest after the Jaghuns.

The Jaghuns’ forms disappeared amidst the trees ahead, pulled forward by their broad snouts, rooting assiduously along the ground’s surface to follow the distinctive scents that they had picked up.

*

Framorg

*

Framorg rarely slept soundly, but the night following the first day of battle had been entirely devoid of rest. There had been a meeting of the various commanders that had lasted well into the night.

His own initiative had been well recognized, as the Trogens had achieved at least a moral victory on the heels of the near disaster that had been incurred on the Andamooran left flank. Framorg did not doubt that his daring maneuver had injected a great wariness into the planning of the Saxans.

The collapse of the Andamoorans had caused a great shift in overall plans, as the Avanoran heavy cavalry had been suddenly diverted to stem the advance of the Saxans against the left flank of the allied forces. From what Framorg could assess, the failure of the Andamoorans was more of a result of robust, spirited Saxan fighting, than it was due to any shortcoming on the part of the northwesterners.

The Andamooran Emir’s pride had still been stung greatly. At the evening’s meeting, Abu Yaqub Battuta had listened quietly to the deliberations with a terse, angered expression upon his face, of kind that could only have been carved by great tensions inside of him. Framorg could understand the eminent man’s look far better than any spoken words could have attested to.

With little purpose in vainly trying to pursue more rest, Framorg decided to take his warriors up into the sky a little earlier than the previous day. He harbored a little reticence, though, as they would be slightly exposed in the moments of time when they would be facing directly into the rising sun’s first rays.

In the cool mists at the edge of morning, Framorg visited for a few private moments with his great Mountain Bear. Barondas was a living embodiment of Framorg’s clan symbol, and the sight of the creature always gave him renewed inspiration. He gazed fondly upon the enormous form of the noble creature, which held a mind-boggling level of strength within its great bulk.

Framorg reflected that he would have to be like a Mountain Bear, if the second day was to be any different from the first. Strong, bold, and fearless, he would have to rise up, and confront all enemies, no matter their number.

He spoke a few words to the massive beast, stroking Barondas’s fur affectionately, and giving it a few hunks of fresh meat that he received from a Trogen warrior who had procured it earlier, upon his order. Giving the creature a final pat on its flank, as the great bear finished off one of the ample pieces of meat, Framorg straightened up, and looked into the sky.

The day’s light had just begun to form a crease on the edge of the eastern horizon, where the dark’s barricades were about to be steadily pushed back by the ascent of the rising sun. The air was peaceful, as Framorg gathered and assembled his main force of Harrak-mounted Trogens.

The large force of Harraks flew out in orderly fashion with Framorg in the lead, as they streaked towards the frontal regions of the battlefield, passing over the assembling, awakening camp.

The main formations on the ground were already arraying for battle, settling into the three distinctive contingents, with the central Avanoran reserve set a modest distance behind the lines at the center. From the sky, Framorg could observe the deploying ranks easily enough, from flank to flank.

Nervous, frantic horn blasts suddenly resounded from the far right of the Trogen formation. Framorg bellowed out a sharp command that brought all of the Trogens to slow their steeds, into a disciplined hover. Framorg spurred Argazen around and darted off down the line of Harraks.

“The enemy sky steeds! They come!” a Trogen called out to him, pointing emphatically.

To Framorg’s great amazement, the Trogen was pointing behind them, to the immediate south, off the right side of their airborne flank. True to the sky warrior’s word, there was a throng of incoming enemy warriors visible in the distance, flying low, and rapidly approaching the outer edges of Ehrengard’s encampment. It was a sizeable war band, but nothing remotely threatening to the masses of Ehrengardian fighters comprising the overall right flank of the allies.

The large force of Trogens in the sky with Framorg reacted quickly. They had just begun to start off to intercept the attack, when something tugged strongly at Framorg’s mind. He snapped his head around, to gaze back down their lines to the direct north.

Instinct governed his action, as much as intuition informed it. In the dimness of the onset of dawn, what he was looking for was hard to see, but the enemy was doing exactly what he might have done, if he were in the same position as them.

Waves of enemy riders saddled upon Himmerosen were skimming just above the tree-line, far behind the Trogens’ position to the left, coming in from the north. It was a much larger force than the one that had begun to divert the Trogen force to the south. The second, more numerous force would soon arrive over the open ground among the three main bodies of warriors, Andamooran, Avanoran, and Ehrengardian, and the powerful, concentrated Avanoran reserve positioned at the middle of the three formations.

“Downward! Do not stop!” Framorg called out with urgency, having full conviction in his rapid judgement.

He reached across and drew out his longblade as he guided his Harrak into an immediate, diagonal descent, building up a blurring speed that caused Framorg to tuck the longblade close into his body for the time being. He could will his steed to go no faster, and watched helplessly as the enemy sky riders swiftly closed the gap with their intended target.

Now behind the three frontal formations, the enemy riders banked sharply towards the west, as if they were one body. They hurtled down in the face of the central Avanoran reserve, clearly the planned destination for the large force, and also the reason for the smaller diversionary group.

Even worse, the sun’s first rays were breaking directly in the faces of the allies. Framorg knew that it was no coincidence. Whoever commanded the enemy forces had timed the attack perfectly, and he could not help but admire the deftness of the strategy, and the precision of the execution.

The enemy sky riders fell upon the reserve ranks of the Avanorans with a vengeance. The claws and bites of their fierce, well-trained Himmeros steeds added to the mayhem, as the first Saxan fighters to make contact thrust their spears down vigorously into the stunned, blinded Avanorans.

Framorg found as he continued to descend that he could not begrudge his admiration for whoever had conceived the enemy’s strike. It was truly a brilliant maneuver, heralding the presence of a very worthy adversary.

The light of the new day was now mercifully at Framorg’s back, but he could see that the Avanoran reserve was in a terrible situation, as they stared directly into the sun. Blinded and thrown into chaos, the Avanorans scrambled erratically to respond to the deadly Saxan storm emerging right out of the sun’s rays.

Framorg clenched his teeth, gripped the hilt of his longblade tightly, and suffered the seemingly endless moments that it was taking to reach the fray. There was little else that he could do. The Saxans had undertaken a daring ruse, and had caught even the Trogens by complete surprise.

*

Wulfstan

*

Wulfstan and the other warriors edged forward cautiously on their bellies, to the crest of a small hill. When they had reached the top, Wulfstan and a couple of the others crept carefully forward the last few feet, and peered over.

His heart was beating a little closer to normal. The harrowing, winding journey to the hills outside the fortress in view before them had been accomplished successfully, even if done under the clouds of constant threat.

The small band of warriors that had traversed the forest was entirely made up of skilled woodsmen, all of whom knew how to survive, and move elusively, within a woodland environment. Some were men who were important enough to send in such a delegation, but none were of such importance that their failure would greatly hurt the Saxan defense out on the Plains of Athelney.

All were from the Select Fyrd, ceorls of different means who were known for their skills in tracking, hunting, archery, and other areas that could prove useful to the covert, risk-laden delegation. The largely beardless faces amongst the small war band indicated their younger nature, as the sojourn was fraught with a high level of stressful, tiring physical exertion, and had to be pressed forward with the greatest of haste.

Movement and concealment were of the highest priority, an increasing difficulty under skies regularly patrolled by the enemy’s Trogen sky riders. The war band traveled very lightly, wearing no helm or mail shirt, either of which could glint inopportunely in the reflecting light of moon or sun. A few of the northerners wore ridged, forward pointing caps, but most let their hair flow freely.

Their woolen clothes were all of earthen, dull colors, off-whites and browns, the garments blending well with the shadows and trees of the woodlands that they traveled through. They carried only leather pouches at their waists, a single-edged seax, and their principle weapons, opting to leave their large round shields behind with their mail and helms, the shields a liability with their cumbersome size, and reflective iron bosses.

The night sky, with modest cloud cover, had capably shrouded their clandestine movements as they skirted around the territory being patrolled by the forces from Ehrengard. A couple of men who lived in the immediate region helped lead the group along the shadowy trails through the brush and trees of the thicker forest region located to the south and west of the battlefield.

There were no herepaths in the younger woodlands, by which an army could march through, and the forest itself presented an obstacle to a large force. It had been left that way long ago, so that any armies threatening the Saxan lands would be forced into the Plains of Athelney, or be made to face a highly vulnerable, plodding passage through the dense forest growths.

While the invaders had sent raiding and foraging parties into the area, the Saxans’ intimate knowledge of the forest lent a great advantage to the small war band. Those that were native to the land knew the natural pathways that enemies would have had to scout out endlessly, so as not to be stuck within an obstructive labyrinth of thorns and brush. With a surety of direction, the Saxan war band was able to maintain a brisk pace, covering well more than four leagues through the thick forest-growth.

The stout fortress belonging to the alloidal lord Godric now stood before their eyes, at journey’s end. The fortress’s high, palisaded walls crowned a tall earthen rampart that sloped sharply downward, completely ringing the circular perimeter. It was a fort designed in the old way, reflecting methods of the former Southern Kingdom. Four gates set at equal distances from each other pierced the fortress, effectively dividing the interior into wedge-shaped quarters.

Within the main walls of the fortress, they could identify a more streamlined enclosure, filled with a variety of timber buildings with sharply-sloped roofs. A large hall with gable ends stood out prominently amongst all of the sundry buildings, a structure that Wulfstan surmised was the main hall of Godric himself. A number of guards bearing spears, and a few with curving longbows that were strung and at the ready, could be seen walking slowly along the inner perimeter of the palisade-crowned rampart.

The final instructions given to the Saxan warriors involved the existence of a specific underground tunnel, one that all of their hopes rested on. The information also imparted some of the history and lore of the fortress to Wulfstan, and those others of the group who were not from the immediate area.

The fortress might have been bequeathed as a freehold in past times, but one small aspect of its construction had been acutely remembered, and passed down quietly, within a few certain families in the Saxan Kingdom. That carefully transferred heritage of knowledge was about to demonstrate its value.