Dream of Legends (93 page)

“We have a similar tale, of the first Thunder Wolf who befriended the Trogens. Only the ending is different, as we embraced the Thunder Wolves from the first day. They came down from the storm-shrouded mountains … and they lived among us, as we did among them,” Dragol said, staring off into the woods, as the gentle forest breezes caressed his face. His heart always felt a little heavier when he spoke of the revered creatures who gave identity to his clan. “All of our own stories tell of incredible loyalty. They were our friends, they were steeds, guardians, and so much more.”

He paused for a moment, and picked up the moon-shaped pendant in his hand, staring down at the wolf image and the sharp tooth situated within it.

“And this is what is left, after what the Elves have done to us. This is what drives us into this war,” Dragol said, his voice taking on a harsher edge, with the saddened anger creeping towards the boundaries of his own psyche.

“So you fight in a war that is not of your liking?” the old man asked. “You fight against those who are not your enemies? I thought this was not the Trogen way.”

Dragol’s face darkened, in an abrupt flare of heated anger, which subsided a moment later as he thought further about the question. He responded as his ire simmered down. “When the first Trogens came into the world, the Elven kind already had built up their own lands, and sailed upon the seas. Before the first Harrak was tamed, the Elves had long been sky riders. I will match my courage and blade against any of them, but we have always been under a great burden.

“Build a ship? Thirty Elven warships would be there the moment it was put into the waters of the sea. Take twenty sky steeds, upon new riders, beyond our mountains? A hundred Elven warriors on sky steeds, with hundreds of years of training on them, would be upon us.

“Our kind had just begun to settle in our lands, when they came with warships, sky steeds, sorcerers, armor, and blades. We fight them hard now, within our lands, but until we can cross those seas in force, they will continue to hold many of us in bondage, laboring in their mines. They will continue to occupy lands that they took from us … and they will continue to raid us, to keep us weakened, and diminished.”

The old man seemed to become lost deep in thought as Dragol finished his answer. His gaze was still set towards the ground when he replied, almost under his breath. “Fair of countenance, and deadly of intent. Among the First Born of Ave, they feel they are greater in the Creator’s eyes than the other high races of creatures. Such arrogance and power combined is indeed a dangerous thing. Dragol, I am very sorry for what your kind has gone through.”

“Then you know why I fight this war,” Dragol concluded starkly. “Even if it takes us on paths away from the Trogen way of things.”

“And yet what have the tribal peoples of the Five Realms, or the Midragardans, ever done to the Trogen kind?” the old man riposted sharply, his gaze rising to grip Dragol within its strong embrace. “Is this war so unlike what the Elven kind have done to your race?”

Dragol felt a hot flush run through him again, though he kept his emotions under control. “It is not easy for me, but after many, many centuries of what we have been through, we have seized upon the one chance to cross those seas, to set our brothers and sisters free, and to end the torment on our lands. I do not deny you that it is an evil path we walk now. It has the most bitter taste for us, but if we do not do this, we let a far greater evil continue to prevail.”

The old man made no reply, and seemed content to let Dragol brood on the words that both of them had spoken. It was as if he was letting Dragol turn the words of their conversation over in his thoughts, and Dragol did not doubt that the old man had a certain conclusion in mind.

Dragol was determined that the old man could wait as long as he wanted, as there was nothing to really conclude. The war against the Five Realms was very distasteful, and Dragol could admit to that, but the necessity involving his own kind was paramount, to gain aid in their long struggle against the Elves. He simply could not see any other way for the Trogens.

Despite the sensitive questions, Dragol found that he was feeling a growing affinity for the human stranger. The old man was one of the few humans to engage him in the manner that they engaged one another. Most others that he had been among regarded the Trogens as barbaric brutes, little more than walking beasts. At the very least, Dragol was grateful that the old man had shown him enough respect to desire the thoughts in his mind.

Dragol held up a chunk of meat, and extended it towards the old man, wanting to further diffuse the insecurity that the old man’s words had conjured up in him. “I may not give the answers that you wish, but you may share in my food, old one.”

“I am still quite fine, and I will be sure to tell you when I am not,” the old man replied politely, with a smile. “I do thank you for your kindness. You will likely need the food much more than I.”

“I see no pack, and you show no weapons. Do you ever eat? Or are you like those holy men who go for long with little or no food, to show their faith?” Dragol asked, as he bit into the tough meat, tearing off another sizeable chunk.

“You could say that … in a way,” the old man replied. “It is not often that I just get to sit and enjoy good conversation. If I could just stay and converse with you for a time, it would be food enough for my needs.”

Then he added, with a chuckle and a light grin, “Unless, of course, you perchance have some wine on you. I am quite fond of that wonderful liquid.”

“It is good talking with you, as well,” Dragol admitted with a slight shrug, exasperated at the man’s apparent lack of normal human needs. “Most human kind do not bother doing so with Trogens, and do not master our tongue as you have. But I do not have any … wine … I have never tasted it, but have heard it is well liked among the Avanorans.”

The old man laughed. “It flows like a river with them. I will have to get you to try it someday.”

Dragol made no reply, focusing instead on the cooked meat remaining in his hands. He was feeling particularly ravenous after his sleep in the woods, and the exertions of the previous days. It did not take very much longer for him to finish the meat that was in his hands, and the remaining portion that had been cooking over the fire.

The old man did not disturb him while he ate. Instead, he grew silent, and shut his eyes, sitting quietly as if in deep meditation. When Dragol had finally consumed the last morsel of meat, the old man’s eye calmly opened, as if the final swallow was some kind of cue.

“So, where are you going from here?” the old man asked Dragol, his timbre casual.

Dragol looked up for a second, catching the penetrating gaze of the old man’s deep blue eye. He was not entirely convinced that the old man’s question pertained to simply his physical plans in the forest.

“I do not know,” Dragol answered. “I just have to find my way back.”

“Mind if I travel with you for awhile?” the old man asked calmly.

Dragol thought about the request for a moment, before slowly nodding. The man had given him no reason to worry about traveling with him, but all the same, Dragol knew that the old man was not a friend to the forces invading the lands of the Five Realms. “You can travel with me if you wish, but know that I am trying to make it back to my own kind.”

The old man smiled. “There are many paths back to one’s own kind. You are not limited to just one road.”

“Your ways are maddening, old man,” Dragol grumbled, nonplussed.

“All things in time,” the blue-cloaked traveler remarked brightly.

“And you are not worried about traveling with one of the enemy?” Dragol asked him.

“Are you my enemy?” the elderly man asked him pointedly.

“Only if you choose to make me so,” Dragol responded evenly.

“Then no,” he replied. “So I am not worried in the least.”

“Then it is best that we set off while there is still good daylight remaining,” Dragol responded, adding a glance upwards, towards the sun, for emphasis.

He got to his feet, cutting a little more meat off of the Hyaed carcass to take along with him, placing the pieces into one of the large leather bags he carried. When finished, he cleaned off his dagger, and placed it back into the sheath hung horizontally on the right side of his waist.

He retrieved his shield from where he had left it near the cave opening, cursing himself again for allowing it to get out of arm’s reach. He had not been able to avail himself of it when the Hyaed had emerged from the forest to drink at the pool. Even so, he felt a distinct sense of optimism. The old man’s relaxing presence was truly affecting the hulking Trogen.

Dragol then walked slowly over to the old man, who had just gotten to his feet.

“Do you know your way through these woods?” Dragol asked him.

“I have traveled here before,” the old man answered, a reply that neither confirmed nor denied his level of familiarity with the particular woods around them.

Dragol looked off through the trees, and up at the sky peeking through the branches overhead. “I want to head towards the south, and try to see what I can from the hilltops. Maybe I can find some sign of other Trogens. As long as we can get out of these woods without being killed.”

“Then let us head towards the south,” the old man concurred amiably, giving no response to the second part of Dragol’s statement.

Dragol started off slowly, so that the old man could keep up with him. He then started to increase his gait, making sure that the old man could still match his stride. Before long, he was walking at a forced march speed, as the old man effortlessly strode alongside him.

“You keep your body in good condition. You seem to have better physical ability than humans half your age,” Dragol commented, marveling at the old man’s exceptional heartiness.

The old man smiled, and laughed merrily. “And probably some younger than that. Few humans realize that there are things in this world that go far beyond age, and the merely physical aspects of life.”

Again, Dragol had the distinct sense that the old man’s comments were not strictly confined to the issue that Dragol had brought to light.

“You are not just talking about the physical, and you are not just physical, are you?” Dragol challenged his new traveling companion, deciding to put himself out on a limb.

The old man’s wry smile was an answer in itself. “You are perceptive, Dragol. In time you will know more, but you are right in both of your queries.”

Dragol regarded the old man for a moment, allowing himself to look deeper into the old man’s eye. He had looked into the eyes of thousands of warriors, and he knew very well how to read the look in an eye. Time after time, he had ferreted out hostilities, rebellious flares, and deception, all because he had bothered to study the nuances within a gaze.

The look in the old man’s eye, as he let himself reach into its depths, took him off guard. There was absolutely no hint of a threat there, or any hidden natures. Even so, there was a quiet strength that pulsed just beneath the surface. It was the type of strength that Dragol could respect, for it centered upon fortitude, and unwavering commitment. He also felt that the old man’s eye contained a look that he had only seen in two individuals in his entire life; his mother and his father.

He also felt unusually secure in the old man’s presence, an uncanny sense that was almost as if there would be no attacks or threats that could harm him, as long as the old man was with him. The perceptions were utterly strange, but Dragol was not about to quibble, stranded as he was within a land whose inhabitants would give him a less than enthusiastic greeting.

Dragol shook his head, and his lips pulled back in the Trogen version of a smile. It was all mystifying, but, then again, nothing in life had ever made much sense to the stalwart Trogen.

SECTION VII

*

Aelfric

*

The second day advanced without respite out on the Plains of Athelney, as a maelstrom spread wide under the cool, clear skies hovering above the battlefield. The Saxan reserve force gathered around the great dragon standard of King Alcuin remained firmly in place, under the leadership of Prince Aidan, allowing Aelfric to rove freely behind the long lines of the steel-bristling shield wall. He had just finished inspecting the Saxan right flank, giving great scrutiny to the condition of the enemy opposite it.

The Andamoorans had arrayed a solid line of rectangular, hide shields, seeming content to present a forest of spears, gripped by the veiled men who kneeled down just behind the shields. A few passes of horse archers at the edge of their arrows’ range was about the only gesture of offense from the badly mauled Andamooran ranks.

Aelfric had little doubt that the enemy’s left flank would be licking its wounds after suffering tremendous casualties during the previous day’s fighting. They were not likely to take any unnecessary chances, whittled down as they were. The stalemate was beneficial to Aelfric, giving him one less thing to worry about, so that he could turn his focus more squarely towards the other areas of the battle.

Guiding Midnight, he trotted back towards the center of the Saxan line, nodding in acknowledgement of the many men hailing him as he passed by. Only a handful of his household retinue rode along with Aelfric, as most were positioned at the heart of the shield wall.

The Avanorans had been forced to divert their efforts on the previous day, but no such repeat would be likely on the new one. With the invader’s weakened left flank, Aelfric expected a powerful thrust to come from the enemy center.

A group of heavy cavalry, mounted upon horses wearing bards of scale armor, were clustered together a short distance ahead of him, with one of their number set a few paces forward from the rest. Aelfric drew up the reins as he approached them, eliciting a curt snort from Midnight.

Count Gerard II stared out silently over the battlefield, gazing off in the direction of the massed Avanoran ranks, just opposite his force. His face was impassive, but the look in his eye was forged of iron.

“They are going to move upon us soon,” Count Gerard commented, as Aelfric neared him, keeping his face fixed forward. “I think you will enjoy this, if they choose to try the methods that won them the kingdom of Norengal.”

“Those monstrous beasts they ride, if you can call them horses, can surely shove our men back, if that’s what you mean,” Aelfric said, reflecting on what he knew of the Avanoran methods of war.

The Avanorans’ heavy horse would not charge into a solid spear wall. No horse, even the most frothing, cantankerous war stallion, could be coaxed into anything so blatantly suicidal. That only left a few options if the Avanorans hoped to employ their formidable knights on horseback.

One option was to punch holes in the shield wall using men on foot. Once breaches were made, mounted cavalry could then exploit them, a tried and true method that was certainly within their capabilities.

There was another tactic, and it was the one that Count Gerard was apparently expecting; a disciplined formation, slow, deliberate, and cohesive. One where the ends of their extended lances would be pushed against the Saxan shields, with the force generated by the brawny war stallions that they rode.

Breaches would be created with the exceptional physical power of the war destriers, jostling and shoving the men in the shield wall back and aside. The horses could be cajoled into cooperating with such a tactic, and their strength would be too much for any normal man to long withstand.

Aelfric was still more than a little perplexed at Count Gerard’s manner earlier that morning, especially the Count’s unyielding insistence that he bring the bulk of his cavalry to assemble at the Saxan center. He had gotten Aelfric to promise not to send the Saxan forces forward in the center, under any circumstances, at least beyond where some conspicuous white stones had been placed on the ground far in front of the shield wall. Aelfric knew that Count Gerard was anticipating the enemy to attack the center with near certitude, and he also understood that there was a tactical countermeasure in place.

The blaring of multitudes of war horns called Aelfric’s attentions back to the battlefield. A forest of knightly pennons and baronial gonfalons were surging towards the Saxan center. At the moment, there was a screening line of heavy infantry, archers, and crossbowmen, but they were not a cause for concern. The real nexus of the force was contained in the sleek, muscular forms of the warhorses, and the glinting armor of their knightly riders.

Aelfric found that he was getting more acclimated to the shaking of the ground, though he could see the jarring effect that it had on the morale of the peasant levies arrayed behind the shield wall. The sight of their extreme agitation gave him some cause for concern. There had been many replacements put into the shield wall for the second day of fighting, with so many thanes and household guards falling on the first. Most replacements on the face of the shield wall were still well-equipped thanes and ceorls, but it would not be much longer before simple peasants would be asked to hold shields, to ensure a continuous, unbroken line.

Aelfric banished the fears rising up within him, as that moment was not yet upon the Saxan defenders. Turning his head, he looked off towards the left, to see whether he could gain some hint as to what was transpiring on the left Saxan flank.

The forces of Ehrengard were again deployed in a conservative posture. On the Ehrengardianardan far right was the enormous, shielding hedge of Halmlander pikemen, like the bristling back of some giant porcupine, curled to protect an assemblage of knights sheltered within the underbelly of its center.

Masses of infantry, like an adjacent shield wall, provided a further line of protection all the way down to the center where the Avanorans were positioned. As before, large pockets of the kettle-helmed archers and crossbowmen emerged to the fore of the line, to loose sporadic volleys of arrows and bolts at the Saxans opposite them. Ranks of heavy cavalry behind both infantry and missile troops appeared content to remain in place under their fluttering banners.

For the time being, the Ehrengardians would not likely be a major concern, though the dense, spiky formation on their far right continued to worry Aelfric greatly. He reverted his attention back to the center. Peering ahead at the oncoming lines of Avanorans, he quietly took several steady, slow breaths. He could see a large number of Saxan archers gathered behind the shield wall, and knew that the enemy forces would be well-greeted when they reached the barrier of overlapping, wooden shields.

Arrows had been dutifully collected wherever they had remained intact, after descending in the enemy rain on the first day of fighting. Weaponry, shields, and armor had been stripped from fallen enemies, as non-combatants labored to pull as many of the Saxan dead from the battlefield as they could. Often, they came within just paces of their counterparts from the enemy encampments, though the tense truce that allowed for dealing with the wounded and slain held in place.

Aelfric was grateful for the diligence taken in adhering to his wishes for that first night. The Saxan archers would have a prodigious quantity of arrows to use in the second day’s fighting, both from their own stores, as well as those collected from the enemy. It was one small reward gleaned from enduring the seemingly endless volleys of the previous day. Many of Saxans had already notched their first arrows of the day on their bows, anxiously awaiting the commands to set them free.

The Avanorans proceeded at a tight canter, controlled and relatively slow, as they drew closer to the Saxan lines. At a unified horn blast, as if in one motion, their great lances were lowered from their upright positions. The lances were secured in the couched technique that was such a distinguishing characteristic of the Avanoran knights.

To Aelfric’s eyes, it looked like a solid wall of steel approaching upon a foundation of muscle, as horse and rider readied themselves to connect with the shields of the Saxan lines. They were just about within reach of the Saxan arrows, and Aelfric expected to hear their own horn signals and shouts resounding soon enough.

Aelfric glanced over at the Bretican noble at his side. A smile was spreading across Count Gerard’s face, breaking into a chuckle as the plainly amused Count of Bretica looked upon the furrowed brows of worry surmounting Aelfric’s rigid, tensed expression.

Looking at Aelfric the whole time, Count Gerard spoke loudly, to one of the horsemen in attendance upon him. “Ready the signals.”

“Now I think that I just might have an idea as to what your men were heading out to do last night,” Aelfric said, as his brows gradually relaxed.

He looked back out to the battlefield, his sight focusing in upon the white stones placed along a roughly even line. The stones were within the range of the Saxan bows, and though that might have factored into their placement, Aelfric knew that they signified something much more ominous for the enemy ranks.

He looked back to Count Gerard, as the corners of his own mouth turned up in a subtle smile. The Count now had one of the most wry grins that he had ever seen, winking to Aelfric, before turning his head back towards the battlefield

“Just an extra precaution for your center. My men took care of it last night, as you noticed. I hope you do not mind my initiative in this matter,” Count Gerard stated, as he settled himself in his saddle. He hefted up his circular shield, where it had been hanging from a guige strap on his left side. Reaching across his body, he drew his sword out, and held it high. “I will see you in a little while. It is time to greet these Avanorans properly.”

It was about that moment that Count Gerard’s plan manifested. Aelfric’s spirit leaped, as he saw a considerable number of horses and riders in the forefront of the Avanoran ranks suddenly go tumbling down, falling out of his sight. He recognized that they had fallen into pits, which had been dug under Bretican supervision, carefully covered by turf, and marked by the small white stones.

The Avanorans had encountered no pits the previous day, and were pressing a direct attack from the onset on the second. The pits were a brilliant move on the part of Count Gerard, and Aelfric wished that he could take a moment to congratulate the man’s genius.

The Count had already moved onward, and horns were sounding among his own horsemen, as those manning a few areas of the Saxan shield wall parted aside to allow the riders through. Aelfric’s gratitude would have to wait for later, as there was an Avanoran harvest to reap.

Confusion was rampant up and down the Avanoran lines. The back ranks, and those few knights in the front that had not fallen into one of the pits riddling the ground, jerked in panic on their reins, pulling their steeds to an abrupt halt.

Many of those who had fallen into the pits were badly injured in the avalanche of horses and men. Cries of man and beast emitted from the hollows, some pitiful, and others full of rage. A few knights who had freed themselves from their mounts were trying to scramble out of the pits, just as the Bretican cavalry emerged from the Saxan lines and counter-attacked the Avanorans with brazen ferocity.

The clash of steel erupted, swelling into its own chorus as a host of swords danced. Avanoran knights swiveled their mounts about to meet the unexpected onslaught, and to acquit themselves honorably. Sergeants and squires pressed forward wherever they could to aid the knights that they so dutifully accompanied and served.

The Avanorans were not the only ones to press forward, as many thanes recognized the stagnation and severe disruption in the Avanoran advance. The advantage that the Avanorans held moving in tight, coordinated units had been cast into disarray. With masses of horses and men jammed together and constricted, without coordination, an irresistible opportunity arose.

Aelfric dismounted quickly, as he watched the development unfolding, hurrying towards the shield wall the second that his shoes touched the ground. He called out to a number of his household guards and thanes, joining with a large throng hastening forward to the Saxan shield wall.

A cluster of his elite household warriors surrounded him, as he moved with alacrity out onto the battlefield. They bore their long-hafted axes eagerly, intent on inflicting great damage to the Avanoran invaders. Raising his own sword high, Aelfric passionately exhorted them, as he felt the upsurge in adrenaline, conveying a tempest of fury throughout his body.

The knights in the pits were at a terrible disadvantage as the Saxans on foot reached the edges of the earthen cavities. Swinging long axes, or thrusting and slashing broad-bladed spears downward, the Saxan defenders slew many of the hapless knights, delivering torrents of blows.

“The mounts! Go for the mounts!” a thane close to Aelfric cried out to some of the axe-bearing men, who obliged the order with great rapidity.

The great war axes, wielded by the powerful household guards, could behead a horse, and several fearsome blows did just that. Many knights cried out in a terrible rage as their mounts were cut out from under them. Many steeds pawed, reared, and kicked out with tremendous force behind their sharp hooves, claiming more than a few of their Saxan attackers, as the battling soared towards a feverish crescendo.

A few particularly unfortunate knights were pinned securely under the bulk of fallen horses, but others moved with a strength purchased by desperation, and pulled themselves free. In the swirling battle, with the ranks so tightly contracted together, and so many bodies creating obstacles on the ground, the Avanoran squires could not bring forward replacement mounts.

One knight cut and thrust at Aelfric, as he thundered into the eye of the storm alongside his men. He had fully expected the style of attack, as the Avanoran knights, with their tapering sword blades, were every bit as likely to thrust as they were to slash. Aelfric caught the first strike with his blade, and the latter with his shield. He fired back a heavy sword blow that crashed into the knight’s shield, a flat-topped design, rounded of corner and curved in at the sides, that was red with several black lines crisscrossing its surface. The knight was garbed in a close-fitting, black, sleeveless surcoat over his chain mail armor, and Aelfric could feel the cold, deadly stare coming from behind the rigid face visor.