Dream of Legends fie-2

by Stephen Zimmer

He hurriedly shifted his sword into his shield hand, struggling with a makeshift grip as he slowed down a few steps, and allowed his comrade to catch up to him. He reached out and grabbed Cenwald by the upper arm, just as his friend drew up next to him. Wulfstan pulled Cenwald forward with him, nearly lifting the other man off of his feet.

  Wulfstan’s eyes could not lie as he took in the sight of the predicament facing the incoming Saxans; the situation they faced was daunting.

  When the arrows had started to strike, the Saxans with Ealdorman Oslac had not yet proceeded far into the camp. There were only a few rows of tents left between the attacking enemy warriors and the greatest numbers of the wounded, most of whom were entirely helpless in their dire conditions. The rest, including the unarmed men and women serving as camp attendants, had little better prospects in the face of the determined enemy attack about to swallow them up.

  Wulfstan moved quickly with Cenwald to take cover behind a large, four-wheeled wagon. He slammed forcefully against its stout wooden side, dragging Cenwald behind him. Cautiously, he peered out around the edge of the wagon, even as he winced in pain from the force of the impact against the rough, unforgiving wood. His shoulder throbbed as he reached over and took the hilt of his sword back into the familiar clutch of his right hand.

  The shadowy forms of numerous enemy interlopers had drawn much closer, following the deadly barrage of missiles loosed by their brethren. A few of them broke into sight at last, brandishing broad, wicked-looking blades, and great wooden shields. The sight of the attackers came close to stilling Wulfstan’s rapidly beating heart.

  He saw at once that they were not human.

  They were all much taller, and broader of build, than an average man. They were powerful, brutish creatures, with fierce countenances, as if feral dogs of war had been endowed with the bodies of very muscular men of considerable height.

  There was only one creature, in all the lore and tales of the world that Wulfstan had ever heard, that held such a description. He was certain that they were the legendary Trogens, from their own faraway homelands across an ocean to the east.

  A feverish clash of steel erupted, and soared in ferocity as the Trogens poured through the tents and fell with fury upon the arriving defenders. One Trogen warrior suddenly moved past the corner where Wulfstan was crouched. The Trogen paused for a moment, momentarily unaware of Wulfstan and Cenwald’s position by the large wheel of the wagon.

  Without a moment’s pause, Wulfstan stepped out behind the unsuspecting Trogen. He brought his sword up into an arc that crashed down into the exposed neck of the huge Trogen warrior. Wulfstan had to wrench the blade free with a hard yank, where it had embedded itself deep in the Trogen’s flesh, as the body of the enemy warrior pitched over heavily to the ground.

  An enraged roar from behind gave Wulfstan just enough warning to spin around and deflect a descending Trogen blade. The force of the fearsome blow was jarring, causing his knees to buckle. The creature rapidly leveled another heavy blow, which Wulfstan caught on his raised round shield. Wooden chunks and shards flew outward where the heavy blade cleaved into it.

  The shield suddenly felt very heavy, as the blade had caught on the edge, if only for an instant. Yet it was enough time to give Wulfstan the opening that he badly needed.

  He kicked up into the area of the creature’s groin, connecting solidly. In the ensuing moment, when a flash of blinding pain gripped the Trogen, and held it within an instant of inaction, Wulfstan whipped his sword about and slashed at the side of the creature’s head. His accuracy was deadly, connecting just beneath the iron half-helm that the beast-man wore.

  Quickly, Wulfstan reached up to the edge of the empty wagon. He cast his sword and shield into the bed of the wagon, and jumped, hastily pulling himself up and over the edge.

  “Cenwald, up here!” Wulfstan cried out, turning back towards his friend.

  Thrusting his arm out, he grabbed Cenwald’s forearm, and put all his effort into hoisting his comrade up. Cenwald needed little additional encouragement, frantically scrambling and gaining a foothold on the protruding end of the wheel’s axle. He pushed upward, and flopped awkwardly over the top, tumbling down into the open bedding of the wagon.

  Remaining low, Wulfstan achieved a better view of the chaotic battle swirling all around him. More and more of the towering Trogens were streaming into the area. Wulfstan cursed the ease with which such a strong force had gotten behind their lines, carried directly over the main Saxan force and dropped right behind the largely defenseless encampment.

  Resistance was mounting quickly, though. Warriors from Sussachia and the Mittevald mixed in with light cavalrymen from Annenheim, as the Saxans started to form a stout line of defense, facing the Trogen onslaught.

  The worsening problem for Wulfstan was that the Trogens had largely overrun the area that he and Cenwald now found themselves in. The main defensive line was forming well behind the wagon that the two Saxans were huddled in.

  He looked about, as another of the long, wide blades of a Trogen shattered the wood of the wagon, unbearably close to where his head had been. A spear instantly shot over the top of his shoulder from behind, catching the Trogen squarely in the face.

  “That, I owe you for,” he called back to Cenwald, who was holding the other end of the spear’s ash haft. Though there was fear splayed on his comrade’s face, there was also a determined strength.

  Wulfstan looked around again, seeing that there were a substantial number of wagons and carts arrayed around them. They were pulled close enough together that an idea sprouted in his mind.

  “Let us try it! We are dead if we stay here!” Wulfstan yelled urgently. “Follow me! Let’s use the wagons to work away from here!”

  Taking a couple of steps, he built up some momentum and leapt upward, his foot catching and propelling himself forward from the edge of the raised wagon side. The inertia carried him towards a wagon immediately behind them, clearing the top of its side. He came down with heavy thuds as his feet struck the timber of the bed, but managed to keep his footing underneath him.

  He turned and waited for Cenwald to follow, helping him up when he fell to his knees following his own jump. The two men then cleared another wagon in a like manner, and then jumped down to the hard ground.

  Wulfstan and Cenwald found themselves on the edge of the area where the wounded from the battle were being quartered. He looked into a sea of terrified, helpless faces, but there was also the presence of courage.

  Many of the monks, Sisters, and others that had been dressing the warrior’s wounds had chosen not to try and flee, and many of the wounded had propped themselves up. Grabbing whatever was available, from a few formal weapons, to smaller knives, and even simple tools, they were readying to meet whatever end fighting.

  “Behind you!” cried out one of the Sisters to Wulfstan, her face a mask of sudden panic.

  The huge shadow of a Trogen loomed over him, a scarred brute that had followed them across the wagons, and was still standing in the bed of the last one in the line. It was armed with a long lance, which it now thrust rapidly towards Wulfstan. The Saxan ceorl spun around as the lance point darted past, feeling the shaft of the weapon brush against the links of his mail shirt.

  He hacked down with all of his might on the extended arm of the Trogen. The beast-man howled in agony, stumbling over the edge of the wagon to crash onto the ground.

  An injured warrior, who still retained full command of both of his legs, and Cenwald fell in swiftly together upon the fallen Trogen. Their weapons rose and fell several times, taking no chances as they finished the grisly task.

  Wulfstan saw that the situation facing the quarters of the wounded was tenuous at best. The hastily formed line of Saxans close by was all that kept a considerable number of Trogens from implementing untold disaster upon hundreds of injured warriors and camp attendants. Yet as Wulfstan had done, the Trogens could still cross over the massed wagons, and Wulfstan had to get word of the danger t
o the Saxan fighters.

  “Cenwald, stay here, with all who can bear arms, and watch for others!” he cried out to his comrade. He loped forward, keeping his eyes alert for any signs of disturbance.

  A shadow then darted over the ground just ahead of him, bringing him to a brief halt, as he looked up to see what the source of it was. Wulfstan immediately rushed forward, bringing his sword into a downward slash, and slaying another Trogen warrior as it leapt to the ground from another wagon. He was grateful that the burly creature was unaware of him, affording him the advantage of complete surprise.

  Some Saxans whirled towards him as he neared the main line of defenders. Seeing that he was human, they quickly lowered their weapons.

  “Some are coming over the wagons, and a few warriors need to go to ward the wounded in this camp,” he cried out to them.

  A grizzled thane, clad in half-helm and blood-streaked mail, nodded with a grim expression, evidently needing to ask no questions. The thane looked around, and called out forcefully to several men near him.

  Wulfstan did not wait for further response, his message effectively delivered. He looked behind him, towards the quarters of the wounded. He saw with horror that Cenwald and the few capable, wounded Saxans were already overwhelmed.

  A few Trogens had broken through their thin defense, making it past the heavily-engaged Saxans. The merciless creatures brought heavy maces, lances, great blades, and peculiar, long-hafted weapons, used like two-handed axes, down upon several semi-conscious, Saxan fighters situated upon makeshift ground coverings, including blankets, cloaks, and straw-filled pallets. A few of the Saxan warriors weakly tried to defend themselves, but their efforts were in vain, as they were easily overpowered by the immense strength of the Trogens.

  The carnage would mount rapidly, if it were not stopped immediately. Seeing nothing but rage through his burning sight, Wulfstan desperately rushed forward, without another thought, embracing full combat with the Trogens. As he neared one of the marauders, he instinctively felt something lunge towards him, just before he heard the guttural war cry of his assailant.

  Wulfstan leaned forward, and pushed off his right foot, seeing a blurring shape descending upon him out of the periphery of his left eye. He knew that a strike was already in motion, speeding at him from behind. There was not even a moment to spare, as a weapon closed the remaining gap, wielded in a swift, deadly arc.

  Wulfstan then felt a crushing blow to his upper back, hurtling him onto the ground. The impact had not caught him squarely, having missed Wulfstan’s head. It had also lost much of its power, extended well beyond its apex of strength when Wulfstan had leaned and burst forward at the last instant.

  Nonetheless, even overextended and awry, it was still a heavy blow, wielded with brute force by a Trogen warrior. The only good fortune was that it was not an edged weapon, like their lengthy blades and the strange, long-hafted weapons, which may well have cleaved his mail shirt.

  Rolling over, he used his sword to block the second blow from the huge mace, as it whipped back around to claim his life. He caught the stroke in time, the thunderous force reverberating throughout his body.

  The pain in Wulfstan’s back was intense, and there were flashes before his eyes as his very consciousness flickered in and out. The mace was pressed down hard upon his sword, as the jubilant Trogen reached back with a free hand and began to withdraw a long, single-edged dagger from a leather scabbard at its waist.

  Wulfstan cried out as the Trogen growled menacingly, feeling the enemy warrior’s hot, fetid breath upon his face. The sharp canines of the Trogen were bared at him, within a ferocious, snarling visage, as Wulfstan struggled with everything that he had left to resist the much stronger opponent. A part of him expected at any moment for the broad jaws of the creature to snap at him.

  The arm wielding the mace had him pinned in place. It would only be a moment more before the Trogen had the dagger in hand, and Wulfstan knew that he could do little to stop what was about to come.

  With a hissing sound filling the air for an instant, just above Wulfstan’s head, the Trogen appeared to instantly freeze in place. Its expression did not even change, as it crumpled toward the ground, an arrow protruding from the top of its left shoulder. It had died immediately, as the arrow had pierced its heart in a penetrating, downward thrust.

  Wincing from the thudding pain coursing through him, Wulfstan nearly doubled over. He raised his head, and turned to see a man holding an empty bow out in front of his chest, the weapon clenched in his left hand.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he also espied the form of another Trogen striding around the end of a nearby tent, raising its blood-covered blade as it stormed forward with lethal intent. The enemy warrior was almost within range of the injured bowman that had just clearly saved Wulfstan’s life.

  With nothing more than sheer adrenaline, a lifting force that ignored the ferocious throbbing in his back, he rose briskly to his feet. Wulfstan lunged forward in a desperate, reckless attempt to reach the Trogen, without having any conscious regard for himself.

  Fortunately, the Trogen’s attention was fully intent upon the bowman on the ground. The enemy warrior did not see the onrushing Wulfstan until he was already upon the creature. The two adversaries engaged in a short, furious sword fight. Their exchanges lasted through several thunderous clashes of forged iron, until the slightly better skill of Wulfstan finally gained the upper edge over the sheer strength of the Trogen.

  Even so, the fight did not end before another significant blow was suffered by Wulfstan. A slashing stroke by the Trogen warrior grazed him, opening a bleeding gash in his upper left arm. Several links of his mail shirt were burst apart by the enemy’s enraged blow, which preceded the sword stroke from Wulfstan that ended the exchange. Wulfstan choked the fiery pain down, and turned back towards the injured warrior that he had just defended.

  Wulfstan’s chest heaved with heavy breath, and his arms seemed to contain the weight of boulders. His left upper arm continued to suffer the scorching touch of the open wound, while the Saxan warrior’s back pulsed with a terrible ache.

  He looked around for any new dangers. The thane that had responded to his warnings had arrived with several hale Saxan warriors, and the few Trogens that had made it among the wounded had been driven out. To his great relief, he saw Cenwald with a couple of the new arrivals, as the area before the edge of the wagons was secured. The sight was a tremendous relief, as he knew that he would not have survived another combat.

  He turned back to face the bowman again.

  “If we get past this battle, my debt to you is more than I can ever give in a lifetime,” Wulfstan said, gradually regaining his breath.

  “Be glad I would not let go of my bow,” the other man replied with a slight grin.

  The bow-carrying warrior slumped down fully upon the earthen-hued cloak he had been lying on, wincing painfully. His thick, red hair was matted, and his large eyes could not mask the sharp ache that was continuously being generated from his body, caused by the large wound underneath the ragged strips of blood-stained, wool-cloth bandages wrapped snugly around his side.

  One of his leathery hands still grasped his bow tightly, the bulging forearm muscles pulsing with the throbs of pain wracking him. His other hand was reaching down towards a quiver of arrows, in a labored effort to draw one of the feather-fletched shafts out.

  “Your name?” the man asked, pulling an arrow free of the quiver.

  “Wulfstan, son of Ealdred, from Sussachia,” Wulfstan replied, as he kept his eyes searching for any remaining Trogens that might have escaped their notice.

  “Then we are not far apart, Wulfstan,” the man said slowly, in a purposeful manner, forcing a smile through the clouding pain of his wounds. He spoke with no small amount of effort, pausing to take several deep breaths. “I am Sebright. Just a simple woodworker… from the village of Raven’s Nest. No, not from Sussachia as you… but we are on the very borders of your lands. Might be that
just a few trees are between my village and the lands under Ealdorman Byrtnoth. You make me glad now that I have spent many years hunting with a bow.”

  “It is the greatest misfortune that it takes wars to bring new friends together,” Wulfstan observed.

  “But there is cause to celebrate,” Sebright said, with another grimace interrupting the smile on his face.

  Wulfstan thought for a moment that the man was also delirious, in the light of the irrefutable circumstances surrounding them. He responded with a tone of incredulity, “Celebrate?”

  “Right here… is your reason, something to always keep in mind, in times such as this,” Sebright uttered confidently. With his right hand he reached up and gestured to a small, silver pendant hanging about his neck. It was the spear-shaped symbol of Emmanu. “Look to the skies if it seems darkest. He will return. Believe it, Wulfstan. That hour is drawing near, as the world is shackled in madness.”

  Wulfstan smiled gently, not wanting to offend the man. Times had always been dark in the history of the world. The course of Saxan history alone had been filled with challenges, as tyrants and kingdoms alike had risen and fallen. He had listened to many such stories over the years, from gleeman and family alike.

  He just felt lucky that Saxany had been strong for hundreds of years, enough to withstand the inevitable onslaughts against it. Though he was not so certain about the current times, Wulfstan now believed that Sebright was probably another one of the doomsayers who were said to crop up at the end of centuries, millennia, and during great wars.

  The wound that he had suffered had probably added a small dose of madness as well to the man’s sense of reason, taking him to its embrace.

  Wulfstan had undergone the Three Immersions, and had attended the village church regularly, but that did not mean Sebright was prophetic. Emmanu was always said to be on the verge of return, even though each century continued to pass into yet another century, without even a hint of the possibility.

  “He will come again,” Wulfstan echoed, a statement that he struggled greatly to believe could even possibly be imminent.