The Saxans’ own encampment was indeed enormous, a far greater mustering than Aelfric had ever imagined that the realm could gather together. Yet he could not deny that the chance of victory lay to a much greater extent with the overwhelmingly massive enemy forces arraying against them.
He shook his head in sadness, as he slowly turned his eyes away from the green, windswept plains to the west. The undulating expanse of grasses would soon be dyed crimson with the blood of Aelfric’s own people, as well as the blood of so many others who were far removed from their homes and hearths.
It caused Aelfric to wonder why the invaders felt so compelled to attack, and why so many great and historic realms so willingly served the whims of such an obviously dark power, as the Unifier unmistakably was. Aelfric could not believe that the Great Vicar of his faith, Celestine IX, could tolerate such a senseless war between realms of fellow believers.
He mused that even the Grand Shepherd, residing behind the massive walls of faraway Theonium, sitting in authority over those that had broken away in the great Schism that had ruptured the once united faith of Emmanu’s followers, could certainly perceive the grave injustice of this coming war.
Another part of him wondered as to whether the most adamant protest by the two sacred leaders could even bring about a moment’s pause in the impending onslaught. Aelfric knew the answer to that well enough. It was a very sobering thought, to believe that the two holy leaders could not resist the will of the Unifier. The world was indeed changing fast, and not for the better.
“What troubles you?” Morcar asked quietly, grabbing Aelfric’s attention before the majordomo sank into even deeper fathoms within himself.
Aelfric looked up at him, and gave a very weary sigh. “Just life … no more than that. No less than that.”
“You need say no more my friend,” Byrtnoth said compassionately, from Aelfric’s other side. He lay a hand upon Aelfric’s shoulder, as Morcar nodded his agreement with the Ealdorman of Sussachia’s somber words.
*
AYENWATHA
*
Raw cries of anguish and sorrow permeated the forests of the Five Realms on the traumatic day of departure. Villages all across the woodlands were left behind, empty and purposely abandoned, as the great exodus began.
Emotional wounds suffered in the vicious attacks from the skies were ripped open even further. Most villagers had not recovered well from the sudden pronouncement of the Grand Council’s decision, for the tribes to desert the villages and their lands. They could not believe that they were leaving the lands that they loved, and had inhabited for all of their lives, heading into a future fraught with instability.
There had been no time to adjust or prepare, and the tribal people were not coping well. The decision of the Grand Council had been swift in its delivery, and absolute in its urgency.
Throughout the tribal lands, each village left as a group. Plans were quickly made so that the village groups would eventually combine together into larger contingents, all along the way of the various forest trails crossing through their extensive lands.
There had been no time for proper condolences, or even for the proper, traditional burial rituals. The hastily constructed platforms holding the wrapped bodies of the dead were cleared immediately, as the bodies were hastened into great pits. It was not wholly unlike their regular practices, but it was greatly shortened in terms of ceremony, and the methodical, tribal customs, something that was considered to be a very bad omen by many of the villagers.
The only comfort to be had anywhere was found in the fact that family groups would be kept together. The villagers would still have the presence of their cherished clan matrons, clan sachems, Wise Ones, and headmen walking on the long march with them.
Even so, between the confederated tribes and villages there were many friends who were being parted from friends, and lover from lover, making the exodus one of tremendous discomfort, pain, and frustration for the sorrowing people.
The people had little time to salvage whatever they could from their villages. Those who were a part of the great Healing Societies reverently gathered together all of the ritual masks that had survived the destruction, along with ash, rattles, and other implements used in their mystical ceremonies.
Foodstuffs of all kinds were scraped up and gathered into baskets, buckets, and any method of containment that could be taken along. Weapons were also collected, with quantities of arrows distributed and placed within quivers woven of corn husks, or fashioned of hide.
Ayenwatha, fresh from the formal war council, had volunteered to keep the seven exiles with him. None of the others in the village, under the circumstances, could reasonably be expected to care for the needs of the outsiders in the midst of the terrible calamities that had been mercilessly thrust upon their own families and clans.
When he found them towards the base of the hill, at the Place of Far Seeing, it was clear that his appearance startled the exiles, for his skin was now painted red and black for the impending war.
*
JANUS
*
“We must go seek the Midragardans,” Ayenwatha had quickly informed the exiles, as he guided them down to the banks of the river where the batch of long canoes were kept. “We cannot send anyone through the skies. You have already seen the dangers above. We will have to go by stream and river, even if it is slower. It does not spare us from danger, but we can defend ourselves, or turn to the banks if needed.”
Ayenwatha’s demeanor was resolute, but Janus knew that the war sachem was riddled with dismay and sorrow at everything that was happening to his people. The last images of the doomed village were still fresh and vivid within Janus’ mind. Janus had stood at the summit of the hill and looked on from above as the villagers had started off on their long march. Taking their first steps down the narrow paths of the forest, the survivors were abandoning their homes for the shrouded mysteries of the future.
Several villagers combing through the destroyed village, in the hopes of finding some extra scraps of food or useful implements, had passed right by Janus on their way down the slope to join the others. He had kept his eyes fixed ahead as best as he could, for they were already reddening with sadness and empathy for the warm-hearted people of the Onan village. The feeling of suffering in the air was thick and oppressive, bearing down upon him without respite.
He knew that the others with him, in their own way, harbored similar feelings to his own. Even Derek’s particularly stony silence and iron countenance belied his inner feelings, as he was one of the only exiles who seemed completely unwilling to look upon the departing groups of villagers.
As much as it pained him, something within Janus told him that he needed to bear witness to the terrible spectacle. Nonetheless, at one point he turned away from the villagers, having to wipe a tear away as it escaped his own eye. Even then, he discovered that he could not escape the melancholy sights.
He observed as a mother clutched two of her children tightly to her. The two children sobbed in her weary arms, as her own face struggled to maintain a façade of strength for the sake of her children. Her husband, his face drained from fatigue and grief, worked to finish filling some large pouches with dried provisions that he had been able to gather from the ruins of the village.
A couple of horses were being prepared for departure near to the family. Three men were working to affix a type of makeshift sled to them, two long poles spanned by hide, and pulled tilted up. Janus knew that they would be used to help bear along the more elderly members of the village. He had already seen a few such arrangements being put to use at the base of the hill, when the main throng had begun their march.
It was very fortuitous that a few horses had somehow survived the attack. The small horses, whose backs were loaded with packs already, stood without complaint. Their calm demeanors appeared to indicate that they were ready and willing to share in the extensive burdens of their keepers.
Janus’ eyes were then stri
cken by the sight of an old man standing alone near the village entryway. With a hollow look, he was staring back at the shambles that had been vibrant, inhabited dwellings only a couple of days before.
Janus knew that the old man was seeing much more than the wreckage that remained of the village. His faraway look transcended the physical wreckage before him, hearkening back to a better time. There was little doubt that the man had endured grievous losses in the attack, as his listless expression testified.
When the man silently turned and walked onward to join those who were leaving the village, Janus knew that it took great strength for him to do so. To lift his legs and step forward probably called upon a level of will commisserate with the most stalwart of the tribes’ warriors.
Janus’ heart ached watching the man’s slow steps. In that moment he knew that his heart had truly bonded with the people of the Onan village; a people attacked savagely, by an overwhelmingly powerful enemy, and left helpless and voiceless.
Janus looked around, and noticed Mershad’s distant stare, where the young man stood close by him. Mershad had a haunted look about him as he regarded the destroyed village.
“Come on, Mershad,” Erika then said gently, placing her hand on his arm to break Mershad out of his momentary paralysis.
Janus was not surprised at Mershad’s reaction, as out of the seven exiles, Mershad probably understood the Onan villagers in ways that the rest of the exiles could not.
The villagers had been deemed as enemies, to be destroyed by a far stronger attacker. Janus knew that Mershad truly understood those ramifications, as he had family, friends, and acquaintances in his own life that had been caught up in the storm of far greater powers. Janus knew that the experience of widespread destruction and loss was something shared at a deep level between Mershad and the villagers.
When Mershad glanced towards him, as he was led away by Erika, Janus saw a depth of sadness and anger reflected in Mershad’s face that pierced him to the core. As Mershad took his eyes away, Janus closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, as his sympathies for the young man threatened to burst. Steadying himself, Janus silently strode forward in the wake of the others, accompanying them out of the village and down the slope.
Ayenwatha, his body painted for war, had met them at the base of the hill, and guided them to the banks of the stream. With all seven of the exiles gathered at the edge of the flowing waters, Ayenwatha moved to help a group of warriors work to bring out the canoes. Antonio, Logan, Kent, Erika, and Derek moved forward to help them, leaving Mershad and Janus to themselves.
A few other Onan warriors subsequently joined them for the coming journey, as all were divided among the vessels. Paddles were distributed, and everyone participated in the rowing from the outset.
Muscles were soon strained to the limit, as they set off down the broad stream, propelling the vessels as fast as they could. Assumptions could not be made about the time available to them, and Ayenwatha, in the lead vessel, was embracing a sense of urgency.
Janus at least knew a little about their destination on this foray. Using tributaries, they would be making their way to a far-off bay, which opened onto the Great Waters. As Ayenwatha had explained, it was not far from that bay that a small island was located which harbored a small trading colony of Midragardans.
Far beyond that island, to the south, a few weeks-long journey by ship across the Great Waters could bring a person to Midragard itself. A land of many incredible legends, and populated by a strong and fierce people, Midragard was, according to Ayenwatha, the best ally that the tribal people could hope to reach out to.
Though incomparably dark times were befalling his people, Ayenwatha exhibited a flame of hope burning strongly within him. He had stated that the character of the Midragardans was such that the seafarers would honor their bonds with the Five Realms.
Janus took that presence of trust and hope to heart, as he put his energy into paddling the canoe, finding at its core that there was indeed a spark of inspiration to draw upon.
*
AETHELSTAN
*
Aethelstan watched the events transpiring in the sky, gripped with trepidation, and an acute sense of helplessness. The Saxan warriors that had been sent up to strike at the seemingly small Trogen patrol had suddenly found themselves facing a wide array of expectant, prepared Trogens.
A clever ruse had been enacted by the Trogens, the emergence of which had made time stand still for Aethelstan.
The Saxans had scattered apart almost immediately, which Aethelstan deemed to be a reactive decision on the part of Edmund. It was a very wise one, undoubtedly the only chance to salvage a few Saxan lives from the clamping jaws of the Trogen entrapment.
The Trogens had demonstrated a remarkable cunning, the bulk of their number waiting within the obscuring cover of the lower clouds until all of the area’s defenders had been drawn forth. The bait had been well set, and a fearsome ambush had been sprung.
The actual fighting had not lasted very long. Aethelstan had witnessed in rising dismay as many brave Saxans hurtled downward with their steeds from the lofty heights. For a sky rider, one of the greatest fears once airborne was having their steed slain from under them. It doomed the rider to a horrific death, following a terrifying, dizzying descent that ended with the bludgeoning and shattering of their bodies upon tree, stone, and hard earth.
The lifeless bodies of several Saxans were being returned upon surviving steeds that had begun to trickle back in to the Saxan encampment. The steeds had been gathered and led in by Saxan scouts who were very familiar with the surrounding woods. The scouts guided them back from where they had strayed without the conscious direction of their riders, who had been slain during the battle.
Aethelstan’s keen observation of the fighting revealed that only a scant few of the Trogens had been slain in the airborne melee. The ferocity of the Trogens’ attack was something incredible to behold. The great thane could not begrudge the Trogens the fact that they were fearsome warriors.
They wielded long, singled-edged weapons, akin to great swords, as well as great lances, and strange longbladed, long-hafted weapons. All were wielded with tremendous force and dexterity in their parries and strikes. They utilized their rectangular shields very capably, and also displayed exceptional control of their hardy steeds.
One against one, the Saxan warriors were at a significant disadvantage. Sorely outnumbered, as they were, the outcome of the fighting had been left little in doubt. As far as Aethelstan could surmise, only a few Saxans from the group that had ascended, and a slightly larger proportion of their steeds, had survived the gruesome combat.
Inevitably, the strongest of his worries and fears gravitated towards the fate of Edmund, without whom the surviving Saxan sky warriors would be left with no experienced leaders, for any kind of sky maneuvers. For Aethelstan, the matter was even further compounded, as it was not only the possible loss of one of their better fighting minds that concerned him. It was the potential loss of his best friend that Aethelstan feared the most, a loss that he could never hope to replace.
Aethelstan paced for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time, striding back and forth along the top of the ridge. His mood was tense as he watched new groups of Trogens appear in the skies overhead, taking up uncontested patrols that kept a regular surveillance upon the area.
His men looked up nervously around him, eyeing the gliding Trogens almost as if expecting an attack at any moment. The Saxan thane was not so lost in his thoughts and worries that he failed to perceive their agitation.
“They will not strike now, they merely serve as eyes for the army that is to come,” Aethelstan said to a group of simple village men from the General Fyrd, several of whom appeared to be on the verge of panic.
More than one of them clutched tightly onto an old spear, makeshift club, or other weapon, with whitened knuckles that betrayed their inner emotions more than the stony looks upon their faces. At his words, they relaxed
only slightly, a few of them nodding speechlessly in response.
They were far from alone. In this matter, those of poorer means were in union with those that possessed mail coat, helm, and sword. Even the hardier of the Wessachian thanes that Aethelstan encountered along the ridge reflected an unnerved state within the look of their eyes.
Aethelstan knew that he would have to address them all soon, as morale was always tenuous in the aftermath of a very visible loss, such as the one suffered that day.
His greatest worries were soon assuaged, when a heavily downtrodden-looking Edmund was ushered up to the ridgeline, and over to Aethelstan by a couple of warriors from his personal household retinue. The sky commander’s eyes had a hollow look to them that echoed the debilitating nature of the recent defeat.
“Edmund! Praise the All-Father,” Aethelstan stated exuberantly at the sight of the approaching men, striding forth quickly, and firmly embracing his friend. In his zeal and euphoric relief, Aethelstan, almost knocked the dispirited man into a nearby spruce tree. “By heaven, you were spared! I give thanks to the All-Father for that!”
Edmund shook his head slowly as they broke apart, hesitant to bring his eyes up to meet those of Aethelstan. His voice carried a bitter edge. “And the All-Father should not have spared me, least of all. I did not deserve to survive that battle. I did not consider that they might have an ambush lying in wait, letting a small patrol sit so obviously out in the open. I fell entirely for their lure, and these Trogens have shown much more skill in their tactics than I expected. I deserved to die more than any other.”
Aethelstan could feel the pall of heavy guilt shrouding his friend. Knowing Edmund as well as he did, he was not surprised at all.
Aethelstan placed his hand down upon Edmund’s shoulder, clasping him tightly. “None of us would have expected them to strike by force, in such a clever way. We have not seen them do such a tactic before. Why would you have expected them now?
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