Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

From his lofty perch, Framorg could see the three main divisions of the invading forces distinctly. Ahead of them was the long, unbroken line of the defenders, which was like a living wall that stubbornly blocked the path into Saxany. If that wall could be breached, and broken into rubble, then all of Saxany would fall quickly enough.

  Sprouting abundantly, like a colorful foliage of greens, reds, and other hues, the banners marking the Andamoorans constituting the left division of the invaders glided along within the massive square formation that they had assumed. The giant square had drawn to a halt not far from the Saxan line, though some shifts and flows were still occurring within it, as the teeming masses of warriors settled into place.

  The tiny forms of Andamooran horsemen could already be seen racing down the front of the Saxan wall of warriors. The last few of the mounted contingent were still sallying forth from behind a protective line of shields.

  The Trogen chieftain saw that the Saxan line facing them remained rigidly in place, and no horsemen of their own emerged to engage the harassing Andamooran riders. The Saxans were already exhibiting considerable discipline, not falling for the bait being set tantalizingly before them, a ruse designed to open early rifts in their cohesive ranks.

  To his right, Framorg saw that the ranks of Ehrengard were moving forward in another condensed mass. For the most part, heavy cavalry were moving up behind an extensive screen of infantry. The ranks of infantry were numerous, and Framorg espied large groups of archers and crossbowmen within their ranks.

  Located on the farthest right of Ehrengard’s formation, a core of mounted warriors was conspicuously moving up behind an impenetrable hedge of long pikes, carried forth by warriors on foot. They were heavily armored knights, with great helms encasing their heads, covered head to foot in mail, and even provided with additional protection for their thighs and knees. The comprehensive armor was not wasted upon those who wore it, as Framorg knew that the knights of Ehrengard were brave warriors given to individual feats of valor. Of all the human factions that he had been exposed to during his time on the campaign, he had come to increasingly like the Ehrengardians the more that he was around them.

  Their horses were very well-protected, many in extensive trappers, and some in bards crafted entirely of chain mail. The uniformity in the colors and patterns on the trappers, shields, lance pennons, and surcoats of a given knight made for quite a mosaic behind the thick, dark hedge of pikemen.

  Opposite them, right behind the Saxan’s living wall, another great mass of mounted fighters had gathered. Though not as heavily armored as the Ehrengardian knights, the Saxan riders looked prepared for any attempt by the invaders to skirt their left flank.

  Framorg’s gaze then drifted left down the Saxan shield wall, funneling towards a sizeable assemblage of Saxan fighters set a short distance in back of their line’s center. They were gathered around a single, large standard, a windsock as opposed to the usual type of banners and pennons. Billowing in a steady breeze, it was fashioned into the form of some kind of winged animal figure.

  As the Avanoran leadership was concentrated in an equivalent formation within the invading force, Framorg strongly suspected that the Saxan of greatest rank was located somewhere close to the animal-shaped standard. Much in the developing battle would depend upon the kind of mettle, savvy, and discipline contained within that particular Saxan leader. Framorg doubted that any Saxan within the opposing ranks had ever been measured against a threat as monstrous as the one below. The Saxan leader was about to be given a tremendous, unprecedented test, and was certainly not going to receive any graces or conciliation from Avanor’s commanders.

  War was a ruthless, cold judge, and nothing about its evaluations was based upon a sense of fairness. War was ultimately quite simple and direct, in one way of looking at it. The Saxan leader would either prevail, or he would not, no matter what advantages or disadvantages were present.

  Still, even if the Saxans were overwhelmed, the Saxan leader could yet acquit himself honorably in defeat. It would not be much of a consolation in the tattered aftermath of a battlefield defeat, but it was one that the Trogens had to embrace often within their own hard-pressed lands.

  Framorg could respect and sympathize with that melancholy reality. All too often, Trogens had incurred the loss of many noble, heroic warriors, who had been caught within an overpowering Elven swarm, and had still fought on despite the absence of hope. In soaking an Elven victory in their own blood, such Trogen warriors had become far greater inspirations than those who had triumphed in much more balanced situations. In such a way, the Saxan leader could become a similar figure for the people of Saxany in years to come.

  Framorg then looked down upon the Avanoran formation. Pennons of blue and gold flew in great numbers within the strong reserve below, as the leaders within it carefully watched the battle developing before them. Spread out immediately before the Avanoran reserve was the great might of the central division.

  A thick screening line of infantry had been deployed before a large number of archers with longbows, as well as crossbowmen. The infantry and missile troops together constituted a mobile shield for the most valuable element of the Avanoran ranks.

  Stretched into a compacted line were the knights of Avanor. Bristling with weapons and armor, the knights were bringing their powerful warhorses forward at a slow walk in the wake of the advancing lines on foot. There was a great cohesiveness in the knights’ postures, as well as in the carrying of their lances, hinting at shared training, and a close familiarity with each other.

  Light gleamed from a multitude of small, dazzling implements, reflections from the metallic ornamentation dangling from the warhorses’ breast straps. The horses walked so tightly together that Framorg believed that he could drop a wedge of cheese anywhere along the line of knights without having the worry of it hitting the ground.

  Other lines of mounted warriors were coming up immediately behind the knights. The strict cohesion of the first line was absent in this group, which Framorg knew to be the Avanoran sergeants and squires.

  In Framorg’s view, the squires had the worst of it by far, regarding the two groups of lesser rank. They had to concern themselves both with the fighting, as well as keeping attention upon the knights that they served, to rearm them or provide replacement mounts if a warhorse was brought down. The dual role of being a fighter and an attendant was a burden that Framorg did not wish upon any of his Trogens. Each and every warrior needed to be fully focused on battle, and battle alone. A distracted focus could mean death in an eye’s blink.

  With the knights at the spearhead, the full mass of Avanoran knights, squires, and sergeants comprised a potent cavalry force positioned at the heart of the battlefield. Framorg knew that in any victory scenario, they would play a decisive role.

  Framorg brought his eyes up to look ahead again, and clenched his jaws in frustration and disappointment, as the skies before the Trogens were still empty, save for a couple of distant enemy scouts. The enemy sky riders could not have missed the gathering of the Trogens in the sky, and Framorg wondered what was keeping them waiting. He could see the increasing agitation on the faces of the warriors around him, as none of them wanted to be mere spectators in a battle as gigantic and momentous as the one breaking out right below them.

  “Keep all eyes outward, and have signals given the moment that any enemy is seen in these skies,” Framorg instructed the Trogens immediately with him, who then disseminated his orders quickly to messengers that would speed to all ends of the broad airborne formation.

  Framorg looked back down to watch the progress of the battle. A commotion was now occurring within the right division from Ehrengard. Sunlight sparkling off of the tips of thousands of weapons, the Ehrengardian division was now resolutely advancing towards the Saxan left flank. The horde of tramping pikemen anchoring the right flank of Ehrengard’s force moved forward, abounding in piercing, iron points. The force of knights sheltered by the pikemen looked quite content
to avail themselves of the forest of sharp pikes, as they walked their horses slowly in the wake of the protective shield.

  A host of horns called out suddenly to the heavens, backed by the bass rumble of great kettle-drums being struck repeatedly. The rhythmic booming and braying horns swelled from the left division of the invaders, drawing Framorg’s attention away from Ehrengard’s force.

  Seas of colorful banners suddenly seemed like the crests of rolling, oceanic waves, as an immense number of warriors surged into motion. The giant Andamooran square resumed its forward path, soon blanketing the territory where the small numbers of horse archers had been galloping.

  Another wave of horns sounded, as the drums continued to thunder. Framorg eyed the large cluster of mounted, black-skinned drummers, their faces hidden behind veils. They beat vigorously upon a variety of drums, ranging in size from smaller, horizontally-lying drums, with polygonal ends, to huge, upright kettle-drums, in vivid green and gold casements.

  The Andamooran square was again brought to a full halt. The air between the Andamoorans and Saxans was momentarily distorted, as if by a darker haze, which Framorg recognized at once as a torrent of arrows and javelins.

  For just a moment, the arrows were traveling in one direction, but the air between the two forces grew darker, as the Saxans unleashed their own barrage. Arrows and other missiles rushed by each other in the gap between the ranks, pouring down into the opposing forces.

  Blood was rapidly drawn upon both sides, and Framorg knew that it would not be much longer before the Saxan wall was tested. He eyed a multitude of Saxan cavalry that was assembling at the edge of their right flank. The mass of horsemen was swelling past the end of the shield wall, looking as if it was about to enter the fray.

  His keen eyes caught a distinctive force of heavier cavalry gathering behind the mounted assemblage, containing horses shining in armor of iron scales. Framorg was intrigued, wondering what the Saxans were about to attempt. He knew that the volley of missiles would extend for a little longer, as the two sides softened each other up, before attempting a more forceful blow.

  Framorg’s eyes flicked back towards the Avanorans, though this time he took account of the small contingents that were not a part of the three primary divisions. The narrow ranks plugging the gaps between the human forces were comprised of a much more familiar, non-human element.

  To either side of the Avanorans were Trogen warriors under Berandas and Murithenum. Framorg had full confidence in the two stalwart Trogens, the former of the Storm Hawk clan, and the latter from the Water Dragon Clan. Both were exceptional warriors, who commanded great respect from those that they led.

  The Trogens were not the only participant in the flank-protecting forces. Towering over the Trogens, and aggressively brandishing weapons that no human or Trogen could hope to wield, were several of Ardas’s hulking brawlers. Ardas, who was of a comparable authority to Framorg within his own Gigan contingents, was an anomaly among his formidable kind. Unrivaled in ferocity and size, Ardas was also gifted with an uncommon degree of cunning and foresight. Framorg had about as good of a relationship with Ardas as a Trogen could have with the cruder, far more temperamental Gigans.

  Ardas delegated through a band of barbarous chieftains that acted as his war captains, keeping his cadre of enormous warriors somewhat orderly and disciplined. Framorg had never seen any Gigan chieftain achieve any better control, or even equal the level that Ardas was able to maintain.

  Framorg had known something was different about Ardas the moment that he first met the Gigan. It was not the exceedingly prominent lower tusks that so many others took immediate notice of. Nor was it the creature’s menacing countenance, as a mere glower coming from Ardas’s harsh visage was enough to bring weakness to the knees of most warriors. Rather, it was the alert, glittering look in Ardas’s eye that caught Framorg’s initial attention.

  Ardas was quite capable of reaching a frothing battle rage, but it was one that was governed by intelligence and discipline. Such made for an extremely fearsome combination, when added to the excessive amount of physical power and size that a Gigan possessed. It was a relief that Ardas was a rarity among his kind, or Trogen history would likely have been much bloodier.

  From the sky, Framorg could see the truest purpose of the Avanorans exposed, regarding how they had deployed Framorg’s brethren and the Gigans. The Trogens, with the Gigans in their midst, only occupied a narrow front, but they extended far enough back to flank the thick ranks of Avanoran heavy cavalry.

  Framorg chafed a little as he eyed his fellow Trogens. Berandas and Murithenum were carrying out a role that was more protective in nature. They would not constitute the main thrusts of the developing battle plan, but at the least they were taking part in the fighting.

  Framorg’s blood rose in heat as he stared again towards the empty horizon before him. It was all that he could do to refrain from trying to bait the enemy sky riders to come forth, but he was under rigidly strict orders from the Avanoran commanders, to maintain a defensive cloak over the ground formations. He could only hope that he would not have to wait much longer for the enemy to appear.

  A chorus of Saxan horns then arose from Framorg’s far left, coming from the end of the Saxan right flank. It cleaved through the booming war drums of the Andamoorans, rising sharp and clear, up into the skies where Framorg hovered.

  His head turned towards the vibrant sound, keenly interested to know what strategy the Saxans were loosing, and whether it now involved the massed cavalry forces that he had espied just moments before.

  *

  AELFRIC

  *

  Aelfric rode out from the center, as the Saxans identified the Halmlander positioned on the enemy’s far right flank of the mind-numbingly huge battle line coming straight towards the shield wall. At all costs, the Halmlander would have to be stopped.

  Adrenaline flowing within his veins, Aelfric was escorted by a small number of thanes and household warriors as they raced down the back of their lines, galloping towards the farthest edge of the Saxan left flank.

  Behind the rigid shield wall, at the extremity of the left flank, Count Leidrad was gathered with a mass of cavalry. They were in full readiness, to counter any enemy maneuver to try to outflank the Saxan forces, or to counterattack, if the opportunity arose in the pending combat.

  Never had Aelfric been so glad that the old kingdoms of the past had united, as the Northern Kingdom had never enjoyed such richness in cavalry. Every last bit of mounted force available would be sorely needed now. With so much hanging in the balance, and his worst fears about the Halmlander presence confirmed, he took an appraisal of Leidrad’s riders.

  The long blades of their lances, with short, protruding lugs at their bases, were held in strong, eager hands. Their unobstructed faces exhibited a high degree of determination, as they sat with firm postures, garbed in their coats of mail.

  Their heads were topped by segmented helms of a rounded type, or another kind which contained a down-tilting, prominently flaring rearward extension. A few had thin nasal guards, and some with the round-style helm also had the added protection of mail aventails, which guarded their necks all around the back of their heads, starting from the sides of their faces. A small number of the better-equipped horsemen had iron vambraces and greaves, echoes of older styles whose influence hailed from an earlier age of faraway Theonia.

  Complimented with straight, broad, single-edged daggers at their right hips, in sheaths looped around their belts, three leather straps suspended their sword scabbards on their left sides. The quillons of long swords, with broad fullers and blades that tapered little, rested up against the bronze chapes crowning the top of the scabbards.

  Turned downward around the tops, their high leather boots held bronze prick-spurs towards the base of their heels. They carried round wooden shields, covered in leather, fitted with iron grips, and an iron reinforcement bar across the back.

  They were well-drilled, and Aelfric h
ad witnessed many of their mock combats, as groups of cavalry charged and hurled spear shafts with tips removed, only to feign flight and be pursued by the other group. The men mustered before him were possessed of excellent skill on horseback, and he had little doubt they would have quite a part to play in the coming battle; perhaps very soon.

  There was not much time left before the opposing sides clashed when Aelfric finally reached the back of the left flank. The black sea of Halmlander warriors were visible now, within just a few hundred yards of the Saxan shield wall.

  Thanes on the ground were boisterously shouting orders to the archers, slingers, and javelin men in the deeper part of the ranks, urging the men to ready themselves. Many of the household guards in the front lines were shouting in a building frenzy at the oncoming Halmlander, shaking their two-handed axes high in the air, in gestures of defiant resolve.

  “Out! Out! Out! OUT!” erupted the pulsing Saxan chant, from the massed ranks along the shield wall.

  An even louder roar of “By the Almighty!” then surged and ascended, as the front lines of Saxans whipped themselves into a fury, to meet the the brutal Halmlander with sharpened steel.

  Aelfric could also feel the vibrations underneath his feet, as well as the swelling chants delivered in thick Ehrengardian words, both increasing in force as the enemy host neared.

  By now, Aelfric knew that every man along that shield wall recognized who it was that marched towards them. The Saxans comprehended that only their bodies stood between the murderous ranks of Halmander and the undefended villages spread across the lands behind them.

  In a way, an enduring fight was about to continue, that between heaven and hell, as the rightful, defending Saxans steeled themselves to confront the fury of the predacious Halmlander warriors.

  Espying a particular pennon held high above Leidrad’s cavalry, looking almost like an axe blade, Aelfric made his way towards the great Count.

  Count Leidrad hailed Aelfric loudly, as soon as he saw him. “So it begins! Poitaine is ready with a storm of steel to greet these churls!”