Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  The sharp point of Gunnar’s large nose, and a set of piercing blue eyes, stood out prominently above his thick, blonde beard. The latter was braided into one lock that fell from the bottom of his chin to the middle of his chest. He was clad in a short-sleeved chain mail shirt, worn over a green tunic with silver brocade along the hem. Beneath were brown trousers, the lower part bound to his legs by long straps of fabric wound up between ankle and knee.

  The snug-fitting mail shirt revealed the contours of his broad shoulders, and very sizeable upper body. The bulges of his powerful build made it seem as if the man’s flesh underneath was carved out of stone. A lone, spear-shaped silver pendant was resting upon his chest, from the end of a leather thong.

  “You look as strong as ever, Gunnar. If not bigger than I ever remembered you before,” Deganawida stated, having come over to join them. “It has been some time, my friend.”

  “Have to keep the louts in line, and the edge on my better men. No small task, I assure you,” the other replied, with a hearty laugh, as he took up the older sachem in a somewhat less boisterous embrace than the Midragardan had applied to Ayenwatha. “You look well yourself, Deganawida. I must apologize that we have the carved prows affixed to our ships, but we could not be sure that we would not land in the midst of a battle, or be welcomed by a hostile bunch of Galleans.”

  Ayenwatha glanced back towards the beaching Midragrdan longships, recalling the fact that they normally removed the fearsome visages from the bows of their ships when landing in friendly harbors. The carvings were symbols reserved for the uncertainties of war, and he did not blame the Midragardans for keeping the carvings displayed so deep in Five Realms territory.

  “No harm has been done, Gunnar. Our lands are no longer filled by those with an intent of friendship,” Ayenwatha replied, with a trace of melancholy in his voice. “I am here greeting you with the colors of war on my own body.”

  “How many have come with you?” Deganawida inquired, glancing past Gunnar, to where several other boats had found slots on the muddy bank and were now being unloaded.

  The air was filled with the sounds of spirited shouts, talking, water splashing, and metallic clinks, as well as a host of other noises as the embankment began to fill up with ships and warriors. A number of timber gangplanks had been set over the sides of the ships, and men were already offloading chests, the elements of tent frames, haversacks, wooden kegs, and many other containers and implements.

  Ayenwatha could not help but marvel at the striking collection of colors evident on the men. Unlike his own people, whose war attire blended in well with their surroundings, the Midragardans seemed to desire the most conspicuous attire, as if seeking to proclaim their presence with boldness.

  “Over thirty ships, with more than twelve hundreds … of good men,” Gunnar stated, with some visible pride as he announced the number that he had been able to muster on such short notice.

  “Twelve hundreds?” Ayenwatha repeated, in elated surprise.

  “Yes, and you are lucky that ships were gathering for trade this summer in the islands near Gael, Gael itself, and our quarters in the Kiruvan towns,” Gunnar replied. “It doesn’t take much to turn us from traders to fighters, unlike those western merchants. Just be grateful that your eastern shores are located close to the ship routes.”

  “Believe me, I am,” Ayenwatha responded.

  “I also hope that word has reached you that a full war band of sky warriors upon Fenraren has arrived in your lands. Over four hundred strong. King Hakon’s been keeping more of them to the north … maybe he foresaw the storms approaching. Our brethren on the Fenraren will rid your skies of those who would seek to harass and assault you from the air.

  Gunnar’s tone then lowered, taking on a tenor of compassion.

  “I am sorry to hear of your terrible losses and suffering. It would be my wish that you had hundreds of Bregas, and as many riders for them. They are good, hardy steeds, and as Skiantha they are family to the Fenraren.”

  He glanced past Ayenwatha, to where the two Bregas that Ayenwatha had come with were standing. Ayenwatha followed his gaze.

  “They are indeed hardy steeds,” Ayenwatha commented, in admiration, though he felt a pang of lament at the remembrance of the costly air battle. There had been only a small number of the winged creatures that were fully trained amongst the five tribes, and a large portion of those had been quartered where the Sacred Fire was tended and guarded. Now, even fewer capable steeds remained, and the breeding herd would be very vulnerable during all of the upheaval.

  “But I did not come here to speak of sorrowful things,” Gunnar remarked, with a lilt to his voice.

  Ayenwatha turned his head back, and saw that a mischievous grin had spread across Gunnar’s face. “The ships, the warriors, and the Fenraren are not all that I bring to you, my woodland friends. We have also brought some of the wolf-skins, and a bear-shirt, along with us. Ulfhednar, and Berzerk, in our tongue. Each of those fellows is worth fifty good warriors.”

  With a glance, he gestured towards another longship now advancing towards the embankment, having almost reached the shoreline. Many of its occupants were much different in appearance than those on the surrounding ships.

  Standing on the unsecured, pine planks of the longship’s decking were five huge, very barbaric-looking men. Unlike most of the other Midragardans, they were clad very simply. Their appearance was devoid of any silver or gold, save for a singular, hammer-shaped amulet, made of silver, hanging upside down from a cord about their necks.

  The unusual-looking warriors wore no armor, covered in nothing more than coarse woolen tunics over their burly upper bodies. Over the tunics were cloaks made of a thick, silvery fur that faced outward, clasped with large silver pins. Ayenwatha’s perceptive eyes swiftly recognized the fur as being from wolves.

  Their long hair flowed freely about their shoulders, unbound by headband, woolen cap, or iron helm. Their expressions conveyed that these were men who were much different in nature from their comrades. They had a severe, very hardened mien, the kind of look that was forged through years of discipline and trial. A fiery, maniacal gaze flickered within the depths of their unsettling eyes. There was something decidedly feral about them, a quality that a veteran hunter like Ayenwatha could quickly perceive.

  It was then that his eyes traveled a little farther down the boat, to where a hulk of a man stood on the small portion of raised deck at the stern. In many ways he was like the other five, with the exception that a brown fur-skin, that of a great bear, was draped over his massive body. Ayenwatha did not think that he had ever seen such an immense human.

  “Can I believe my own eyes?” Ayenwatha murmured in wonder, as he knew many tales of the roughly-clad warriors. “Never have I seen the wolf-skins or bear-shirts of your people.”

  “And it is good that you have never seen them in opposition to you,” Gunnar replied, matter-of-factly. “Those five men would take on five hundred, and the one at the end an additional hundred, by himself. Those that have invaded your land will soon learn what they are capable of, and it will be a very frightening, very painful lesson for them indeed.”

  Ayenwatha watched as the strange men disembarked from their ship. He was astonished that they showed an easy rapport with the other warriors around them, for their fierce countenances, and intimidating appearances, would seem to have inferred otherwise.

  He came to an understanding in those moments, while observing their relatively casual manner with the other men of their land, that they were warriors who loved Midragard and its people with a deep, abiding passion. It gave Ayenwatha some comfort, as he hoped there would be no difficulties involving their interactions with the tribal warriors. It looked pretty clear that their legendary, fanatical fury would only be directed at the enemies of Midragard and its allies.

  All of the sights spread about them, and the good tidings from Gunnar, invigorated Ayenwatha, snatching him up from sinking deeper into the morass of dimming
confidence and hope.

  “You have brought our people something to hold fast to. We may never be able to thank you in the way that you deserve,” Deganawida then stated, echoing Ayenwatha’s feelings.

  “We do not do this for any reward,” replied Gunnar, his expression growing serious again. “We stand with you as we would for any friend of ours. No man is a friend who does not go to aid another in dire need. As we live our lives to the fullest in our lands, as you do in yours, we are here to respect and honor such a right with our blood, if need be.”

  Deganawida’s countenance then turned a shade more somber. “As we would stand with you. As to the war at hand, there is little time, for the forests are already being flooded with the minions of the Unifier. Ayenwatha has just returned from the front areas of the fighting, and may be able to tell you more.”

  Ayenwatha nodded, and added, “We have slowed them, but they are very many, too many to hold back for long. Galleans, rat-men from Yanith, and even some enormous, beast-like beings, which the enemy calls Gigans.”

  A rueful smile spread on Gunnar’s face, though sparks came to his eyes. “Atagar and Gigans too? What type of feast have we been invited too? You are giving us Midragardans a real opportunity to test our skills against rarely encountered creatures. We will be more than happy to see if these rat-men and big brutes measure up to the iron of Midragard.”

  The large Midragardan then shook his head, and when he resumed, his voice lost its boastful edge.

  “This is no minor incursion by the Unifier’s miscreants. You are right, Deganawida, we should not wait further. We are ready to march with you now. A small number of warriors will be left behind to guard the longships here, but the rest can come now. Lead us to the site of battle. We can talk more along the way.”

  Taking leave of the sachems, Gunnar then took a few moments to summon the other chieftains and ship captains together. After explaining the situation in the Five Realms to the other leaders, the orders were disseminated to march without delay. There was not a word of protest from the Midragardans, as they hurried to take up foodstuffs and weapons.

  Ayenwatha and Deganawida fell in with Gunnar shortly afterwards, as the three headed away from the line of longships, striding towards the forest’s edge. Over a thousand warriors followed in their wake, as the call of friends in grave danger was answered.

  *

  AETHELSTAN

  *

  The hiss of arrows and bolts thinned, before finally ebbing into silence. The burst of malignant rain had claimed few additional lives, as the bulk of the Saxan defenders were over the top of the ridge, and those in the front had steadfastly kept their shields overlapped. Though only a handful had been killed or wounded, the stillness beyond the line of Avanoran archers and crossbowmen below was discomforting, filled with dire omen.

  The expected resumption of the enemy’s frontal assault was then unleashed. Several faint cries cascaded down from the skies far above the Saxans. Looking up with an expression of helpless frustration, Aethelstan watched the Harrak-mounted scouts circling lower, their movements imbued with venomous purpose.

  The cries were followed by several horn signals, a portion coming from the ground level, and others coming from the skyward riders above. Aethelstan could do nothing to stop the aerial scouts, though he knew fully well that they were conveying word of his force’s disposition, and their arrangement along the ridgetop.

  “Ready yourselves!” Aethelstan shouted out at the top of his lungs.

  The higher-ranking thanes up and down the lines cried out to their men in turn, from the more veteran and hardened warriors in the front, to the slingers, archers, and more lightly-armed, general levy members massed at the rear.

  A clamorous, challenging roar broke out from the Avanorans as they emerged into view, marching in a broad, deep line that reached the base of the hill and started up its slope. Well-equipped foot soldiers strode alongside dismounted knights, in a mass of fighters that as a whole was larger, more skilled, and much better-equipped than were the Saxan defenders awaiting them.

  Aethelstan knew that the enemy was throwing the full weight of their numbers against the defenders, who were bereft of surprises of their own. It was going to be a contest of sheer force, in which the enemy would seek to bludgeon and pound the defenders with overwhelming strength.

  When the assaulting ranks had proceeded a third of the way up the slope, the order to loose missiles was given to the Saxan ranks. Stones, arrows, and javelins were sent streaking towards the enemy, over the shield wall. Arcing downward, the missiles riddled the dense, oncoming ranks. Many Avanorans fell, but the stalwart knights spurred the infantry around them onwards, with fiery, harsh shouts.

  The short-lived torrent of missiles quickly slowed to a trickle, as quivers were emptied, and the sorely depleted stocks of javelins and other throwing weapons were drained to the last drop. The gap between the two lines shrank, until it was closed with the ear-splitting din of clashing steel, throaty cries, and cracking timber, as the two sides slammed together once again. Aethelstan, with a sword in his right hand, and a shield in his left, cried out words of encouragement to his men.

  The thick mass of spears, slashing swords, and whipping axes mixed with the yells and screams of men, as they fought with fury and died in agony. Aethelstan braced himself as an Avanoran knight brought his sword crashing down upon his shield. The heavy blow reverberated throughout his body, spraying wood shards and splinters out from the area of impact. Reacting, Aethelstan lunged forward with his shield, putting his entire body weight into the movement, and smashing the iron shield boss directly into his opponent’s face.

  The stunned, bloodied knight did not even see the sword slashing down from above, the broad, heavy blade as much a crushing weapon as a cutting one. The enemy fighter fell to the ground, slain instantly by the sundering blow.

  Frenzied horn calls erupted from the bottom of the slope, and the attacking line began to pull backwards. Aethelstan was caught up in the surge, as the Saxan line pressed forward to seize the momentum, hacking and stabbing at the retreating Avanoran force. A vigorous cry erupted from the Saxans up and down the line.

  “Hold! Hold!” Aethelstan shouted with all of the energy he could muster, seeing the Avanorans trying to employ yet another feigned flight. “Hold the line!”

  Though in the blistering heat of battle, the greater thanes were not so consumed as to ignore Aethelstan’s order. They saw an enemy that was turning back, exposed and vulnerable, but they also remembered the last feints attempted by the Avanorans. Many of them did not need Aethelstan’s warning, recognizing the tactic themselves.

  As expected, the enemy warriors did not go very far, reforming their lines at the bottom of the slope, as a new volley of arrows arched overhead. A flock of crossbow bolts then sped up the slope towards the front of the Saxan ranks.

  The Saxan archers had almost nothing left to answer with, and the thanes had to command the defenders to absorb the volley without a response. A tense pause ensued, followed by a few energetic horn blasts, and then the ground rumbled.

  A line of mounted warriors cantered up behind the Avanoran infantry, and immediately began to ascend the ridge. Knights and sergeants alike proceeded towards the Saxans, lances lowered with points extended well in front. With so very few arrows or other missiles left to the Saxans, Aethelstan then understood that the broad assault by the men on foot had not been a feint as before. It had been conducted to exhaust the Saxans’ diminished supply of missiles, for the moment now at hand.

  The mounted Avanorans brought their lances to bear upon the Saxan shields, as their horses dug their hooves in, pressing their power and weight forward. The Saxans were already worn down, and many were thrown back in the ensuing moments, stumbling or falling haphazardly as they were overpowered by the robust stallions. The mounted knights and sergeants were not yet striking at the Saxans, but instead using the considerable strength of the horses to shove and jostle the men of the sh
ield wall back, creating gaps in the defensive line.

  The effort did not come without cost, as some of the Saxan household guards wielded their long, deadly broad axes against the enemy’s steeds. The axes were swung with such force that one blow could decapitate a warhorse, and the grisly reality of that capability was demonstrated more than once, as the Avanorans prodded their way into the Saxan lines.

  Aethelstan agilely stepped down the line, quickly working his way down to where one such breach was being opened. He rushed in to strike at an Avanoran rider who was delving deeper into the Saxan ranks. With a blurring, slashing stroke, Aethelstan slew the warrior before he even was aware of the thane’s presence.

  Ducking, Aethelstan avoided the blow of a cleaving axe, before reflexively driving his sword upward, skewering a second horseman with a vicious thrust into the exposed part of his face that was left unprotected by his nasal guard. To his dismay, several more of the Avanorans had pushed through the widening opening, and were now fighting just behind him.

  The thick scents of horses, and the sounds of their neighs and snorts, filled the air. The former mixed with the noxious odors of grievously wounded men, such as a young Saxan who had been disemboweled right by Aethelstan’s side. The progress of the mounted fighters forged a larger path for others to follow, like rivulets of water breaking through a weakening dam.

  With a brief glance, Aethelstan saw that several foot soldiers were pouring through the breach, as well as a few other horsemen that had been able to maneuver their steeds down the shield wall to reach the gap. Other enemy fighters were now turning to the sides, to vigorously beset the defenders from inside the gaps, protecting the flanks of those pushing forward.

  It did not take long for him to see that the fate of the defenders was being written in stone. The war of numbers and attrition was not going to end in the Saxans’ favor, no matter how hard they fought. The sheer weight of numbers was a specter far greater than they were able to handle. It was a debilitating, but undeniable, reality. Even so, Aethelstan was determined to fight on, as were all of the Saxan fighters.