Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

“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 bloodstained, 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.

  He hoped that he had at least humored the man that had saved his life, not entirely finding the moment appropriate to engage in a discussion of this sort.

  “He will,” Sebright responded, matter-of-factly. The archer’s eyes darted about. “The threat here is now gone. You should go see to your other comrades.”

  Wulfstan shook his head. “I am staying here, among you and those here. There’s nobody to stand among all of you if any of those creatures break through again.”

  In all truth, Wulfstan was the only able-bodied warrior currently standing in the midst of well over a hundred badly wounded Saxans. The recently arrived thane and other Saxans had clearly bolstered what little defense could be placed near to the line of wagons, but it would not take many Trogens to break through to the wounded again. Wulfstan had no way of knowing just how large the force of Trogens was. He would almost have to be a second line of defense by himself.

  Farther away, the Saxan line seemed to be thickening, bolstered by more incoming warriors. Some Saxan archers were now levying their arrows towards the Trogens, whose advance was stalled by the increasing weight of the defender’s numbers.

  Wulfstan watched the monks, priests, Sisters, and others resuming their work on the wounded, seeing a determination and courage that was equal to that of any warrior.

  A middle-aged Sister held the hand of a man, and looked into his eyes without wavering, as he shuddered and succumbed to a terrible stomach wound, laying her hand upon his sweat and blood matted forehead with a mother’s gentleness. She looked right into his eyes as he expired, showing no trace of discomfort, holding on to him till several moments after his spirit had fled his body.

  Her lips moved as she whispered some private, silent prayer, getting up and moving in her grimy, bloodstained tunic to attend to yet another grievously wounded man, who also looked to be entering his final moments. Wulfstan inwardly knew that she would continue as long as there was a warrior in danger of dying alone, making certain that they did not.

  A great yell arose from the Saxan line behind him, mixing with several deep, short horn blasts from the rear of the camp, where the Trogens had entered. The horn blasts had a deeper, different tone than the Saxan ones, and Wulfstan had no doubts as to what they meant. The Trogens were falling back. Wulfstan turned his head in time to see the Saxan line pressing forward, driving hard against the retreating Trogens.

  Wulfstan took a deep breath. Another grave threat had been beaten back, the second such in just one day, but Wulfstan had no illusions that it would be the last in this terrible battle.

  Several armed Saxans were being dispatched to search among the wagons, to look for any Trogens that might still be hiding. Wulfstan opted to stay among the wounded as long as he could, as he was now injured himself.

  Some time later, a kindly-faced monk brought Wulfstan an ash-wood cup. It was filled with a rather poor quality ale, but Wulfstan received it with great enthusiasm nonetheless. He warmly thanked the monk, who nodded back, with a brief smile of acknowledgement, and moved away to other tasks. To Wulfstan, at that moment, it was as if the drinking vessel was a glass cup from Ehrengard, filled with the finest ale, set at the table of a wealthy Saxan thane.

  With daylight ebbing towards darkness, Wulfstan doubted that anything more would be asked of the Saxans that had responded to the emergency defense of the encampment. Sebright, exhausted, and fully free of the threats, fell quickly into a deep sleep as Wulfstan watched over him.

  The skies were soon cast with a decidedly reddish hue, and Wulfstan recalled the old saying of the Venerable Ethelwulf of the Jarrede Monastery. The legendary churchman and chronicler had once said that a reddish sky at the onset of night heralded the promise of a clear day on the morrow.

  Wulfstan hoped that the All-Father would forgive him for outright disagreement with one of his highest, and most renowned, Saxan servants. With all those who had fallen on that day, Wulfstan did not see how the coming day could ever be seen as clear, no matter what the weather might be.

  Rather, he believed, the battle was simply so terrible that even the ground could not hold the blood that had been spilled. The sky itself looked to have had been stained with the baleful dye of war.

  He also mused over the common notion among his people that the blood of the Saxans had been much stronger in days of old. After what he had witnessed that day, he disputed that saying as well. It was hard to conceive of stronger blood than that which ran in the veins of the
Saxan warriors standing courageously on the battlefield that day, and those other Saxans whose unyielding will served the dying and wounded within the encampment.

  Many horns were sounded in the distance, where the main battlefront was. The sonorous blasts were Saxan in tone, and were clearly signaling the end of the day’s hostilities, as the first signs of the cessation of battle started to appear.

  Wulfstan slowly strode among the tents of the encampment, working his way gradually back to where the contingents from Sussachia were situated. He endured the pain from his injuries, simply glad that they did not hinder him from moving.

  Guards and lookouts were being posted at the rear of the camp, as streams of exhausted soldiers began to enter the boundaries of the encampment. Notched axes, torn mail, gouged and shattered shields, and other various mementos of the ferocious combat were commonly seen among the battered, blood-smeared men returning to the confines of the war camp.

  Wulfstan finally reached his tent, and sat down outside the opening. Now that the fighting was done, a part of him was given over to the needs of hunger. He scraped up some pieces of hard bread, using the remaining ale in his cup to soften it to a level that he could chew.

  Gradually, more of the warriors that had been in the assemblage prior to the Trogen attack filed back around Wulfstan. Several gave him nods or smiles that held sparks of gladness that he was healthy and alive, even as he returned the expressions in a like manner. The sparks could not take to flame, though, dampened as all of them were by the reality that many others would not be returning to their tents that evening.

  Cenwald slumped down heavily next to Wulfstan, his face filled with weariness, and his spear holding several new nicks and scrapes. Overall, he was none the worse for wear, having made it through the end of the day without incurring serious injury. Wulfstan gave him a light pat on the back, as his friend sat down next to him.

  They were allowed to light fires, and eat a meager fare of hard bread, which they dipped into a grain-and-vegetable pottage to soften. The provisions were accompanied with a modest serving of salted fish, and some more poor quality ale. It was a much lesser repast than that which they had enjoyed on previous nights in the camp, but after the long, tiring day, it tasted as if it were a sumptuous feast.

  There was little to no conversation among the men, as each nursed his hunger, thirst, and various physical or mental troubles in private. Wulfstan found his mind returning to wondering over the purpose of the assemblage that had been taking place prior to the arrival of the Darroks.

  The mystery did not linger for long. The purpose was soon explained to them by Aelfric himself, who presently came into the camp, and dispersed several of his thanes among the weary men. They summoned all those who had previously been mustering towards the end of the day together once again, except for those greatly wounded in the defense of the encampment.

  Aelfric waited for them to gather within an open space, standing near to a large campfire. His face, reddish in the firelight, was grim of countenance as he spoke to them in the last vestiges of twilight.

  Aelfric spoke of a freeholding lord named Godric, who held a sizeable fortress and attendant lands on the outer borders of Saxany. The use of Godric’s fortress, situated as it was near to the south and west of the battlefield itself, had to be denied to the enemy ranks. Diligent scouts had ascertained that there were still routes available to reach the fortress, despite the presence of the invasion forces.

  A force was now to be sent, under the cover of night, to reach Godric’s lands. Their task was to entreat with Godric directly, to gain his cooperation to allow his fortress to be garrisoned.

  Among those being gathered, a larger faction, including riders, would be involved with scouting and protection on the perimeters. Some of these would act within the areas that were now being heavily patrolled by the enemy, creating diversions if the need arose. A smaller group would be sent on foot to navigate the route through the dense woodlands to the actual fortress itself. It was a task fraught with danger, but one that the Saxan leader saw as entirely necessary.

  After Aelfric concluded his address, everyone was mercifully allowed a short nap. Wulfstan and the others within the assemblage walked back to their tents and campfires in relative silence, most lost in the depths of a murk born of their dark thoughts and great fatigue.

  When he reached his tent again, Wulfstan removed his mail shirt. He gave a low groan as he slid the protective iron links up and over his head, aggravating the tender area of his upper back and his slashed arm in the process. He then took off his half-helm, and set it down beside him, before pulling off his tunic.

  He savored the relief of the cooling night air as it settled all over his body. With no threat of rain, he eschewed the small interior of the ridge tent. He sprawled out before the tent opening on the ground, under the night sky, feeling the soft grasses underneath his head. He wasted little time before falling into unconsciousness.

  Once again, he found himself in the midst of a mysterious dream, featuring an old man dressed in the garb of a priest of Emmanu. The old priest carried within his hands an ornately bound codex, dressed richly with gold and gems. The priest had kindly, blue eyes, and though advanced in age his hair was a luxuriant black. His voice was gentle, but imbued with a great strength.

  “To the skies, Wulfstan. Go farther, and seek the one that can help your people.”

  Wulfstan awoke with an abrupt start, peering upward at a worried, familiar face. Cenwald was leaning over him, having reached down to lightly nudge him.

  “Are you okay?” Cenwald asked. “It looked as if sleep was troubling you. The night force has begun to assemble. We will gather beyond the western camp gate. All would be awakened soon enough.”

  “I do not fault you, Cenwald. Even so, this sleep is far too short,” he lamented, for the short draught of sleep had brought an enormous thirst to the fore.

  “Will your injuries allow you to travel?” Cenwald asked him.

  “I will bear the pain, it does not prevent me from movement,” Wulfstan replied somberly.

  Stretching his tightened muscles, he sat up, carefully pulling his tunic back on. He winced with the pulsating pain coursing through his upper back, knowing that he would be nursing a very sore area there for quite some time from the Trogen mace blow. He slowly replaced his old half-helm on his head, tying the leather straps underneath his chin, to secure it firmly.

  “Time to do what we must,” he said resolutely, forcing a smile of encouragement through the icy feeling gripping him, born of fatigue and the countless losses and sufferings that he had witnessed on the previous day.

  Those gleemen who would someday be singing great songs of that day, and the rest of the battle to come, might well render heroic tributes to the Saxan warriors. Wulfstan would expect nothing less, for they deserved to be remembered in glory, but the costs that purchased that glory were a horrific burden that Wulfstan was only beginning to understand.

  After adjusting the fit of his sword and scabbard, and pulling his shield up, he walked with Cenwald through the chilly night. His rigid muscles gradually became more supple as he moved. Wulfstan paused a couple of times to twist his torso and limber up his back, which ached even more from the short respite on the hard ground, and the accumulation of the previous day’s exertion.

  They continued through the teeming campfires, which silhouetted the forms of a great many slumbering men. They finally exited the western gate of the camp, and followed some others that he recognized from the Sussachia contingent. They headed to where the small force that he was to join was now mustering.

  On his way outside the camp’s entrance, he noticed a large number of warriors from Bretica heading out silently towards the battlefield itself. They were carrying an array of digging implements, from iron-edged wooden spades to sharp iron picks, affixed to long wooden hafts. A few of them led draft animals, the horses and oxen pulling carts and wagons in their wake.

  He regarded them
curiously for a few moments, wondering what their purpose was, before continuing on his way towards the growing assemblage.

  More than one initiative was evidently being undertaken by the Saxans during that restless night.

  *

  AELFRIC

  *

  Aelfric partook of a light meal and some thin ale, as his stomach would not take much more after the harrowing day of battle. The dark tent, whose gloom was only partially offset with the glow from a couple of braziers, was filled with silent, reflective men. A number of them were simply grateful that they still drew breath.

  “Too many … far too many,” Aelfric stated leadenly, with a heavy heart.

  “Aelfric, the Andamoorans are not likely to strike hard if they array for battle tomorrow,” suggested a tall man with sharply chiseled features, and dark, wavy locks of coarse hair.

  “And were it not for you, Einhard, our right flank would not even be available to array tomorrow,” Aelfric responded somberly, taking a deep breath.

  Many Saxans, such as Ealdorman Byrtnoth’s levies, had been caught out in the open when the Avanorans had made their deft adjustment. Even Count Gerard’s formidable Bretican cavalry had been in grave danger of being cut off, as they had pressed to the far recesses of the Andamooran ranks.

  Quite possibly, the battle itself had come dangerously close to being decided in those precarious moments. Such were the incredible shifts within a battle.

  “And of tomorrow? My men are preparing a surprise for the Avanorans, one used by our people before, in the center,” Count Gerard then announced. “Their Andamooran left flank has been mauled, but their right and center are still very strong, and there are many that they have yet to bring into this fight.”

  “And many that we have not,” Aelfric added, glancing at the stoic, powerfully-built figure standing just a few paces away. “Aldric? Would you care to say how tomorrow will begin?”

  “We will be striking the Avanoran reserve, where many of their great barons are, at first light,” Aldric stated confidently, as if it was an event that had already occurred.