The light of day gleamed off helms, mail, and weapons, the sparkling, deadly stream coursing uninhibited towards the gaping entrance. The mass of riders covered the last expanse of ground swiftly, and with lances lowering the lead elements issued through the open gate, virtually unopposed.
The clash of arms and shouts of fighting had broken out from within, but it would be no contest. Wulfstan knew that Godric’s men were doomed. In a lightning strike, the Trogens and horse-mounted warriors were seizing the fortress, and everything within it. There would be no bartering, as Godric probably had hoped. The fortress was a possible liability that the enemy was not going to tolerate, not to mention the inviting prospects of acquiring sizeable stores of foodstuffs and other supplies. Godric had been deceived, even as he had deceived the Saxans.
The need to search for the entrance to the old tunnel was rendered unnecessary, almost at the same moment that the tunnel’s continued functionality was revealed. Three figures appeared to hastily emerge from the very earth, as an opening suddenly manifested well beyond the fortress’s high ramparts to the south, right before the eyes of the Saxan observers.
Breaking into a run, as if pursued by a pack of wolves, the three figures raced across the open ground just to the west of Wulfstan’s position. They carried swords and shields with them, and he had a deep-seeded suspicion as to who would be among the first to flee the attack.
Reflexively, and spurred by his great ire, Wulfstan stood and bounded off to the west, racing along the top of the ridgeline. He put himself on a direct line to intercept the three warriors, whom he guessed were heading for the refuge of the wild forestlands spread just in back of the Saxan position. Wulfstan altered his course slightly, to descend behind the crest of the ridge, so that the oncoming trio would not be able to see him.
The three men aided his cause, as they called out to each other several times in panicked exhortation on the other side of the hill. Honing in upon their voices, Wulfstan adjusted his approach until he was certain that he was in their path. He lowered himself into a crouch, waiting and listening carefully to the gasps, grunts, and heaving breathing of the three men scrambling to climb up the slope on the other side.
The three men nearly tumbled over the top of the ridgeline in their manic haste. They were feverish in demeanor, choked with fear, and gasping for air, such that they were a little off balance as their forms were outlined starkly against the morning sky.
Wulfstan moved quickly, thrusting his leg out at the nearest man, who tripped over his shin and crashed into the ground. The sudden impact provoked an audible gasp, as the air was knocked out the surprised warrior. The man’s hands opened up, and his sword and shield went flying out from his grip.
The other two men had run right by Wulfstan’s position, staggering and striding down the hill as they picked up speed and struggled frenetically to keep their balance.
Wulfstan scurried forward and pressed his right knee down heavily into the middle of the fallen warrior’s back. He used his left knee to pin the man’s left arm down, while using his right arm to immobilize the man’s right. His free left arm clutched his seax tightly, the point placed at the base of the fallen man’s neck.
“Hold! Hold!” the man cried out desperately, as the point of Wulfstan’s seax elicited a small drip of blood from where the sharpened tip pressed down into his skin. The man then stammered, “I am Godric, of nobility, I can pay you.”
Wulfstan could not suppress an ironic smile. “You do not look so noble to these eyes, though I believe you will pay dearly.”
Speaking one of the five main dialects used in the northern areas of Saxany, Wulfstan drew a quick response from Godric.
“You are a north Saxan? Get me back to the lines, quickly. We have been overcome, invaded,” Godric sputtered out.
“You are coming with us, as you are going to answer for your treason against us,” Wulfstan said, letting his weight press heavier on his knees. Godric groaned in pain underneath him.
Wulfstan’s single-minded focus on Godric might have exposed him to danger, as he had completely forgotten about the other two warriors that had raced by him. Fortunately, both would be of little consequence, as they had been surrounded and confronted by several of Wulfstan’s fellow warriors, who had followed in his wake after he had raced down the ridgeline.
Cenwald had a big smile on his face, as he held a spear point towards one of Godric’s companions. “What do you think we should do with them?”
“I was not expecting to take prisoners, but we are not going to let these three walk away. Killing this one would be too much of a mercy. Get this dung pile bound and gagged, right away, as well as those two, with whatever we can find to bind them well,” Wulfstan spat out with disgust, voicing an order that the others were all too happy to oblige with.
As their belts were being used for pouches, seax sheaths, and the like, the Saxans had to get a little creative. Cenwald grinned, as he slipped his seax out from his sheath, and set about unwinding the fabric strips that were bound tightly around the lower length of his trousers. “I’ve got my wininga, Wulfstan. I think that I can live with some loose folds about my legs for the march back.”
Using the seax, he cut the long strips where needed, and soon had fashioned both bindings and a gag for Wulfstan’s principle prisoner. Some more material came from a couple of the other warriors, and the three prisoners were soon well-secured, with only their legs freed up for the return journey.
“There is nothing more we can do here, let’s get moving and press hard for our lines,” Wulfstan urged, as soon as they were done with the prisoners.
The band of Saxans headed back for the woods, moving to the south, away from the ridge. Though tired, they had gotten a little respite while waiting on top of the ridgeline. The couple of men who knew the forest well moved to the forefront to serve as guides.
The march back was conducted a little quicker, as visibility was far better than at night. The men with the prisoners had no problem prodding them forward, and the group made steady progress on the circuitous route back towards the waiting sanctuary of the Saxan lines.
Though the journey back was undertaken at a brisk gait, Wulfstan’s mind drifted towards thoughts of the ongoing battle, and the strange dreams that he had been having. His eyes looked up to the sky, wherever it showed through the wider breaks in the tree branches.
He went through scenario after scenario in his head, hoping that he could think of some way to envision the turning of the tide of battle. There just had to be some shred of hope to cling to, a ray of light to offset the darkness of the withering attrition that Wulfstan feared the Saxan forces were encompassed by.
Yet try as he might, his heart grew heavier after the morning’s events. The Saxan prospects had just gotten worse.
Godric’s fortress was now firmly in enemy hands, bringing a prodigious quantity of stored food, the fruits of the combined labor of many surrounding fields and villages, into the hands of the invaders. The fortress would also serve as a solid base, as it was far larger than many of the outposts dotting the western marches of Saxany, and was situated so ideally in relation to the Plains of Athelney.
As he was mired in his melancholy thoughts, the Saxans then skirted a large clearing, one where Wulfstan gained a clear, unobstructed look up into the sky.
A steady procession of clouds was lazily drifting by overhead. The clouds came in a variety of masses and lengths, broken by patches of silken, open sky, but it was a more distant, distinctive sight that suddenly drew his gaze. His eyes focused right in upon it, even as a lightheaded feeling passed over him.
To most, even among those with farseeing eyes, it would have looked like just another layer of clouds. In comparison to the mass of the lower layers, it was much farther up, and beyond any reasonable level that any veteran sky warrior would have even dared to fly.
Wulfstan drew to a rigid halt for a few moments, peering fixedly upwards, as a tingling sensation passed througho
ut his body. The Saxans around him continued onward, although a few stared at him quizzically as they passed by.
Hunting had long ago taught him the value of keeping a steady, observant gaze, of the nature that would reveal even the slightest of movements against an immobile background. The skies were far from being like a deer moving against a still background, consisting of forest undergrowth and trees. It was a very different kind of vision spread above him. Yet the solid, unbroken, aqua sky enabled Wulfstan to ably contrast the lower cloud levels with the higher plane; the one that contained the conspicuous element that had so suddenly grasped his attention, and sent his head to the verge of spinning.
The lower clouds continued along on their gentle passage, as did a second formation of clouds that could be distinguished just a little higher up than the first. They were passing towards the east, buoyed forward by the air currents coming up from the southwest.
Wulfstan kept his eyes affixed studiously to the sight, focusing on the visible movements of those cloud layers, as the full force of undeniable cognizance struck him profoundly.
Well beyond the second formation of clouds was a white patch that was perceptibly moving in an altogether different direction than the cloud layers below it. It was also moving at a much slower rate, almost as if the amorphous white mass was not in motion at all, but Wulfstan’s trained eye could detect a very slight drift towards the north. The movement contrasted visibly with the motions of the cloud layers far beneath it. He had seen that distant white mass before; for many years, in fact.
“Wulfstan, let us get back,” Cenwald interjected, having returned from the front of their group, to come stand at his side.
Wulfstan broke his gaze away momentarily and looked over, seeing that the others had all moved past him. He understood that Cenwald likely reflected the opinions of many in the small band. He did not doubt that they were all very impatient to return to the Saxan lines at the Plains of Athelney.
All of them, Wulfstan included, desired the comparative safety of the massed Saxan armies, as opposed to marching through woodlands that were most likely being infiltrated and scouted by enemy war bands, of much greater size than their own.
Wulfstan glanced past Cenwald’s shoulder, to where a few of the other Saxans bringing up the rear of their short column had come to a stop. Several strides beyond Cenwald stood a lean, limber warrior named Eadric, who hailed from the westernmost edges of Sussachia. At Eadric’s side was a stocky southern warrior who served in the western marches, a round-faced man named Eudes. Eadric’s angular face was stoic in its appearance, but great anxiety was written openly across Eudes’s wide face.
Eudes shared one of the more onerous tasks in the war band, that of guiding the Saxans to Godric’s fortress and back. At the present time, Eudes’s mission was relatively close to being immaculately fulfilled, without having lost so much as one man out of the entire group.
The achievement of such a successful conclusion to the sojourn was a real, imminent possibility, now easily within sight. That such an end was at hand would make any strains harbored by Eudes all the worse.
Everything was now viewed in light of the glaring reality that a large enemy force could have come upon the Saxan force at any point during the sojourn, and might yet at any given moment. The Saxan guide was definitely not eager to endure any delays, especially so tantalizingly close to the bloodless completion of their journey.
It was a sentiment that Wulfstan could readily appreciate, even if he had not closed his eyes to the harder, more discomfiting truths surrounding their delegated task. He had no illusions regarding how he and his companions were seen and valued, or what was expected of them, even if the ones that sent them did not openly admit, or recognize, the truth of it themselves.
The contingent of Saxans had been sent to learn whatever they could of the fortress and Godric’s standing, risking little else but several ceorls, and a few capable peasants, in the eyes of those that commanded them. The mission was seen as a chance to uncover an opportunity to turn to the Saxan’s advantage, without being in danger of incurring any significant losses. It was much more of an exploration, rather than a succinct expectation, which said much about the status of those who had been sent to pursue the endeavor.
Wulfstan viewed the whole ordeal much differently. In his own eyes, none of the individual warriors in the war band were in any way expendable. They were as valuable to him as the greatest count, ealdorman, thane, or even king, as he saw things.
None of those with him, though, no matter how much he valued their lives, would understand his sudden, compelling skyward distraction, empowered by years of vivid, recurring dream images. Neither would they be in much of a mood to make an effort.
He nodded slowly towards Eadric, Eudes, and Cenwald, as he did his best to come out of his seeming trance. “My apologies. Something drew my attention … but it is nothing.”
Eadric nodded, with a slight smile breaking through his impassive mien. His voice was buoyant, filled to the brim with a youthful confidence. “No worries. I’ve been watching for sky raiders all through this march. I’ve seen nothing. With the battle on the plains, and the fortress taken, few will be looking for the likes of us … and it is not far till we are back.”
“And we should get back as soon as we can,” Wulfstan replied firmly, returning the smile in a friendly manner, while he started forward towards them. He could see the great relief on Eudes face, as they all turned to resume the march.
The group proceeded to pick up its pace, pushing and cajoling the three prisoners along with them. Wulfstan chanced a few more furtive glances up at the sky, whenever there was a break in the foliage above.
The brief glimpses he got of the sky were frustrating, as he could not get his mind off of the unusual, yet intimately familiar, white patch. A long, slow-moving embankment of clouds had momentarily obscured the peculiar mass, which seemed to be perched on the highest edge of the firmament.
He did not doubt himself for a moment, nor did he accept that the spectacle was any mere trick of the eye. The strange white patch was decidedly different from anything above in the skies. The faraway sight was something other than the regular clouds that he had observed countless times before; it was moving on its own force, in another direction.
The dreams and the stories that Wulfstan had known for so many years had now been conjoined with something visible and real. A rush of excitement rippled throughout his body, even as he wrestled with the absurdity he felt at taking the dreams and stories so seriously.
That white patch, ostensibly beyond reach in the sky, was the very image he had seen many times before in the embrace of deep slumbers. He had never been one to lie to himself, and he was not about to start now. The white patch represented something much more than any clouds, or other heavenly body. It beckoned to him as the place where great creatures of legend could be encountered, if such heights could ever be attained.
Through the years, he had always wondered if the repeating vision in his nights had been something triggered by the stories of the great, legendary entities whose symbol was still carried by the Saxan royalty. Whether folktales from a gleeman, or accounts written upon an old parchment affectionately saved in a monastery, the tales all agreed that the winged giants were still reputed to exist in dazzling abodes drifting far above the surface of the world.
Since their inception, the reputed abodes had never been intended to be reached by humans, or any living beings who inhabited the surface of Ave so far below. They were said to exist far beyond the highest clouds that the various Skiantha steeds, like the Himmerosen and Harraks, could reach.
The dwellings were said to be like distant islands in the sky, providing a haven for the undying beasts of ancient lore. Wulfstan knew that if the incredible beasts did truly exist, then they represented a great hope.
Most of their mythical kind were held to be benevolent. The stories spoke of how they were serving a self-imposed exile, which had been bound wit
h the combined power of the great Wizards, in the early ages of the world.
It was said that the ones in the high havens were loyal to the Almighty, choosing to endure exile rather than to risk their standing before the Creator, following an ancient age of great upheaval and terrible wars. Wulfstan gleaned that the beasts feared becoming pawns of dark purposes, unknowingly being manipulated to serve the purposes of Jebaalos, rather than the Creator to whose allegiance they were pledged.
Such beings, as far as Wulfstan could see, had to have a keen sense of justice. There was no way that they would easily allow or tolerate innocent lands to fall completely under a malignant shadow, especially when they had banished themselves to avoid even the risk of such an occurrence.
He thought back upon the many dreams he had experienced over the long years. In his mind’s eye, in the depths of many nights while his body was still, he had often soared from the surface of the world towards the same, beckoning white mass that his conscious eyes had now perceived. He always remembered a feeling of being driven by the gentle voice that permeated his mind, the one that he heard inside his entire being each and every time that he experienced the recurring dream.
‘Bring them into the world.’
In many of the dreams, he had glanced downward, towards the ground, from his high vantage. The world underneath him was always revealed to be a maelstrom of smoke and fire, creeping menacingly, and unrelentingly, towards his homelands.
The white mass had always become blinding in its brightness, as he ascended at a rapid, increasing speed. The sensation of great warmth and peace had flooded through him, as if to reassure him that the ascent was something that he had to do.
What looked to be a white cloud mass from the ground never turned out to be clouds at all, but was instead a floating landscape of hills and undulating plains, of the purest white that he had ever laid his eyes upon. Everything there seemed to consist of a light, soft substance, which sank in a few inches with each step he took.
Dream of Legends Page 74
