Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  The sorely winded scout, now having come to a full stop, gulped in breaths of air. Sweat streamed down his flushed skin, and Ayenwatha could see that the man had undergone a tremendous amount of exertion to reach him. Yet there was no time to allow the scout to recuperate.

  “Hurry now!” Ayenwatha exhorted the warrior sharply. “Out with it!”

  “A fleet of boats came up the river … enemies … so many! They overwhelmed and destroyed Midragard’s ships…” the scout announced, before pausing to regain his wind.

  “The fleet?” Ayenwatha prodded him in disbelief, as the scout prepared to speak again.

  “The longships are lost … none could escape … except by land. Great numbers of enemy warriors have landed … many places. And farther down the river … they swarmed over the ships … and are now coming inward!” the warrior hurriedly stated, inhaling a long breath as he finished. “I…”

  The warrior gasped in abrupt shock, cut off by an arrow streaking in from the enemy ranks. He wavered for a moment with eyes wide, and then fell forward, first to his knees, and then toppling face first into the ground. The shaft of the arrow, buried in his chest, snapped as he fell.

  Gunnar had his shield raised towards the enemy, maneuvering over to stand between Ayenwatha and the approximate position of the archer. Ayenwatha moved in closer behind Gunnar in the wake of the arrow, his eyes darting amid the chaos to espy the one that had felled the scout.

  Gunnar’s movements were strong, and without hesitation, but he had heard the scout’s news clearly enough. He looked sickened by it, but gritted his teeth, and remained steadfast in the fight.

  The fragments of ill news brought Ayenwatha’s own thoughts to an instant halt. He knew very well which river the scout was referring to. There was only one that mattered in the area where the battle was taking place; the Shimmering River, where Gunnar’s fleet had come up from the sea, and where all of the tribal people were now heading. It was the very place where all of their slim hopes had resided.

  The enemy had deftly maneuvered behind the defenders. The invaders were closing in, to clamp their jaws down upon the tribal people, a powerful, gaping maw that was filled with teeming ranks of iron-forged, razor sharp teeth.

  Ayenwatha took a deep breath, deliberately claiming a shred of composure amid the tumult and fading hopes. He could not give in to despair, even if it now permeated his being. There was one need that was imminent in light of the dire tidings. One particular man needed to know of the dilemma right away.

  “I must tell Deganawida of this ill-fortune, now!” Ayenwatha called to Gunnar.

  “Go, Ayenwatha! We’ll hold! None of these devils are moving past here now!” growled Gunnar. Ayenwatha could see immense anger boiling up within the Midragardan, a potency reflected in his fiery gaze.

  Ayenwatha knew that the venerable sachem was somewhere just down the line of battle from where they were standing. The stubborn sachem still refused to be too far removed from the tribal warriors. Deganawida’s adamant insistence to stay near the warriors was a blessing and a curse, with many sound reasons in support of both perspectives.

  Looking around, Ayenwatha saw a discarded spear, lying on the ground a few paces to his right. Fortunately, it was a tribal warrior’s spear, the balance and feel of which Ayenwatha was well familiar with. As with most things in the Five Realms involving iron, the blade end was of Midragardan make, while the crafting of the spear shaft, and the manner of fitting the blade to the shaft at the end, was tribal.

  Grabbing up the spear, to replace the axe that he had thrown, Ayenwatha left the protection of Gunnar’s shield, racing swiftly down the general area of the fighting.

  The cries and shouts of men, and the snarls and bellows of combatants not human, swirled all around him, as he nimbly skirted around the trees. He eyed a small hill off to the right, set back from the hostilities. He picked up his speed, pumping his arms as he streaked towards the lower part of the slope.

  Deganawida was standing just in back of a group of archers, who were screened by a larger throng of tribal warriors, whose fierce countenances were covered in black and red war paint. Several of the latter warriors had donned the rather unique wooden armor known among the tribes, a long, mantle-like arrangement of wooden rods tied tightly together. Placed over a warrior’s head, one long section of rods descended in front, and another in back, of the wearer, hanging down to below the knees. The ones with the wooden armor also bore shields of a similar make, rectangular constructs of several timber rods lashed together.

  Ayenwatha was very glad to see them all unscathed, without any wounded amongst them. He had personally gathered the protective group together, arranging them in a manner that mimicked the Midragardan methods of war, with shield-bearers in front, and archers behind. He had insisted that a stout defense be placed around the revered, Grand Council sachem, as he could not dislodge the stubborn sachem from the battle site himself.

  The bared chest and arm muscles of the tribal archers bulged, growing taut with the strings of their pulled bows, poised at the very edge before the shafts were set free onto deadly flight paths. The instant that they recognized Ayenwatha, their muscles relaxed, as the tension on the bows was eased.

  Deganawida stared quietly at Ayenwatha with a grim mien, as he trotted up to the band of warriors. Ayenwatha knew that the sachem was well aware that his personal presence during the thick of the fighting was an ill omen in itself.

  Ayenwatha wasted no time as he halted in front of Deganawida. He proceeded without delay to the matter at hand, relating the dreadful news brought to him by the scout.

  Deganawida, whose composure was legendary, did not so much as flinch at the highly-troubling report. His steely, dark eyes shielded the feelings and thoughts that Ayenwatha knew were storming all throughout the sachem’s heart and mind.

  Having slowed down after hustling to reach Deganawida, Ayenwatha’s own thoughts were increasingly oppressed. The five tribe’s appalling predicament drove him deeper into despair, as he grasped about for any possible options.

  “We must hold this line, for a time,” Deganawida stated, in his smooth, resonant voice, only a few moments after Ayenwatha had finished delivering the ill-news. “If they are coming from behind, then the lands towards the eastern cliffs, and just to the south, are the only answer for us. If we tried to go to the north, we will be driven straight into the lands of hostile tribes.

  “We must get this message to our people immediately. Tell the sachems and matrons among the refugees that there is no other way. We must move south with haste. May the One Spirit shine light upon our innocent ones, and give strength to those that defend them.”

  A pained look then spread within the eyes of Deganawida as he spoke the last words. His lower tone of voice reflected his abiding concern over the non-combatants of the tribes, something that Ayenwatha knew resonated throughout every fiber of the sachem’s being.

  Ayenwatha believed he could even feel the mystical sachem’s wrenching apprehension over the fate of their people. It was like a surging emanation from his mentor’s body, wave upon wave increasing with intensity as the moments passed. Ayenwatha knew that there was no member of any of the tribes that held the same ardor for the land and people that Deganawida did.

  In some ways, Ayenwatha wondered if Deganawida had somehow inherited the deep passion along with his name, when he had received the latter when being placed on the Grand Council. Deriving as it did from the ancient, legendary Wizard that had taught the Great Law, and formed the First Grand Council, perhaps a special connection was transferred to those who had succeeded to the particular council position bearing the Wizard’s name.

  The apprehensive feeling engulfed Ayenwatha fully, as if his spirit was keenly attuned to that of the old sachem. His heart also burned intensely for the land and people, needing little to stoke its flames.

  “We will get the tribes moving … with no delay,” Ayenwatha promised, with renewed determination, and a sense of pre
ssing urgency. He looked straight, and unblinking, into Deganawida’s eyes. “I will go now, by myself, to see that this is done.”

  “Take a Brega, to save you time. I know that some are being held close by, to the rear of this place, and down in between some hills. I do not know if they come from among the Onan,” Deganawida replied. He turned, and pointed off through the trees, down to where some higher rises in the land could be seen through breaks in the foliage. “Around the second of those hills.”

  Ayenwatha nodded, turned, and broke into another run that took him down behind the battle lines.

  A small shield wall of Midragardans protected the narrow pass between the two steep hills looming just in back of them. The Midragardans were hunched behind their overlapping shields, and several fervently called out warnings to Ayenwatha, the instant that he emerged into the open ground behind them.

  Ayenwatha heard the whistling air, and unnerving swishes, as arrows and bolts raced past him. The sounds were intermingled with several thwacks, thuds, and other sounds of driving impacts, as iron embedded itself into the wood of shields and trees.

  Ayenwatha darted to the side, and turned his body sideways behind the trunk of an aged maple tree, gaining shelter for the moment. There was no realistic way of averting the deadly hail, as there was no time to spare, to take a more circuitous route to reach the Brega. The battle’s momentum could change in an instant, and the message that he had from Deganawida was absolutely vital. The situation facing the masses of tribal refugees was precarious at best.

  Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Ayenwatha offered up a silent petition to the One Spirit. Inhaling a deep breath, as his heart pounded, he bounded forth, holding onto his wits, even as a rush of fear flowed over him.

  Another swishing sound cutting through the air, and the subsequent thud immediately ahead of him, caused Ayenwatha to snap to a sudden halt. His heart nearly stopped, for only a scant stride in front of him, set evenly in line with his head, was the newly-buried shaft of an arrow.

  The fickle line between life and death had come dangerously close to being crossed for Ayenwatha. He shook himself out of his fleeting shock, reaching deep into his reserves of willpower to move forward again.

  Adroitly, he ran through the rest of the perilous zone with a zealous impetus to pass through it unscathed. Fortune smiled on Ayenwatha, as he reached a more undisturbed tract of forest, where the ground sloped upward.

  His eyes swiftly identified a few tribal archers, and other warriors who had taken refuge higher on the steeper slope. All were looking at him as he kept his stride and raced towards them.

  “Brega! Brega!” he cried out, his legs straining as he pressed up the slope. “I need to find them, now!”

  “Here!” came an answering shout, from a tall, lean warrior. “Follow me!”

  The warrior led him on a course that wrapped around the side of the slope. It was moderately difficult to keep his footing, as fast as he was running, but they hurriedly covered the remaining ground, reaching the opposite side of the hill without incident.

  A few warriors with bows and arrows already notched emerged from the foliage, as if they had formed out of the very trees and brush. The red and black painted faces fixated sternly upon Ayenwatha, and he knew that every arrow was trained on his body.

  Ayenwatha would have almost felt pity for an enemy stumbling into such a reception. As with the group around Deganawida, the bows were lowered as the warriors recognized one of their tribal brethren.

  “Ayenwatha!” one of the warriors called out quickly, recognizing him.

  “Brega! I need a steed! I must take word from Deganawida onward! It cannot wait even a moment!” Ayenwatha declared loudly, looking towards the man that had spoken.

  “Come with me,” the warrior answered.

  The Onan warrior led Ayenwatha past the newly-emerged throng of warriors, and they angled downward, heading into a modest gully. Another small group of armed, vigilant warriors was gathered there. Just behind them was a loose assemblage of Brega, about twenty in number. He saw at once that the creatures were already saddled, which was a great relief.

  “Which steed is the best on land? Who knows these steeds?” Ayenwatha called out, as they descended towards the Brega. He hoped that at least one of the warriors was more than a ward, and was a rider.

  A little anxiety struck him, as he did not readily recognize any of the warriors within sight. Most were from different tribes, and any Onan gathered there were from villages farther removed from his own. The widespread chaos of the war was intermingling the tribes, though ironically the close cooperation among the members of different tribes reflected the ancient Wizard’s foundational idea that the Five Tribes were of one family.

  After a moment, a warrior from just out of the edge of Ayenwatha’s sight strode into view, emerging from the shadows of a great oak tree. His eyes momentarily scanned the collection of Brega. Walking forward, he laid his hands on the reins of one of the creatures, and looked towards Ayenwatha.

  The Brega was not the largest of the group, but well proportioned. The creature’s fur had a lustrous sheen, and there was an alert look in its eyes.

  “Of these, Horizon is the best on land,” the warrior said to Ayenwatha, extending the reins. “I have been among these steeds, and know them well.”

  “What is your name? That I might remember it,” Ayenwatha asked, as he reached to accept the proffered reins.

  “Red Skies, of the Gayogohon, of the Beaver clan,” the warrior answered. He patted the neck of the Brega with obvious affection, a telltale detail that Ayenwatha’s eyes did not miss.

  “This is the steed that you ride yourself,” Ayenwatha stated, as he realized the truth.

  The warrior nodded somberly. “And the one that I know will bear you well.”

  “The Young Brothers have brought me good fortune this day, Red Skies of the Beaver Clan,” Ayenwatha remarked, placing his hand on the warrior’s shoulder, as he moved to mount the creature.

  Ayenwatha knew very well how a rider felt about a favorite steed, and the kind of trusting bond that grew between man and Brega in an uncertain environment such as the upper skies. A rider had no wings and was extremely vulnerable, fully dependent on the steed in the lofty, often turbulent heights of the air. The kind of relationship that was subsequently formed could never be taken lightly. Red Skies had shown Ayenwatha the sincerest form of trust.

  Settling into place, Ayenwatha said in a low, grateful tone, “Know that what I do is of the greatest urgency. I take word from Deganawida, first Onan Sachem of the Grand Council. I thank you, Red Skies, and shall not forget this gift of trust! May we see each other soon, on a better day!”

  Without further delay, he urged the creature forward. Ayenwatha guided the Brega away from the warriors and the others of its winged kind, heading eastward into the forest, and away from the battle.

  The Brega stepped with excellent balance, and was clearly well-rested, judging from the explosive acceleration that occurred as Ayenwatha prompted the creature to go faster and faster. Ayenwatha inwardly commended Red Skies’ selection, comprehending immediately that the winged-beast moved as well, or better, than any land-based steed or forest creature could have.

  The creature bounded through the forest with the confident command of body and dexterous agility of a deer. The trait was not commonly found among the Brega, as many ran in a very ungainly manner when pressed to sustain themselves at speed along the ground. It could only be imagined how graceful Horizon was when aloft, soaring in the air over the Five Realms, where the Brega were at their finest.

  The forest rushed past Ayenwatha. He had to keep his wits focused to guide the Brega, though it was becoming readily apparent that the creature was harmonized with the signals given to it through the legs and reins of its rider.

  The Brega navigated smoothly through the trees, crossing the uneven terrain at an exceptional speed. The sure-footed pace of the Brega allayed much of the trepidation tha
t Ayenwatha would normally have had, at chancing the unpredictable hazards of forest ground. Even so, Ayenwatha could barely endure each moment that passed, wishing that he were already dispersing the warning and exhortation from Deganawida to the mass of tribal refugees.

  A new, horrid notion began to tug at the back of his mind, adding to the weighty concerns plaguing him. The strange, foreign humans, Janus, Erika, Antonio, Kent, Mershad, Derek, and Logan, were quartered at Eirik’s homestead, which was not far from where the Shimmering River met the sea. If a mass of enemy ships had come up the Shimmering River, then they could easily have reached the small island. He could only hope that the longships had already come and taken them on to Midragard.

  He wished that he knew their whereabouts or fate, but he also knew that he could not spare the time to find out. Ayenwatha could only worry about what had become of them. Yet neither could he lie to himself. Because the enemy had come up the river, if the foreigners had not yet departed for Midragard, then they were undoubtedly exposed to great danger.

  Mercifully, the time passed quickly, as the Brega covered the last remaining distance to the main body of refugees. A number of alert warriors, watching over the perimeter of the rear areas, appeared at his approach.

  Seeing the Onan war sachem upon a Brega, and recognizing his urgency, perplexed and anxious expressions emerged on several of their faces. Ayenwatha did not pause to satisfy their curiosity, heading onward without breaking his mount’s stride.

  Fortunately, the masses of refugees had been brought to a halt for a sorely needed respite. Ayenwatha slowed the Brega to a trot as he made for the center of the sprawling, temporary encampment, which covered a broad expanse of hilly ground. Countless makeshift shelters were in evidence, thrown up hastily for cover by the tribal people.