Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  Wulfstan had to calm one of the men down, when the identity of Godric was revealed, in the first moments after a portion of the tale of what had transpired was told. Aelfric’s warrior walked up and spit right into Godric’s face, and would have struck him a heavy blow, but Wulfstan caught the man’s arm in time, and forcibly held him back before his balled fist could connect with Godric’s jaw.

  “None of us disagree with your urges, but stay your hand. I am sure Aelfric will see to his justice, let us not bloody our hands with such a poisonous wretch,” Wulfstan said firmly, keeping an iron grip on the man’s forearm.

  The Saxan glowered at Wulfstan for an instant, but finally simmered down, though he was far from being in a tranquil mood as the three prisoners were led away. Wulfstan was exceedingly glad to rid his hands of the prisoners, as Godric’s mere presence raised his own ire, and sorely tested his reserves of discipline and patience.

  Nothing within him could reconcile how a man could become such a traitor to the land that had made his own good fortune possible. Wulfstan was glad that treachery had been Godric’s reward, even if the act had given a sizeable fortress, a quantity of foodstuffs, and some villages over to the enemy, to be used as a base or foothold in Saxan lands.

  Wulfstan looked around the camp, endeavoring to turn his thoughts to other matters. All around him were an overwhelmed mass of priests, monks, Sisters, camp attendants, and a fair number of peasants, most of whom were from the villages in the immediate region. All were heavily engaged in their grisly, dour labors, doing everything in their power and ability to tend to the seemingly unending stream of wounded being brought in from the battlefield.

  Almost to a man or woman, their faces were weighed down with fatigue. He recognized some of the faces from the previous day, and had little doubt that they had exerted themselves all through the night to aid as many as they could. Most had clearly done so without regard for themselves, as one glance at a number of them revealed several who were not far from outright collapse.

  The Sister that he had witnessed comforting the dying continued in her grim task, with the same sense of gentleness that he had observed before. He did not even want to consider how weary she must have been in her spirit, much less contemplate her physical debilitation.

  Though the sight saddened him, there was a certain inspiration that he gleaned from watching her display of quiet determination. She refused to give in to her growing burdens, bringing light through her kind smiles and words as she labored to soothe the terrified, pain-wracked men she attended. Wulfstan was grateful for the spark of inspiration, as he needed as much of it as he could get, given the morose surroundings.

  A number of the bodies lying on the ground no longer held any life within them, mixed among those who still struggled to hold breath in their lungs. There was blood everywhere, and the air was filled with a noxious stench. Moans, cries, and occasional screams of horrible pain formed an unholy chorus that flooded the air.

  Wulfstan’s own assignment had been filled with dangers, and had required tremendous endurance, but he knew that the non-combatants attending the wounded, whether religious or not, had been given perhaps the hardest of all tasks. He was aware that a great majority of them readily embraced it, even if the sights that they were seeing, and the screams that they were hearing, would scar them at the core of their spirits.

  He felt his eyes moisten as he looked upon the wounded Saxan men, and regarded the resolute faces of the overwhelmed attendants straining to help them. He did not turn his eyes away, wanting to remember the images if ever his own resolve should waver.

  He silently watched as an old, gray-haired priest slowly traced out the sign of the Sacred Spear and passed his hands over the eyes of a man who finally succumbed to his battle wounds. Not far from the old priest, Wulfstan observed another of the Sisters holding another dying man’s hand, as she looked into his eyes without blinking. The man’s body shook violently, and then he went still, his grip relaxing as his spirit fled his body.

  Very likely a father and husband, Wulfstan could tell by the man’s plainer clothing that he was probably a villager who had come with the General Fyrd. The man would never see his home village or his family again.

  The compassionate Sister had not flinched as she gave him a connection and comfort in those final moments. Like with the other Sister, Wulfstan could not imagine the strength of character that it took to endure such tragic, sorrowful moments, selflessly giving comfort to the suffering, dying men. To Wulfstan, the strength in the Sister was amazing to behold.

  Close to her, a young man, who could not have been over sixteen or seventeen, cried out in anguish as a monk worked to bandage a horrific gash in the young man’s side. Even if the bleeding could somehow be stopped, Wulfstan knew that the young man was probably beginning a terrible descent into slow torment, as sickness and disease took root at the site of the injury. Even the smallest of battle-wounds could prove fatal, and the young man exhibited a wound that was anything but minor.

  A dark, malevolent mood seemed to permeate and condense in the air around Wulfstan. The battle had not yet been lost, but an unimaginably terrible cost was being exacted from the Saxans. A weakness came to Wulfstan’s knees, as he continued to watch the flow of men being carried, dragged, or propped up on another’s shoulder, as they were added to the miserable, suffering assemblage within the camp.

  Burning, salty tears came to his eyes, as he thought of what he had seen on the battlefield, and what he was looking at around him. The mental scars being formed were ones that he was sure would never fully heal.

  Even more disheartening, those being brought back to the camp were perhaps the luckiest ones among the condemned. Wulfstan knew that there were many that even now lay alone, where they had fallen out on the field of battle. Where the fiercest fighting was raging, all too many were stranded out in the open, as others were prevented from reaching them.

  He had set his eyes in quick glimpses on such men as he had fought his way back to the Saxan lines the previous day, after the Avanoran cavalry had fallen upon them. Cut off, and impossible to reach, many had found no succor during their last, gasping moments. They merely lay helpless where they had been struck down, with their life force slowly ebbing out through wounds inflicted by arrow, crossbow bolt, axe, sword, or lance.

  A few were pulled out when night fell, during the time when a shaky understanding held concerning the removal of the dead and wounded from the battlefield. Yet most died where they had lain, having remained far too long on the field unattended, passing well beyond any slim hope of recovery.

  Wulfstan was not ashamed of the deep emotions rippling throughout him, and could see that the men around him were stirred to the center of their souls by such devastating sights.

  “Give me a moment,” Wulfstan said to Cenwald, his voice hollow and weakened. He turned and walked into the midst of the wounded.

  Cenwald, who was also choked with emotion, merely gave a slow nod in reply. In the midst of everything, out of thousands of combatants around him, Wulfstan’s worries were focused on one, singular warrior who had been among the mass of wounded.

  Sebright was still where Wulfstan had last seen him. To Wulfstan’s elation, Sebright was both alive and alert. The wounded man’s immediate burdens had been made a little easier. He could see that the dead bodies around Sebright had, for the most part, been removed. That was a relief, as Wulfstan could only imagine how distressing it must have been to be lying side by side with lifeless bodies, as those near the front of the camp were now doing.

  To his further relief, he also noticed that there were a number of armed peasants, and even a few mailed warriors, likely culled from the rear reserves, who were now watching over the wounded. After the harrowing incidents of the previous day, the Saxans were clearly taking no chances.

  A couple of Himmerosen could also be seen flying at a low altitude, off in the skies beyond the rear of the camp. Their presence reassured Wulfstan even further.
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  “You are back … and in one piece, I might say,” Sebright called out upon seeing Wulfstan, waving to him with a grin.

  Sebright sat up, propped himself against the wheel of a cart, and glanced over to where a monk nearby was fixing some cloth bandages to the arm of a young man.

  Wulfstan walked up to him, his smile cracking his now tear-stained, wearisome face. “Yes, back, and still in one piece, thanks to the Almighty … and I can see that the All-Father has also smiled favorably upon you.”

  “I would rather be back in those lines, but I couldn’t stand to fight,” Sebright replied, with heavy regret in his voice. “How have you fared since we last enjoyed the enemy’s visit to our camp?”

  “I would say well, if you consider what we were asked to do,” Wulfstan replied, still grinning at the welcome sight of his recently-forged friend. He knelt down, gently laying his hand on Sebright’s left shoulder “I brought back a traitor, we did not lose any men, and you appear well. It has gone as well as I could have hoped. I probably should be getting back to the battle lines. If we can just somehow survive this awful war … then you and I can sit down together, and speak of a number of things over some northern Saxan ale.”

  “Northern Ale … would taste like the waters of life right now,” Sebright remarked.

  “Northern Ale, eh? Perhaps I should share with you some of our Southern vintages … wine, of course … though I must admit that I never have tasted that which pours from silver vessels at the tables of counts and dukes,” interjected a man listening in to their conversation from the right. He spoke in a thick voice, having just emerged from sleep, and his heavy eyes showed that he was not far from returning to it. He grimaced as a stab of pain rippled from the considerable gash on his right leg, as he shifted his body weight. He gave a light chuckle a moment later, remarking wistfully, “What I would not give for just one cup of either your ale, or my wine.”

  “I think most everyone on this battlefield would be in agreement with you,” Wulfstan replied, and then added with a smile, “Then we shall have to invite you as well, when this nightmare is all over.”

  “That … I would like,” the man said, and his eyes fluttered as he drifted back towards a merciful sleep.

  Wulfstan looked again to Sebright.

  “So how do we finish this war and find ourselves surviving it? That is the real question left to us now. How do you think we can?” Sebright queried, his expression tinted with a saddening sense of fatalism.

  It was clear that Sebright’s spirits had taken a downturn since Wulfstan had last seen the man. With what he had been constantly surrounded, Wulfstan could not blame him.

  Regarding the question of survival, Sebright was most likely correct in wondering how a Saxan could hope to survive the war that was breaking out over their lands. In truth, it was the only question that most men could ask, when faced with such terrible circumstances.

  Wulfstan could see that the wounded man did not expect a good end to the battle at hand. It pained him sorely to see Sebright’s hopes dimmed so much since the fight with the Trogens in the encampment. Yet the wounded man had been made to endure another night, and much of a day, surrounded by increasing numbers of wounded and dying Saxans.

  Wulfstan frowned, shaking his head slowly. He could not willingly lie to his new friend. “I do not know how. I fear that this field is not going to be held much longer. We have fought hard and well, but the enemy’s numbers are far too great.”

  “I am no ealdorman, or southern count, but even I know we cannot hide behind the walls of towns, if we make it off of this field of battle alive. We will be isolated and strangled one by one, until all resistance to the Unifier is choked to death,” Sebright remarked darkly. He stared upwards, and his chest heaved with a pronounced breath. “Alas, what wicked times have fallen upon us.”

  As if confirming Sebright’s laments, a roaring outcry suddenly ripped back towards them from the far horizon, tearing through the air with great force. It was accompanied by a discernible rise in horns blasting out waves of unified signals. The sounds were breaking out from somewhere near the central area of the shield wall, according to Wulfstan’s estimation.

  The surge carried strongly over the steady, hellish chorus of drums, horns, and other battle din that had formed into an incessant, droning background that Wulfstan had grown partially numbed to. The anomalous outburst of noise from the battlefield caused Wulfstan to shudder, as he knew very well how fragile the course of a battle could be. He had been caught up in the shifting currents himself, and the sounds pouring into his ears might well be heralding the onset of a great doom upon the Saxans.

  “Ours or theirs? And what does it mean? I wish I knew,” Wulfstan remarked dourly, struggling to keep the worst of his worries at bay.

  Conscious efforts were largely useless, as his subconscious was a maelstrom born from the essence of obsession. A sharp pang of anxiety lanced through him as he worked in vain to stifle the ongoing fears, of the kind that he and so many other Saxans carried with them during the extended battle.

  Any number of things could be occurring, as shifts of fortune and newly engaged tactics governed the ebbs and flows of the fighting. Wulfstan’s greatest worry narrowed down on one particular situation, a crisis which would spell defeat for the Saxans; the full breaching, or breaking, of the shield wall.

  Wulfstan knew that the Avanorans were deployed in the center of the battlefield, and also that they carried the greatest war reputation onto the Plains of Athelney, amongst all the combatants involved. He looked off in the distance nervously, wondering if their heavily armored knights had finally broken through the Saxan resistance. He tensed, as he listened for the thunder of hooves that would accompany such a disaster.

  “This is no good,” Sebright commented, outwardly dismayed at the new waves of sounds. “If this army is destroyed here, then our whole realm is as good as conquered.”

  “You speak truly, but what other choice is there for us?” Wulfstan asked Sebright. “This is where the battle must be fought. There is nothing more to call up in our lands, levy or otherwise. I did not even think there could be this many people in the entire world, when our contingents arrived in this very camp. The enemy must be fought here, before they could reach any of our provinces and villages.”

  “No more levies here? Then maybe elsewhere … we should send a summons to the Midragardans, you or I. We should tell them that they would be ill-advised to tarry, as this threat is a threat to them as well,” Sebright responded, in a tone of voice that, strangely enough, was not entirely in jest.

  He chuckled bitterly after he had said the words. A grim expression gripped his countenance, as he looked into Wulfstan’s haggard face.

  “Truly, if there was some way to get out a cry for help, to send a message … then that is where I would go. The tales say that the warriors of Midragard are masters of the oceans, and it is said that they have no love for the Unifier either. But there is no way to reach out to Midragard, or to anyone that would help us,” Sebright muttered in a low voice.

  “And what of our ealdormen and counts, even if there was such a way? I am sure they would take no time to counsel with a mere ceorl, especially with all of the things on their minds right now,” Wulfstan stated, with the fullness of sincerity girding his voice.

  Sebright looked at him with an odd expression, as if trying to fathom what was behind the sudden change of tone within Wulfstan’s voice.

  “If there was such a way, to cry out for help, it should be taken with, or without, counsel. There is no more time for talking. The hour is desperate. It is a time for action by any that could possibly change these events,” Sebright replied, in a slow, deliberate tone. His eyes then looked off, with a faraway gaze. “Yet I fear there is no ceorl that knows of anything that the ealdormen and counts have not thought or spoken of … but if there was one…”

  Sebright drew into an extended silence, letting the thought trail off without a firm conclusion.
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  An idea had been building rapidly in Wulfstan’s mind. It was a notion strengthened by his strange dreams, by the tales that he had heard throughout his whole life, and most of all by the physical, undeniably real sight that he had beheld, on the return from Godric’s fortress, in the skies above Saxany.

  He looked skyward again, his gaze drifting across the heavens. A tension formed in his gut, as expectation wrestled with skepticism. After a few moments, the former prevailed in the contest.

  His eyes rested once again upon what looked to be a pure white patch, far above the first layers of clouds. He knew without reservation that it was the very same patch that he had seen during the recent journey back. There was no mistaking the vision that matched that of his dreams with perfection.

  “Do you see that?” Wulfstan asked Sebright slowly, pointing upwards. “There, above the main clouds.”

  Sebright looked up, squinting a little, as he stared. He was quiet in his intensity, as he scrutinized the sky. At last, he spoke, “You mean that big, whitened cloud? The one that looks to be way above the others?”

  Wulfstan smiled as resolution filled him, from the innermost core of his being to the outer hairs on his skin. In that singular moment, the idea that had tugged at the edges of his mind crested into an impetus to act.

  It was a most dangerous thought, a seemingly whimsical notion that might very well result in his personal death. Furthermore, he could not deny that his conception was perhaps something that was rooted in insanity. It was an amalgamation of hope, recklessness, courage, inspiration, and many other elements that were hard to grasp with absolute surety.

  Yet if the bizarre idea succeeded, a new chance could be given life. A fresh hope, to bring outside help to the beleaguered Saxans, would be born.