Dream of Legends Read online

  “The spirits of Elysium ride with you, Dragol, for fortune is with you,” Goras rumbled from the back of his steed, his loud voice carrying strongly across the air between their sky mounts. Goras made no effort to hide his envy, having been commanded to remain with the other Trogens aiding the Avanoran force beneath them. “I must yet remain with my weapons bound, by the orders.”

  Dragol sympathized deeply with his friend. “Soon we will be fighting together once again. The savage tribesmen of the other land will swiftly fall. It is said that they are not great in number. They will not be able to stop the invasion there. The Saxans will fight very hard here, and may not fall so easily. We may yet fight them together.”

  “The Saxans are warriors, true warriors, and worthy opponents to overcome. We have both seen this,” acknowledged Goras, “but we will still overwhelm them at the onset of the battle. The force gathered is far too powerful for the Saxans. There may be only one battle for us.”

  “No battle’s end is truly known. Little did our brothers foresee their end in the raid upon the Five Realms,” Dragol observed. He then snarled, “Though that was due to human stupidity, when Trogens warned them of the dangers.”

  “And of the Sorcerers of Avalos?” Goras queried. “What if they break the enemy with haste?”

  Goras’ concerns were valid, even if a little speculative. The deployed power of the Unifier was incredible in scale and composition, and quite capable of swiftly breaking even a great army.

  The humans revered and feared the Unifier’s Sorcerers, to such an extent that the Trogens took the Sorcerers very seriously, even if they were still largely a mystery to the towering warriors. Rumors abounded regarding their capabilities, though Dragol had not yet witnessed them in something like a battle. Some were said to harbor great abilities, a few Sorcerers even believed to be capable of authority over the elements. It was commonly believed that they far exceeded the powers held by the Trogens who were of the Clan of the Healers, the famed shamans of the Trogen kind. Even more foreboding, more than a few whispers attributed the skills of Avanor’s Sorcerers to the practice and study of dark mysteries.

  Dragol wondered whether Sorcerers could actually manipulate things such as wind and lightning, but there was much talk that several great Sorcerers had accompanied the main invasion force. If they were among the invasion force, then they were there for a specific reason. The Avanorans, for all of their haughtiness, were not frivolous.

  To the Trogens, such tidings were becoming a bitter bane, especially among those such as Goras and Dragol who were being effectively fettered by Avanoran orders. At the very least, the Trogens wished to conduct all of the fighting in the skies, as they feared that there would only be a limited opportunity for it. They certainly did not want Sorcerers’ arts preventing them from engaging in open combat, and taking part in the battles to come.

  “It may be as you say,” returned Dragol. “You still do not know what may come.”

  “I am ready,” Goras shot back, his eyes burning with a raging intensity. “I …”

  Goras’ voice trailed off as the two noticed a trio of Harraks approaching from just ahead of them. It was one of the small, high-altitude scouting groups that foraged through the upper skies, looking for any sign of new developments. Such scouts normally flew far ahead of the main positions of the armies that they accompanied, and risked much danger.

  They were an undeniable example of the great bravery of Trogen warriors, especially in the current instance. The forces of Saxany were known to be able to put strong forces into the skies, and the whereabouts of enemy sky warriors were still not known. As such, the Trogen scouts were rendered very vulnerable by their scant numbers and distance from their own camps, every time that they went on a far-ranging mission over enemy territory.

  “My eyes tell me that it is the farthest reaching of the scouting groups that were sent,” Dragol commented, as he squinted towards the three oncoming warriors.

  He recognized the lead warrior of the group as the three drew nearer. His dark iron helm, broad muzzle, and flowing, black fur cloak were unmistakable. The scouts normally wore furred cloaks, as they spent much time in the frigid, highest altitudes, but few among their entire race possessed a cloak fashioned out of the deep, black-furred hide of a Mountain Bear from the Trogen homelands.

  The scouts guided their steeds straight towards Dragol and Goras, something to be expected as they were the two highest-ranking warriors within the circling contingent of Trogens. The two Trogen commanders broke away from their own formation, drifting out to meet the scouts, and bringing their steeds to hover in the air as they awaited them. Their steeds bobbed up and down in rhythm, wings beating steadily to maintain their position.

  The scout in the middle of the three, the veteran Trogen that Dragol had recognized from afar as Dynagan of the Mountain Bear Clan, spoke for the group.

  “The Saxans know of the approach of the army below. They have taken good positions on a ridgeline inside the borders of the forest,” the scout reported. “It is the only place the Avanorans can possibly use their cavalry.”

  “What is their strength?” Goras inquired.

  “Maybe a couple thousand strong. They have mounts, but I do not know if they are used as cavalry or not. They have some sky warriors too, for we were chased by almost ten of them out on patrol,” the scout reported, his face tensing, as he grudgingly admitted to having evaded battle.

  Dragol could not fault the scout for evading combat, or hold him in derision. The scouting parties’ orders had been strict; the acquisition of information was of the utmost importance and priority.

  Yet once again, Avanoran practicality had overcome Trogen tradition, as three Trogens against ten were not insurmountable odds in any Trogen warrior’s eyes.

  A spark was ignited in the eyes of both Goras and Dragol at the pronouncement.

  “The skies must be taken,” Dragol stated. He turned to Goras, and a slight grin turned up the corners of his mouth. On a Trogen, the look had a feral edge. “I believe that you will see fighting soon enough.”

  “Dragol, we must go now, to report to Tragan,” the brooding scout interjected, impatient to complete his mission.

  Dragol understood the scout’s frustration, but was still irritated with Dynagan’s abrasive manner.

  “Then go,” Dragol replied gruffly.

  Dragol and Goras nodded as the scouts hastily departed from their presence.

  “Fortunes have changed, as of a sudden, Dragol,” Goras said, a wave of excited, relieved energy coursing through his deep voice.

  Dragol could see that his comrade’s mouth was already salivating at the succulent prospects of combat. It was as if great binding chains had been suddenly cut from him, through the words of Dynagan.

  “Storm winds may reveal a clear sky,” Dragol remarked, repeating a saying of his kind that illustrated the unpredictability of life.

  The saying recalled the sudden shifts of weather in his homeland, including the times when what looked to be certain storms were suddenly averted, and replaced by cool and passive skies. Things in life could shift abruptly, in either direction. Yet when they changed suddenly for the better, it was truly something to savor, and be grateful for. The thunderclouds in his mind eased as he took in Goras’ relief, though another part of him wished that he could fly into battle against the Saxans with him.

  *

  AETHELSTAN

  *

  “They will deliver the tidings of what they have seen to their army, you can be sure of that!” lamented Aethelstan, gazing upward into the now-empty sky. Frustration clenched him tightly, as more worries were added to the teeming cluster already present within his mind.

  He ran his hand through his shoulder-length, dark brown hair, standing near the top of a ridge a few paces in front of Edmund. Behind Edmund were the other members of the small group of sky warriors that had recently arrived.

  They were among the few that had been spared from the Saxan
forces massing out on the Plains of Athelney. Edmund and the other sky riders intended to help Aethelstan ward their movements, by driving off or distracting enemy sky patrols and scouts.

  It had been about one day since Aethelstan had returned from his own short scouting foray on horseback. He knew that the battle that they were inevitably to fight was creeping ever closer. The feeling of its imminence swelled in the air with each passing hour.

  They had found good positions to tether and quarter the horses. As of now, Aethelstan, the highest-ranking thanes, and the warriors from their respective household retinues were spending the greater part of their time working with, and arraying, the levied contingents from Wessachia and the immediately surrounding areas.

  A consensus had been reached regarding the Saxan defense. They had decided upon the most advantageous place to offer battle, and doubted that the Avanorans would refuse it.

  The Saxan warriors were to be deployed along the crest of a long ridgeline, set squarely in the path of the oncoming force from Avanor. Its long and gentler slope was one of the only places that offered any possible use of cavalry, without which Aethelstan knew that the Avanoran enemy would not wish to fight a battle.

  The narrow channels and passes through the surrounding hills would be highly uninviting to the Avanoran leaders. Even a small force of skilled warriors familiar with the landscape could hold such narrow passages for quite some time.

  There was little doubt in Aethelstan’s mind that the Avanorans would seek to engage the Saxans on the broader ground of the ridge and slope, the only place where the Avanorans could bring the full weight of their forces to bear.

  Most of the gathered Saxans were sleeping just behind the elongated ridge in hastily assembled tents, some just a few feet away from the positions that they would soon defend. Some older men, women, and a number of religious figures, including priests, sisters, and monks, had been arriving in small numbers to help attend to the various needs of the series of makeshift encampments.

  Awaiting the coming of the enemy could easily have turned into an agony of nerves for the anxious men called forth in the General Fyrd. They were primarily farmers, with a fair number of craftsmen among their number, not given regularly to the practice of combat. Fortunately, most were using their time wisely enough, honing their fighting skills, sparring with each other, throwing spears at tree targets, trying out their slings, or practicing their archery.

  Aethelstan had seen to it that many experienced warriors were dispatched among the levy men to give them additional tutelage, and instruct them further in the ways of a Saxan shield wall.

  At the very least, the levy men were given a physical outlet to vent their tensions and fears. Aethelstan had no doubts that their thoughts often drifted to their families back in the villages and homesteads of Wessachia. In truth, his own thoughts returned often to his wife, daughter, and sons, and he could not condemn the levy men for dwelling upon such worries.

  He was just relieved that they appeared to understand the imminent, lethal threat that was facing them all. Aethelstan urged his thanes and household guards to impress upon all of the men the vital importance of a common defense.

  Aethelstan knew that many of the levy men would become very fearful when the battle finally arrived. That was nothing to deride either, as even well-experienced warriors were not immune to the icy touch of fear. Without much training, and no real experience, an enormous task was being asked of the levy men to stand firm in battle. Yet Aethelstan still had hopes that they could steel themselves enough to follow directives. The overwhelming bulk of the archers available to Aethelstan’s force came from the General Fyrd, and he would need every last one of them in the battle to come.

  It had been late in the afternoon when Edmund had finally arrived from his latest scouting foray, and still later when the reports of the last Trogen scouting party, and the failure to stop it, had come.

  The Saxan sky patrol had come up short with the pursuit of a trio of Trogen scouts who had managed to achieve a thorough survey of the Saxan positions. The swifter Harraks were able to outrun the Himmerosen, as the Harraks’ riders declined battle, outnumbered ten to three.

  Aethelstan knew that the Trogens’ fallback was no display of cowardice. They had gained what they had set out to acquire. Now, any elements of surprise that would have belonged to the Saxans had been eliminated.

  That was a horrible enough plight for Aethelstan, who knew that the forces of Saxany would need every possible advantage that they could get in the coming struggle.

  “The warriors are in position, but we can move them with little trouble to another place of your liking,” Cenferth stated somberly, from where he stood to Aethelstan’s right.

  Aethelstan looked at the stout household warrior and had to stifle a slight grin, even in light of the grim circumstances. Cenferth had misread Aethelstan’s concerns, but his presence was still a comfort.

  The hardy warrior always seemed to strive towards the positives of a situation, a trait honed by the resilient and tireless ethic held among the peoples of the northern provinces. Aethelstan admired men like that, but he knew that the attitude could also become a detriment when it failed to acknowledge the realities of a given situation.

  “We are in a good place to fight the Avanorans, deployed on the best ground for our purposes. I have no doubts that before us is the channel that they would take. They will accept our offered site of battle, Cenferth, and I wish to keep it that way.

  “It is just that we cannot allow them to map out our positions with such impunity,” Aethelstan stated. He turned back to the lean, tall warrior with sharp, blue eyes standing just behind him. “Edmund, will you be able to keep them away, from now on?”

  Edmund, the leader of the available contingent of sky riders, and the highest-ranking sky warrior of Ealdorman Morcar’s lands, thought carefully for a moment. His brow furrowed in concentration.

  “You know that we have only a relative handful of Himmerosen for our use here. Aelfric’s summons of Aldric the Stormblade called upon most of the sky warriors for the great battle looming on the plains,” he answered in an even tone. “But we should still have enough warriors to fend off the scouts and small patrols escorting the oncoming enemy force. But whether they might have an even stronger force coming up behind them, I cannot yet say.”

  Aethelstan nodded. “Then we may yet have a chance to hide much of the disposition of our forces. We will also have several of our bowmen looking out for those foolhardy Trogens that would dare venture too low in the skies. If you encounter the enemy, and are able to drive them downward in the vicinity of this position, then we should be able to give them a Saxan greeting.

  “The land itself impedes their use of cavalry. They will not have much advantage even here, where mounted warriors can be used, and where they will surely come. But they will be coming with great strength upon the ground, and our men along the ridgeline cannot worry about what might threaten from the skies.”

  “Then we must pray to the All-Father for deliverance,” another of his thanes, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged warrior named Offa stated.

  The sincerity of that simple expression of piety, another trait of the northerners, was shown in the warmth emanating from the man’s eyes and the calm tone of his voice.

  Aethelstan nodded in agreement. “We must always pray, Offa, though the answer may not always be to our desire. What will happen, will happen. We can only do our part, to account for who we really are. How much more time do you estimate that we have before they are here?”

  “Perhaps a day, maybe two,” Offa replied, just as calmly, despite the fact that the words indicated that he and the men of his homelands would soon be facing the threat of death at the hands of a foreign invader. The implications of losing the coming battle, and leaving the villages and homesteads of Wessachia vulnerable, were far too terrible to contemplate.

  Aethelstan looked again towards Edmund. “My good friend, your work in the skies is
of ever greater importance. You must let us know the movements of their army, for it seems that time grows short indeed.”

  Edmund returned Aethelstan’s gaze, his eyes reflecting the loyalty and affinity that the two warriors had for each other. There was no man that Aethelstan respected more among the Saxans of Wessachia than Edmund.

  Just three years before, Edmund had finally made the rank of thane, just like his father before him. His stockaded residence had a modest hall and tower within it, and Aethelstan had been instrumental in helping him complete his estate, which now encompassed over seven hides of land.

  Edmund’s residence was located near a quite pleasant village called Golden Meadow, a place with fertile farmlands located just north of Aethelstan’s town-fort of Bergton. The village was so named due to the broad meadow that spring draped with bright, golden flora every year. Tranquil and restful, the resplendent meadow afforded a stunning view of the landscape and the shining brook that timelessly meandered through it.

  This was the first year that Aethelstan had not been able to enjoy the peace and serenity of the meadow, as the call of war had taken him far from any thought of repose. It was a great and terrible regret, as Aethelstan truly looked forward to visiting his childhood friend during that wondrous time each spring when the richness of bloom and leaf accompanied the vigorous return of life, following winter’s long slumber.

  Aethelstan and Edmund had grown up close, and although Aethelstan was destined to be the greater thane by his lineage, subject only to Ealdorman Morcar himself, they had maintained a growing, brotherly friendship in both heart, arms, and in service to their people. From their early childhood to the present moment, their paths had long been intertwined.

  Now, they would be walking along a most precarious and foreboding path together. Aethelstan was well aware that at times it would take the abilities and efforts of one to keep the other from falling, as they traversed the perilous road looming ahead.