It was the major reason that Father Dunstan had come with the men summoned to the great levy. Where he could have chosen to remain back in the small village church, well-removed from all danger, Father Dunstan had made it clear that he was not about to let the men go into a time of great risk and danger, without facing the ordeal right alongside them. His choice engendered a deep loyalty that resounded through the men from River’s Edge and the surrounding villages and hamlets.
Wulfstan’s sense of gratitude at the sight of the diminutive man came from more than just that willingness to share in the commoners’ burdens. Father Dunstan had also found time to help some of the youth of the village learn to capably read and write letters. He had given them a luxurious opportunity, one that village peasants would have otherwise rarely had access to.
Wulfstan was one of those fortunate youth, and had become one of the only ones in his family that could read for himself from the Sacred Writings. It was a deeply precious gift, and had become another of the many reasons why Father Dunstan was so very loved and revered.
The holy man began to sing a tale of valor, the lay of Saint Offa the Martyr. The esteemed story of a brave Saxan King, who had died at the hands of Midragardan raiders in a very brutal manner, was very well-known. It came from a litany of stories of warriors, kings, and saints that graced the Saxans’ rich heritage.
Father Dunstan’s thin fingers danced deftly along the strings of his instrument, and his eyes sparkled as he looked out among the men. Seeing Wulfstan, Father Dunstan gave him a quick, acknowledging wink, as he headed into another verse. Wulfstan nodded and smiled warmly in return.
The words seemed to flow with the steadiness of a mountain stream, his cadence and rhythm demonstrating that the priest had quite a mastery over the art of oral storytelling. Far from the flamboyance of a tale-spinner in King Alcuin’s court, clad simply in a loose-fitting, long dark tunic, with a squared, lighter-colored mantle atop, Father Dunstan gave the common men a rendition worthy of a royal audience.
Father Dunstan had once related to Wulfstan that his father had taught him such arts as a child, before he had gone off to a monastery to learn his letters and start on the road that had led him to becoming a parish priest. Wulfstan had no doubts that the man could have soared to fame if he had chosen another path in life.
Not all men of faith would approve of his singing of tales to the common men. Indeed, Wulfstan knew that some would take great offense at the priest’s activity, but Father Dunstan’s concern was not for what others thought of him. He was solely focused upon the welfare of those that he administered to.
As the stories Father Dunstan tended to tell were largely oriented on the lives of saints, the subject matter really did not stray far from his convictions and task. A little song to raise the spirit, to Wulfstan, was not such a bad thing.
It was yet another one of the reasons why Wulfstan and the other men so loved their parish priest.
Wulfstan took leave of Siward and Bertulf, and edged his way inward, coming to a free spot in the circle that was situated a little closer to Father Dunstan. He took a seat upon the ground, now close enough to gain more warmth from the fire in the rapidly cooling evening.
An earthenware jug held by another one of his companions was close at hand, to replenish Wulfstan when his cup was empty. His cares steadily relaxed, as many of the men accompanied Father Dunstan on a chorus that sang of a heroic battlefield stand by Saint Offa against a heathen horde.
Wulfstan gave a quick prayer of gratitude in his heart for the special moment. For a time, he would be sharing good bread, ale, and some meat with the men who had come so far together from their shared homeland. As night deepened, they would enjoy even more song and a generous allotment of ale.
Wulfstan chose to savor the moment, and he kept the worries about the future at bay. What would come, would come. Life would bring what it would, and there was nothing that he could do to alter that. For the present, he was still flying through the warmth and companionship of the long hall, wings yet beating strong in between the windows to the outer darkness.
As far as he was concerned, Wulfstan resolved to sustain his presence in that hall of life and friendship.
Section VI
LOGAN
As the day finally reached its merciful conclusion, the four exiles trudged wearily back towards the stockaded village atop the large hill’s summit.
They possessed an abundance of sore muscles, and four cavernous appetites that begged attention. Rest and sustenance were of the highest priority.
A collective body of knowledge needed to be instilled among the otherworlders within a short amount of time, and the group had once again been split three ways in the early morning. Each unit was to return at the end of the day with more knowledge gained in their designated areas, bringing a greater wisdom and set of skills to the group as a whole.
If there was enough time for it, Logan had learned that they would eventually rotate, but collective knowledge was the initial priority.
For Erika, Antonio, Derek, and Logan, the day had been extremely physical in nature, sorely testing their current levels of conditioning. The hard physical efforts undertaken had undoubtedly obstructed their minds from idly wandering, or thinking too much about their troubling circumstances.
In this way the distractions were a relief in themselves, as they all continued along their path of adjusting to the elements of a new and uncertain world. In a true sense, the arduous day was both an exhausting challenge for the body, as well as a very welcome respite for the mind and spirit. Logan ultimately was quite thankful for it, even as sweat darkened the front of his tunic and spread about his neck, chest, and back.
The four otherworlders had all expressed their heartfelt gratitude for an extended swim in the cool, soothing waters of a wide creek near the end of the day. By that time, their bodies had become caked and sticky with sweat from the day’s exertions.
The immersion in the crisp, clear waters had been particularly invigorating to Logan.
Much had been accomplished within a relatively short time, and they were all well underway in their instruction in the nuances of the woods around them. They had also begun to learn the use of some weapons, including archery, axes, and the formidable tribal war clubs.
Their instructors had kept a close eye trained upon them, and had been firm but encouraging in their tutoring and guidance.
When they were left alone at one point for a few moments early in the day, Logan had wondered aloud to Derek as to why the warriors would bring them to an area where they could potentially escape if they meant the village any harm. Derek remarked that he had been perplexed by the same observation.
The answer to the seeming mystery had not taken very long to manifest. After seeing the highly advanced skills demonstrated by the warriors with the various weapons, and seeing the ease with which the tribesmen silently glided among the trees and melted into shadows, Derek and Logan had understood.
The tribal people, without question, truly held the upper hand as it regarded the circumstances of the otherworlders. This was their native realm, and Logan knew that only the most foolhardy of strangers would have thought seriously of setting off through the tribal woodlands under hostile circumstances.
The day itself had proceeded smoothly enough, but the experiences of the guests were quite varied. Out of all of them, Erika enjoyed an advantage on the other guests, even Derek in some respects. She had evidently been steeped with an affinity for the outdoors all throughout her life, something that she spoke openly about during one of their brief respites. Logan did not dispute her claim, seeing the genuine enthusiasm radiating off of her as the group delved into their various exercises.
She also possessed a modest amount of prior experience with the use of bows, though the ones that she had used before were far different in construction from the type proffered to her by their warrior-teachers. The long wooden bows used by the tribal warriors were much simpler in design, a
nd undeniably tougher to use. Yet it was not long before she had adjusted to them.
The group knew that she harbored some pride in this, as it had become more clear that the warriors were not entirely comfortable with the idea of Erika undergoing a warrior’s training. The women of the tribes were not warriors or hunters, and though not at ease, the warriors proved reticent to openly judge the ways of their new charges.
After the day was well underway, Logan and Derek had spoken a little more candidly to one of the warriors who seemed more approachable. They had pulled him aside for a moment, as Erika worked with her bow. The two had expressed that Erika was just as vulnerable as they were in the new world, and would need the same survival skills. They had also impressed upon the tribal warrior the idea that Erika came from a world where some women were warriors and hunters.
Erika’s aptitude with the bow managed to soften some of the lingering tension in the tribal warriors. They were impressed with her acclimation to the bow, which seemed to help them better accept the idea of her training with weapons.
Logan gained a genuine appreciation for her ability, as he labored with his own bow of ash wood.
Antonio, having led a highly sedentary existence prior to coming into the world of Ave, struggled the most, by a wide margin. He evoked several moments of light-hearted laughter during the day, from both teacher and student alike. He took everything in good humor, often poking fun at himself. The instructors still pushed him hard as the day transpired, but subtly eased their expectations at his ongoing struggles.
Logan and Derek did not suffer quite as much of an ordeal as Antonio. Logan was very studious in his approach to their tribal teachers, asking the most questions. Derek was the most physical out of all of them, and quite zealous to try various actions out, especially with the tribal weapons.
While Logan demonstrated a rapid ability to learn and the physicality to execute new movements, Derek quickly showed his great aptitude with the weapons. He also demonstrated a raw strength and agility that matched the best of their instructors.
He wielded the heavy, curving war club vigorously, muscles flowing with power as he brought the dense, solid orb of wood at the end of the weapon rushing through the air with lethal force. Derek leaped and twisted with vitality as he sliced the air with the blade of an axe. It did not take him long at all before his own shots on his oaken bow were nearly as steady and well-targeted as Erika’s. He adapted to movements and techniques very quickly, drawing many outward compliments from their teachers.
The other three exiles had watched Derek’s martial display with unfettered admiration. Logan was extremely impressed with their comrade’s dexterous and strong execution, and remarked as much to Derek on several occasions. It was clear that Derek’s skills with the specific weapons would match his natural ability in due time. Logan mused that their instructors would have readily agreed with the Midragardan Eirik in his esteemed assessment of Derek, in a purely physical sense.
The tribal warriors seemed very pleased with what they had seen with the exiles, other than Antonio, by the end of the day. Logan was glad that they had earned some respect, though he was also quite ready to rest and eat.
His legs protested as he began to surmount the incline of the hill. In his fatigue, the slope seemed to have become much steeper since he had descended it in the morning.
“Would you check that out,” Derek remarked, as he walked at Logan’s side.
Derek was pointing up into the skies. Logan followed his gesture, just in time to see a pair of winged creatures approaching the hilltop village. Upon the backs of the beasts were two riders, whose identities became clearer as they descended towards the interior of the village.
“If Janus could have one, couldn’t they have spared us a few?” Logan posited, recognizing their companion in one saddle and Ayenwatha in the other, feeling a little envy at their comrade’s opportunity.
“That is something I will have to speak with Ayenwatha about,” Derek replied with a chuckle. “We sure could use a ride up the hill at the end of a day like this.”
“At the least, I bet he had a very interesting day,” Logan said.
“No doubt that he did, but if we’re going to hear about it I want to be filling my belly as I listen,” Derek commented.
“I am with you all the way on that,” Logan replied with a grin. He looked back up and watched as Janus, Ayenwatha, and their incredible winged mounts disappeared from view, dipping beneath the outer stockade.
MERSHAD
At a location near the sprawling clearings containing the village’s growing crops, Kent and Mershad had endured a day much more cerebral in nature. The mental aspect of their particular training was something that apparently burdened Kent much more than it did him, as Mershad had to listen to many whispered laments from his comrade throughout the course of the day. He could tell that Kent hungered for a little physical activity, and did not share Mershad’s more academic outlook. Even so, both of them were ultimately weighed down by the day’s lessons.
At least they got to bask in the sun, and enjoy the favorable weather. Their teachers were patient enough, tolerating their many curiosities and questions throughout the day-long session.
The instruction was balanced evenly between a village elder and two clan matrons, one from the Tortoise Clan, and another from the Deer Clan. They were all gifted oral storytellers; their expressions and the lilt in their voices making even the drier topics sound fascinating.
When they had begun the day, Mershad harbored one lingering concern that proved to be unfounded. When he gently sought to take a break, so that he could observe his prayers, explaining his desire and regular practice of doing so, the clan matrons and elder were very accommodating, if not openly encouraging. If anything, they appeared to be a little taken aback that Kent did not join Mershad in the observance.
Mershad moved a short distance away to be more discreet in his ritual, but when he rose up after finishing he saw the older man and two women watching him with interest. He appreciated their acceptance very much, though he was becoming ever more aware of the deep spirituality of the tribal people, something that was interwoven with everything about their life.
At the day’s conclusion, the two had absorbed much more about the history of their new world, and the customs observed within it. Though Mershad’s retention was more extensive than Kent’s, he knew that they were both simply glad to unveil some of the mysteries of the world that was now their own.
By the day’s end, Mershad knew that they had reached a point where they could take in no further lessons. Kent’s attention was beginning to drift as he became more mentally fatigued. For Mershad’s part, he hungered for some time to wind down, and digest the wealth of new information more fully.
Kent had quipped that he was on the brink of overload, rubbing his head and sighing as they walked through the trees to rejoin their other companions. Mershad had expressed his agreement with Kent, even as he felt an eagerness to learn what had transpired with the others.
Erika had gone off into the woods with Logan, Derek, and Antonio, while Janus had gone off with Ayenwatha by himself. Mershad could not help but wonder why Janus was singled out, to conduct his training alone. It was a mystery that deepened a short time later, when he saw Janus returning through the skies with Ayenwatha, mounted upon a pair of incredible, winged steeds.
Seeing Janus gliding in on the creature, Mershad found that he had room for at least one more lesson that day, if Janus or Ayenwatha were willing to accommodate him. The matrons and elder had not discussed anything about the winged creatures as of yet, but the possibilities invoked by the idea of flying steeds stoked the fires of curiosity in Mershad.
Mershad shook his head and laughed to himself, thinking about how recently he had been huddling away in a dormitory room. Now, he was wondering if he might have an opportunity to fly, saddled upon a winged beast that looked like a living myth.
THE UNIFIER
“My Lor
d,” came a low, deferential voice, from just a few feet behind Him.
The Unifier had heard the figure emerge out onto the surface of the tower, just moments before.
If the owner of the voice had been able to see the Unifier’s face at the moment, he would have beheld solid, bright red eyes that gazed out well beyond the outskirts of the city. The burning stare penetrated far beyond even the outer boundaries of Avanor, piercing the horizons themselves, and worlds beyond.
The Unifier slowly turned His gaze away from the vantage that offered Him such a stunning view of the city, His now-blue eyes attentive upon the lone man standing behind Him.
Dressed in a long white habit, quite similar to that worn by the Clarvasian monks, was one of the most powerful of the Unifier’s Sorcerers, and one of His few regular personal attendants.
Baalmon’s eyebrows stretched in nearly invisible, white arches over eyes that were usually icy cold, and rigidly impassive. At the present, they reflected a glint of fear, which resonated in the nervous twitch that pulled at the upper lip of the Sorcerer’s broad mouth.
Baalmon’s nostrils flared briefly as he took in a quick breath of air, almost having neglected to breathe while in the Unifier’s immediate presence. His hands remained folded tightly before him, his arms framing the single pendant that hung down his chest. The pendant was crafted into the image of a silver star, with its many straight, extending protrusions, representing rays of light.
“Baalmon, I have been expecting you,” the Unifier addressed the other calmly, watching the steadfast breeze tug at the flowing fabric of His servant’s linen habit. The Unifier spoke in a voice that was at once pleasing to the ear, an immaculately smooth, low tone palatable to any listener. Underneath the surface, the voice carried a subtle undercurrent of authority, an authority that those such as Baalmon never forgot, not even for an instant.
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