Dream of Legends fie-2

by Stephen Zimmer

  As the Trogens passed beyond the masses of carts and wagons, they entered the airspace over a spectacular mass of small field tents, which hosted the bulk of the Avanoran foot-soldiers. A great number of men could be seen gathered around the openings to the tents in pairs and clusters, many heads turning upward to stare at the Trogens as they passed by overhead. Some were grouped around fire-pits, engaged in conversing and eating, while others were sitting more to themselves, attending to personal weapons and other assorted gear.

  Blacksmiths and other skilled craftsmen, such as leatherworkers and woodworkers, had set up temporary worksites throughout the teeming masses of tents. Tendrils of smoke wafted up from several such locations, as the artisans labored diligently to repair weapons, armor, or other various elements of equipment.

  The Avanoran encampment was a very dynamic sight, crawling with movements of ever more diverse elements. Mounted contingents of men passed down pathways through the midst of the tents, as numerous carts were pulled through by stout draft animals and throngs of foot-soldiers marched out towards the frontal areas. Others were gathered within open, clearly demarcated areas, practicing their skills at arms.

  Framorg then looked down upon a few clusters of horses that he could tell were not mere draft animals. A fair number of camp attendants were moving busily about in the midst of palfreys and packhorses, which were quartered in close proximity to the knights that owned them.

  Also belonging to the elite knights, the human warriors that Framorg respected the most, were the great war stallions that they rode into battle. Tended to in a much more individual capacity than the other steeds, the muscular war horses were living symbols of the stature of those that possessed them. Dedicated Avanoran squires, assigned to the service of individual knights, cared diligently for the majestic creatures.

  It was one area in which Framorg could relate more clearly to the humans, as the better Harrak steeds reflected the level of prestige held by their Trogen riders. Framorg’s own Argazen, a true lord of the skies, had no rival amongst the other Trogen steeds.

  Tall banners, some crafted in a half-moon shape, and others more triangular in form, fluttered and snapped proudly in the wind from the tops of long timber poles. A forest of the most prominent ones stood vigil over the much more sizeable central tents, both pavilion and hall-shaped. The prominent tents included the quarters of higher-ranking Avanoran commanders, chapel tents, mess tents, and the field residences of higher clergy accompanying the massive campaign. This area, Framorg well knew, was the true heart of the Avanoran camp.

  The land just beyond the front of the Avanoran encampment was watched over thoroughly, for a substantial distance. Small bands of Atagar, accompanied by Licanthers, pickets of Avanoran sentries, and periodic mounted patrols could be seen within a great zone covering at least a couple of leagues past the forward boundaries of the main encampment.

  Even the skies over this zone were warded. Around Framorg’s own formation, circling far above the patrols and sentries on the ground, were several groups of Trogens.

  The location of the enemy Saxan war camp was far to the edge of the horizon. It was situated well past the eyesight of the camps below, hidden behind the undulations of the rolling grasslands.

  Yet even with the fair distance, Framorg and the other riders could make out signs of the sizeable army now blocking the invasion force’s path into the heart of Saxany. Numerous thin columns of smoke rose up from the fires within the distant enemy encampment. They reached towards the sky as if to block Framorg’s way.

  To Framorg, the sight was nonetheless a comforting one. There was going to be little worry about drawing the enemy into open battle. The Saxans were gathered in strength, waiting for the onset of the invasion, and clearly intending to meet it with muscle and steel. It was a response that Framorg respected, as it was the one that any Trogen clan would have taken in similar circumstances.

  Frustratingly, it was still too far of a distance to get an accurate view of the entire magnitude, or types of forces, that were positioned to resist the impending invasion. Framorg led his escorting contingent of warriors as far forward as he could, but not far enough that he could alleviate his intense curiosity regarding the Saxan camp.

  At long last, Framorg reluctantly ordered the signal to be sounded to turn his escorting force around. A Trogen warrior to his right blared out an extended, deep note upon his curving war horn. The formation curled about in a great, arcing path, and reversed course. With a sharp nudge from his heels, Framorg spurred Argazen forward, setting a faster pace for the return.

  There were a few different staging areas for Trogen sky warriors located throughout the three principle camps, as the Trogens held responsibility for the skies over all of the Unifier’s forces. Framorg’s own tent was located within a small encampment set just to the northern side of the Avanoran forces, not far from the front edge. It was close to the freshly dug ditches bordering the outermost perimeter of the Andamooran camp, which was positioned to the immediate north of Framorg’s tent.

  Another sonorous horn blast emitted from a rider near Framorg’s right side, giving the signal to descend and land. The throng of riders guided their steeds into a sharp, downward approach, angling for the open space of ground set within a ring of Trogen tents. Those in the forefront of the group landed a few moments later, while those coming behind flew just over their heads, alighting a short distance beyond. The staggered landing was orderly and efficient, well-practiced amongst the Trogens.

  The instant that the entire contingent was on the ground, Framorg could sense the surge of excitement, confidence, and anticipation running throughout the Trogen camp. A number of Trogens hurried from the tents towards them, gathering around to see the arrival of the great Trogen leader and so many renowned warriors.

  At the edges of the clearing, the camp activity continued feverishly, as other Harraks were saddled, and harnesses were adjusted. Trogens moved back and forth on appointed tasks, bearing weapons, armor, sacks of supplies, waterskins, buckets, and any other implement necessary to fulfill their chores. A couple of the gargantuan Gigans lumbered by on the far edge of the clearing, huge war axes carried in their massive hands as they trudged towards the front lines.

  A couple of Trogens strode up to attend to Argazen, bowing their heads low in deference as they waited patiently for Framorg to dismount. Without a word, Framorg handed them the reins to his steed.

  The Trogen leader walked briskly towards the opening of a long, tall tent that served as his personal headquarters. He could feel the curious, elated gazes from the throng of Trogen warriors watching him approach the tent, on the eve of the great battle.

  An extraordinarily massive, brown-furred bear was lounging just outside the entrance, tethered securely with great chains. Upon seeing Framorg, the bear roused itself, and shifted its bulk onto its huge, clawed feet. The exceptional creature ambled over to meet Framorg, lowering its great snout to look into Framorg’s face. The creature’s eyes reflected affection and eagerness.

  “Barondas, you are always a welcome sight to my eyes,” Framorg greeted the immense animal as he came to a stop, reaching up with both of his hands to vigorously pat and rub the bear’s enormous head.

  The creature had been brought to the west by an Avanoran round ship at great difficulty. Nothing else was acceptable, however, as Framorg was not about to endure a long campaign without such a pure, visible representation of his clan.

  He also had a personal obligation to Barondas, as the creature had been orphaned as a cub when Framorg had been attacked by its mother while on a hunt during his youth. Framorg had gained both a companion and a great reputation within his clan, and others, after slaying the raging mother all by himself. It was an incredible act, witnessed by the others of his hunting party. While the killing of a Mountain Bear was born out of the necessity of self-defense, Framorg was not about to abandon the young, lonely cub whose kind were the living symbols of his clan. He had taken the cub that v
ery day, and had raised it dutifully, garnering a growing respect within his clan due to the close bond that he forged with the creature. Having a Mountain Bear had certainly not harmed his own mystique during his rise to becoming the clan’s unanimously acclaimed war chieftain.

  Framorg ruffled the fur of the bear’s head, and stroked its muzzle for many moments, speaking soothing words to the beast before finally continuing into the tent.

  “Chieftain Framorg!” a huge Trogen greeted him enthusiastically, upon his entrance.

  The Trogen that had spoken was standing over a map, the face of which was illuminated by light from a brazier. Inked upon parchment, the map was spread out across the surface of a long, timber plank, supported at each end by broad wooden tuns.

  Five other high-ranking sky warriors had evidently been going over the map with the large Trogen prior to Framorg’s entrance. He knew all of them, and which clans they represented. Three were from Framorg’s own Mountain Bear clan, one was from the Sea Wolf Clan, and one came from the Dark Serpent clan. The one that had addressed him was from the Thunder Wolf clan.

  All of the Trogens were hardened, veteran warriors, worthy of high command at Framorg’s side. All came to an abrupt silence at his appearance, and respectfully lowered their heads in acknowledgement of his presence.

  Framorg slightly bowed his head in reply, and remembered his new pledges. “In the service of the Unifier, for the service of the Trogen clans.”

  “The last of the sky warriors who are to fight in this coming invasion have arrived in the camp,” the large Trogen, whose name was Ondayon, announced.

  Framorg then inquired, knowing full well who they had all been waiting upon, “And all is well with Pythora?”

  The other Trogen nodded in the affirmative. “As good as can be, on the edge of such a great war. But he is here in the camp with his warriors, and he hopes that we attack very soon.”

  “We have suffered the longer delay in this camp, and he is the one who speaks of being impatient,” Framorg remarked curtly. “Tell him his hopes will be met. The order has come that the great battle will indeed be launched tomorrow, at the breaking of the dawn.”

  Framorg’s skin tingled with a deep-felt excitement as he uttered the savored words. The arduous waiting was finally over. The chains that had bound all of his kind were about to be cut loose.

  He looked to the other Trogen commanders, and could recognize the subtle energies swelling within them, like a force of water about to burst through a weakened dam. Once the word had been spread, there would not be a Trogen in the entire camp that would be able to endure the coming night without a feeling of absolute restlessness.

  The battle coming on the next day would be larger than any battle that any Trogen in the entire existence of their race had participated in. As a race that saw war as an ultimate test of their very being, such a notion was staggering to even contemplate.

  “That is a great relief, to all of us,” Ondayon replied, his extended canines showing brightly in his broad grin.

  “We will win the skies with the might of the Trogens, as many of our brothers will earn great honor in the fighting on the ground,” Framorg stated. “We will take the skies from the enemy at the beginning, even as the ground forces surge.”

  “If we can draw their sky warriors into an open fight,” Ondayon responded somberly.

  “We will go up to meet them from the beginning. They will not have to look for us,” Framorg replied firmly.

  The lesser commanders bowed their heads, Ondayon uttering with conviction, “It shall be done.”

  That was all that Framorg wanted to hear. The only way was forward, and the only option was victory.

  His own lips parted to reveal a slight grin, a very rare expression on his usually stoic face.

  “Then shall we talk about our deployments now?” he asked, sweeping his gaze over them.

  All were eager to set their minds towards details of the coming battle, greatly buoyed by the declaration that the waiting was finally over.

  *

  AETHELSTAN

  *

  Darkness had barely begun to ebb, the pre-dawn still rich with damp mists that would soon burn away with the rays of the ascending sun. A heavy, palpable tension filled the air, as Aethelstan’s warriors stoically awaited the attack that they all knew would come that day.

  Their patience was not sorely tested. As they expected, the attack broke upon them with the first light of dawn. It was heralded by the fierce shouts of men, and the clamor of numerous horns, both resounding within the misty, cool dawn unveiling around the Saxan lines.

  The enemy forces were somewhere just ahead of them, and a multitude of Saxan eyes was fixed resolutely in that direction. Hands tensed on the shafts of spears and axes, the hilts of swords, and the grips of large round shields, as the Saxan warriors awaited the first visible sign of the enemy approach.

  Aethelstan stood tall near the center of the formation, surrounded by his household guard, an epicenter of fiery determination. The Saxan line straddled a low, tree-covered ridge, right at the edge of the downward slope. The shield wall was set in place. Their placement on the rising ground, amid trees, would certainly blunt the ability of the Avanorans to use their famed heavy cavalry.

  Aethelstan’s adrenaline was surging, making his long mail-shirt seem like it was fashioned out of thin cloth, and his sword feel like a shaft of wheat. A righteous fury swirled within him, filling him with strength for the coming fight.

  He had walked along the entire length of the shield wall in the dim, fog-shrouded grayness of the earliest light. The scarred, bearded, hardened faces of mailed veterans were intermixed with the visibly frightened, sweating expressions of levied youths, anxiously gripping their spears in the second and third ranks.

  If it were not for the presence of the thanes, with their veteran household guards and retainers, Aethelstan knew that many of the extended levies would quickly break in their discipline when the real fighting began. The veterans were the supports that kept the structure of their entire defense together.

  During his foray, he had stopped many times to utter a personal word of encouragement, pat on the shoulder, clasp on the arm, or other gesture of reassurance, to both veteran and inexperienced levy man alike, whether in the front, second, or third rank. All were facing the same menace, and as Aethelstan respected the proven warriors, so also did he respect the untrained levy man, who conquered his own fear to stand in the line, and face the new, terrifying experience of battle with resolve.

  Earnest nods, verbal encouragements, and nervous smiles met his various gestures. A number of monks and priests followed and preceded him, the dark-robed clerics speaking prayers of absolution, and tossing blessed water out over the arrayed warriors.

  Aethelstan was deeply moved by the pious concern reflected in the faces of the monks and priests. He stopped to watch one particular priest, who was addressing a levy group that clearly had come from the villages that he had long-ministered to.

  The older man’s face was outwardly calm, but his eyes were wet from the powerful emotions that he was feeling in looking upon the men that he had married and anointed in the Western Faith. It was likely that he had tended to some of the younger men of the group from the very day that they had been born.

  Aethelstan knew that it took a great effort for the priest to hold back such powerful emotions, knowing that many of those who his blessed water fell upon would not live to see the dusk. Priests such as that older man had come as shepherds after the most endangered members of their flocks, willing to stand with them, and also face the risks, to whatever end. While they were not ones to fight with spear and sword, they were invaluable to morale. They lifted up the spirits of the men in the midst of the dark hour, giving them the kind of reinforcement that was greater than any warrior’s speech.

  The priest moved in and placed his hands gently upon a particularly young man’s head, exchanging some quiet, private words with him. Aethelstan co
uld see the wide-eyed young man nodding at the words, as the priest traced the shape of the Redeemer’s spear upon the youth’s forehead.

  Aethelstan’s sharp eyes did not miss the priest’s face as he turned away from the young man, acting as if he was glancing back in the direction of the enemy lines. He saw the old priest’s eyes close for a moment, pain echoing in the expression, as he took that moment to regain his composure.

  The emotive expression spoke of something that Aethelstan deeply understood, and he tightened his mouth and steeled his eyes as he moved onward. An overwhelming majority of the young to older males from his own burh were standing with him in those very lines, having followed him on the march out to the west. The reality was that a great majority of the able-bodied males from the region around the burh were now standing resolute behind his command, gathered from all the surrounding villages and thanes’ estates.

  There were more than a few of them who he had witnessed transform from child to young man, just as the priest had experienced. He had shared countless life experiences with men from both his town and the greater province of Wessachia. They had shared his tables, his feasts, his hunts, his trade, and his travels. There were several that could be considered family, being of his own bloodline.

  He recognized some that were brothers, resolutely standing beside their siblings within the battle line. He also saw several instances of fathers positioned close by their sons, each ready to ward the other with their lives. Many were closely related to each other, or had shared lifelong friendships.

  Each and every death of a Saxan would exact a very high, irreplaceable price. Aethelstan could see in their eyes that the men before him were fully cognizant that they might be facing the last day alongside a son, brother, or friend. It mattered not whether they fell themselves, or survived and were separated from those who had fallen by the veil between this world and the next.

  As he looked into each of their eyes, each rife with dreams and ambitions of their own, he knew that many would be still, glazed and lifeless by the day’s end. It was by far the hardest reality to endure, and it was one that he had the most trouble accepting, but as a commander of warriors he had to face such immutable truths in a poisoned world.