He turned back towards Cenferth, who was awaiting him patiently. “Yes, we could hope that they decide to retreat. Come, let us take a walk together.”
Cenferth quietly fell in with Aethelstan as they strode along the back of the ridge. Just past the center, a large group of levied peasants were sitting down and taking a rest. They looked haggard and weary, no longer unfamiliar with the horrors and agonies of battle. Aethelstan knew that for a great many of them, their outlook on life had been changed irrevocably, in just a few short hours.
A few had fallen asleep, having slumped down to the ground where they stretched out without concern for cover. Some seemed to be in a silence of their own, while still others passed the time talking with each other in low, subdued voices. Some wept openly over the losses of comrades and kin, as others sought to comfort them, speaking gently or putting an arm around their shoulders.
Aethelstan’s heart ached at the mournful sights. Though phyiscally unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises incurred in the fighting, the men were profusely bleeding in spirit.
A little more reassuring, Aethelstan could see that several peasants had procured shields, helms, swords, and other well-made weapons. One man of more advanced years was wriggling into a mail shirt, though the blood-stained, punctured iron links in the chest area spoke volumes as to what had happened to its former owner. Nevertheless, the man seemed eager to don the mail coat without delay.
Several of the men glanced in his direction as he walked through their midst. A few chewed upon pieces of salt meat or hard bread, and a barrel of ale had been tapped. A couple of men were handing out water skins, which had been filled from the stream that traveled through the low ground behind the ridge. Men cupped their hands and splashed water on their faces, working to clean off the filth and blood from the battle.
A couple of monks were assisting some men with their lighter wounds. They carefully poured water over the bleeding injuries to clean them out, before wrapping strips of cloth to temporarily bandage them.
The lessons of war were woven into the vivid images spread all around Aethelstan. Levels of fatigue and adequate food and drink were all central to the morale of an army. Food was perhaps the highest factor of them all, as empty stomachs deteriorated spirits within a force extremely quickly. In some ways, the elements of rest and sustenance were a much greater concern than all of the knights, war horses, arrows, and swords of the Avanoran invaders.
“Great Thane, you must eat too,” an older, grizzled-looking man interjected in a gruff voice, breaking Aethelstan away from his dark, inner ponderings.
The scraggly, bearded man went by the name of Bothelm, a leather worker who plied his trade in Bergton. Bothelm had a look of deep concern on his weathered face.
He extended a large chunk of bread in one hand, and a wooden cup filled with ale in the other. “The ale is from a new barrel just brought up from the camp. Not the best… not nearly as good as my wife brews… but it is the nectar of heaven right now.”
At first, Aethelstan hesitated, as he wanted to make sure that all of the men were getting a chance to get some food and ale before he worried about his own needs. Yet Aethelstan understood the look of worry in the eyes of the older man. It was the kind of expression that transcended the more worldly matters of simple artisans and high-ranking thanes.
“Thane Aethelstan, if your strength is not kept, then how can you lead us?” the older man urged, as he pushed the food and ale cup forward. “We all need you to keep your strength.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Aethelstan replied, smiling amiably, as he accepted the proffered bread and ale.
He took a deep draught of the ale cup, finishing about half of it in the first gulp. He had to restrain from downing all of the vessel’s contents in his great thirst.
In normal times, he certainly would have questioned the skill of the brewer, but, as Bothelm had said, the circumstances of the moment made it taste as sweet as anything that had ever touched his lips. A small sigh escaped Aethelstan, as he breathed out slowly in the wake of the long swig.
The older man smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, Great Thane. When you take your needs to heart, know that you take our needs to heart. Do not refuse yourself what your body needs.”
With a slight bow, the old man turned, and rejoined a nearby group of companions. Aethelstan stood a little entranced by the warm words and sentiments of the man, a beacon of light in the midst of such a terrible struggle. Even in the most daunting of times, such rays of light pierced his inner laments, reminding Aethelstan what they were all really fighting for.
After a moment’s pause, he tore off a piece of the bread and placed it in his mouth. He let the rough bread soften for a moment before beginning to chew it. Cenferth had been served with some bread, dried meat, and ale from some other men close by.
He held a chunk of the salty meat out to Aethelstan, talking through a mouth full of food, “Some meat would do you good as well. A man cannot live on bread alone.”
“I think your concerns about bread have been used in a different context by the priests, but thank you anyway,” Aethelstan replied with a grin, taking it from him. “If there is one that I am not worried about finding ample food, it is you, Cenferth. You have a nose for it, better than the most capable hunting dog in all of Saxany.”
Though he tried to slow his pace, he wolfed down the salted meat, and the rest of the ale and bread in a few moments. The heat of the battle had obscured his hunger, but now that his senses could turn towards other needs, he found that he was as famished as he was parched.
The sound of a horse galloping, coming from somewhere behind them at great speed, abruptly attracted his attention. He heard the sentries down on the other side of the ridge calling out challenges. He drew his eyes to the sight of the rider, just as a few armed warriors stepped aside to let the mounted figure through.
Approaching slowly up the back slope of the ridge was a man upon a gray horse, whose flanks were sleek with lather from an arduous jaunt. The man was lightly garbed, with a brown cloak clasped by a silver pin at the right shoulder, over a tunic and breeches of a similar color. His face was drawn and careworn, as much as his hair was disheveled. Aethelstan knew from the first glance that the rider had pressed both himself and his mount to the outer limits of their endurance.
The horseman bore a rolled up parchment in his right hand, clutched protectively, as he neared Aethelstan and slowed the horse down.
“Thane Aethelstan,” the rider addressed him without delay, pulling the reins up on the horse a couple of feet away from the Saxan commander.
“Yes?” Aethelstan replied.
“The reply from Arubandel,” the rider responded, with a leaden expression, extending the parchment towards Aethelstan.
Aethelstan accepted the parchment from the somber rider, and fingered the unbroken wax seal on it. The man’s countenance had already communicated the contents of the parchment, though Aethelstan still had to read the actual words inscribed upon it.
He turned towards Cenferth, “Get this man to our rear encampment. He has risked much to reach Arubandel and return back here. See that he is given food, drink, and any rations he may desire, if he should need to depart.”
The man looked back over at the ridgeline, where a good number of men idled along the course of the shield wall. They were looking out with shields and lances within easy reach, awaiting the expected return of the enemy.
His eyes swiveled back to Aethelstan. “Thane Aethelstan, great thane of Bergton, I can speak for myself, but not for my steed. My horse has been driven hard, and I will not begrudge him some much earned rest, but I would like to rejoin those of my home village on the line, if you will allow me to.”
Aethelstan regarded the exhausted man for a moment, before nodding. “If that is what you wish.”
“I cannot rest, as long as the day has not been decided,” he said, as he swung his back leg around, and dismounted the horse. “Can you have one of your
men guide me to the place where the men from Oak Crossing are gathered?”
“I will take him, Thane Aethelstan,” Cenferth volunteered immediately. “I know that the men from Oak Crossing were placed on the left flank. Come with me.”
Cenferth beckoned to the rider, and the man started to go with him, as another Saxan took control of his horse and led it away. Before the man had gone more than a stride, Aethelstan took a sudden step forward and put a hand upon the man’s shoulder, halting him momentarily. “Before you go, I must have your name.”
The man replied, “Ceolfrid, a ceorl that has served in the garrison in the Burh at Sudborton, to the east.”
“Sudborton… there is excellent boar hunting around there, I am told,” Aethelstan said with a wistful grin, thinking of better times and pursuits.
The rider’s mouth turned up into a slight grin. It was a welcome relief to see the trace of levity dawn upon his forlorn, exhausted face. “Yes, Thane Aethelstan. It is indeed exceptional hunting there.”
“If we should live to see other days, and better ones at that, then I should like to come and hunt with you there. I will also make certain that you have at least five hides of land bestowed upon you,” Aethelstan said, with a smile of his own. “You have the blood of a worthy thane flowing in you. Fight well, Ceolfrid, and let us see better days together.”
“Thank you, Thane Aethelstan,” Ceolfrid replied in a low voice, nodding, with a look of surprise reflected in his eyes. The Saxan was hesitant, tongue-tied at the sudden bequest by Aethelstan.
Cenferth cast Aethelstan a grin, and led the stunned rider off down the line towards the area where the people of Oak’s Crossing were located. Aethelstan watched the rider go onward to his fellow men, willing to stand with them immediately after having endured a dangerous, hard-pressed ride alone through enemy-riddled land. As quickly as life could be cut short, Aethelstan could brook no delays in recognizing the worthiness of the brave Saxan. He deeply hoped that Ceolfrid survived to realize the reward.
Turning, Aethelstan walked away a few steps to where he stood by himself, and looked down at the parchment. The wax seal of Saxany and of Arubandel, a confirmation of the genuine nature of the message within, bound the parchment.
The nearest burh to the ridge, about ten leagues away to the south, Arubandel was one of several places to which Aethelstan had dispatched riders in a desperate need to scrape up as many additional men as could be found in the area.
Aethelstan paused a little longer, looking down at the reddish wax seals with trepidation, before delicately breaking them with his fingers and spreading the document out.
It was a direct message, reading;
‘Aethelstan, Thane of Bergton, serving Ealdorman Morcar of Wessachia, in loyal service of King Alcuin of Saxany:
On behalf of my lord, Thane Hathufrith of Arubandel, in loyal service to Ealdorman Byrtnoth of Sussachia, loyal servant of King Alcuin of Saxany, I regret that I cannot send you good tidings. All of our males, and even some of our women who could walk the distance, have gone to the great muster to the west. We have only the youngest of boys and the oldest of men, and can barely lock our gates or keep a watch on our ramparts. We regrettably have nothing to send to you in the way of more people for your levy. It is not our choice. All who could carry any weapons have already left in the great levy and afterwards. We are truly sorry.
– your brother in the Almighty,
Father Stigand
The message, one of several such correspondences that had returned over the past couple of days, caused Aethelstan’s heart to drop immeasurably, though he kept his face resolute. He knew that many other eyes were watching his reaction to the apparent message, many of them knowing that he had sent out calls for more help.
He was not surprised in the least by Father Stigand’s answer, having fathomed what the answer was before he even cracked the wax sealing the parchment. Even so, it did not make reading the heavy words any easier. Every rejection dampened his hopes further, the frustration mounting while standing on a battle position that he could not abandon.
Aethelstan turned and strode swiftly back towards the ridge. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he whispered a silent prayer to the Almighty to provide him with strength. He uttered a petition that he could somehow be a source of inspiration to his warriors in the hours that they would need him most.
As he contemplated the words, the prayer filled him with a calmness that took the frayed edge from his nerves. When his eyelids finally parted, any man that looked into his face would see a composed, focused individual. He knew that they must not become aware of the despondence growing deep inside him, as he struggled with the daunting realities.
If any man among the Saxans looked a little closer, however, not every sign of his inner worries was so well-masked. The parchment in his right hand was clenched tightly, to the extent that the eyes of any that bothered to look could have easily perceived the whiteness of his knuckles.
SECTION V
*
DRAGOL
*
Dragol pressed onward through the eerily silent forest, still laden with the disconcerting feeling that other eyes were upon him. His body, underneath his hide cuirass, was now caked with sweat, which ran in thin rivulets down from his perspiring brow, trickling around his short muzzle. Dragol’s robust muscles were finally drained of their normally prodigious reserves of strength.
Even if he were a typical Trogen warrior, such an exhausted state would have required considerable amounts of exertion to reach. As one of the more exceptional specimens of his race, it testified to the fact that Dragol had undergone a most arduous struggle.
The gloaming of the settling dusk had begun to permeate the forest around him, overtaking the dappled light from the late afternoon’s sun. The shadows were filling in and deepening among the trees all around, the overall ambience progressively dimming.
For quite some time, his throat had been parched for drink, and his body ached for more solid sustenance. Yet Dragol was not about to worry about issues such as those. Every stride that he could take, and every league that he could traverse, would place him farther and farther beyond the swirling chaos in the region being pierced by the invasion.
A couple of ascensions to the top of aged, soaring oak trees had given him a propitious view of the situation above the forest’s ceiling. The skies were largely calm, and he could see no signs of either friend or foe, whether Darroks, Trogens, or enemy Midragardans.
His own Harrak was not yet faring badly, although the stalwart steed was clearly beginning to show fatigue. Rodor was a hardy animal, to an exceptional degree, but Dragol would worry about its needs well before taking care of his own.
Just over a gentle rise, they came within sight of a woodland brook that was flowing with crisp, translucent waters. The sight was virtually irresistible, prompting Dragol to trudge slowly forward, heading down the embankment.
He removed his helm as he neared the water’s edge, feeling the rush of cool air engulf his heated, sweat-matted head. Sheathing his longblade, and setting his shield down on the bank next to him, he sank to his knees by the water’s edge.
Both Trogen and Harrak were shortly drinking in ample gulps of the welcome, invigorating liquid. The cool water washed down Dragol’s dry throat, beginning to quench his deep thirst and renew his depleted body. Though tired, and with a seemingly bottomless desire for the water, he maintained enough presence of mind to keep his consumption controlled, maintaining his awareness for any signs of threats.
With one cupped hand, he scooped up some of the water and splashed it on his broad forehead. A few more douses with the water were sufficient to remove the stickiness caused by the sweat and dirt that had caked upon his face.
He breathed a deep sigh of relief, as the water dripped off of his protruding face, allowing himself a brief moment of enjoyment in the midst of the struggles that had enveloped his existence. As he allowed his body its first moments of rest in some
time, the fatigue building inside finally began to catch up fully with him. A less rational part of him felt like collapsing in a heap on the bank, and going to sleep for awhile.
Ordering his swiftly tightening leg muscles to stand again, he slowly walked over to a tree just beyond the bank of the brook. Leaning his shield against it, Dragol slumped down wearily against the base of the trunk. He felt his eyelids growing very heavy while he watched his steed finish satiating its thirst.
The gloom in the woods had deepened considerably, growing significantly murkier as day edged upon the brink of night. Nothing stirred within the woods, and Dragol could not deny that a short rest would certainly do his body well. The prospect of rest was so powerfully inviting, so seductive that he almost pushed his cares aside and gave in to the inclination.
Cursing sharply at himself for entertaining such weakness, he roused himself back up, stretching his muscles and taking in several deep breaths to stave off the laborious fatigue. His Harrak had just finished drinking, and looked as if it was about to settle down along the embankment.
The distinctive feeling of being watched still hung ominously in the air. He had almost fallen asleep out in the open, without regard for shelter or his steed, he angrily realized. If something with harmful intent had been watching, then it would have had plenty of opportunity to launch a surprise attack.
Carefully, he panned his eyes around the forest, with a focus so intent and penetrating that his gaze threatened to see through solid objects. His search was left unsatisfied, at least in finding a physical cause for the bothersome feelings. Shaking his head, he turned to relieve himself near one of the adjacent trees, his bladder already filled, and now being added to with the weight of the water that he had just imbibed from the brook.
As he was finishing, a few flickers of movement off to his right suddenly caught his eye. As he snapped to attention, turning to focus in that direction, there were some other flickers of motion just off to his left, this time accompanied with some faint rustlings in the underbrush. Keeping his head rigid and his eyes still, he reached out with his left arm and picked his shield back up, settling his grip around the straight iron bar midway up the back.
Dream of Legends fie-2 Page 50