Dream of Legends fie-2

by Stephen Zimmer

  *

  GUNTHER

  *

  The light of day found Gunther and his pack of Jaghuns ardently searching amidst a sprawling congregation of death. All around them, multitudes of lifeless bodies lay strewn across the terrain. Gunther had seen such landscapes of death before, and was not deterred by the dour visions, as he looked diligently for even the slightest signs of life from the precious few who might still be saved.

  The Jaghuns barked excitedly whenever they came across a Saxan that was still alive, whether languishing in pain, or unconscious, as the creatures roamed the blood-drenched ground surrounding the ridgeline and running down its long, western slope.

  There were a few surviving Avanorans interspersed with the Saxans. Though Gunther bore great resentment, and not a small degree of hostility, towards the enemy, the solitary woodsman somehow managed to put his sense of honor ahead of his raw emotions, and aided them as well.

  More than a few of the Avanorans displayed wide, frightened eyes at the sight of the large, thick-jawed Jaghuns. Their eyes enlarged even farther at the sight of the few Unguhur still lingering on the battleground.

  “Hold yourself still, friend,” Gunther urged in a low voice, tilting a half-emptied waterskin over, as he sprinkled a little wine into an open wound on the leg of a Saxan warrior. As the liquid touched the torn flesh, the man winced in pain, though he clenched his teeth and did not cry out.

  Gunther had forced many things regarding his past out from his mind, hoping to someday forget his memories of things that once seemed utterly inseparable from who he was. Other things had been well worth retaining, the most valuable of them seeming to have been quite minor elements when Gunther had first come into knowledge of them.

  Much of both kinds of elements had occurred during his time in Theonia, a land of regal splendor, complex intrigues, and magnificent opulence. Yet for all of its grandeur, Theonia also represented terrible betrayal, and sundering heartache, to Gunther. Even so, he had gleaned more than one thing during his tenure that had come to good use in the years since he had left the Empire far behind.

  During those times, he had come across a physician from Gunther’s own homeland who had spoken of wine as an effective treatment for open wounds. He was a well-traveled man, and very erudite. From the bonds of their shared homeland, Gunther had been able to open up a rich dialogue that had profited his learning greatly.

  The physician had been a very firm believer in the teachings of a certain friar in Lombar, a man who had certainly gained unique experience as the son of a physician who had participated in one of the major Holy Wars in the Sunlands. In the few times since that Gunther had adhered to the physician’s advice, he had found the things that he had learned to be infinitely more efficacious than the old salves and concoctions still passed down in western lands. The latter’s origins derived from little more than folktale, and to Gunther’s eyes had always been ineffectual.

  Knowing that the enemy invading the Saxan lands was Avanoran had raised Gunther’s hopes that a little wine could be located, when he had taken on the burden of searching the battleground. A few Unguhur had been dispatched to bring back any liquids that they could find still stored within the remains of the enemy’s destroyed encampment.

  As he had expected, a cask of strong wine was uncovered, presumably intended for the higher-ranking Avanorans amongst the enemy force. He had never been more grateful for the Gallean affinity for wine, or for the fact that Avanoran nobles were not opposed to indulging themselves, even while on a campaign.

  The Saxan warrior continued to bite down on the leather strip that Gunther had provided for him, as more wine poured into the wound. The man was nearly overcome by the searing pain caused by the wine’s increasing contact with the exposed, bleeding laceration.

  “That should help you, so that you do not get a sickness later,” Gunther assured the man, in a calm, confident tone. He then turned his attention towards a few Unguhur who were shadowing him, to assist where needed. “I am done with this man. Get this warrior back to a safer haven.”

  To Gunther’s frustration, the hulking, gray-hided creatures were showing greater degrees of discomfort the longer that they remained in the direct light of day. Despite being underneath the leaves of the trees, they squinted incessantly, showing a real difficulty with adjusting to the wealth of light at mid-day on the surface of Ave.

  The Unguhur warrior retrieved a litter fashioned out of a length of hide, looped and secured around two elongated wooden poles, a simple type of construct that Gunther had shown to them. Carefully, they moved the Saxan onto the litter, before two of the Unghuhur hunched over, and gripped the ends of the poles in their huge hands. Standing up, and lifting the man off the ground with extreme ease, they carried him away, to where he could rest down in the relative safety of the Unguhur Realm.

  Gunther stood up himself, grimacing as he stretched his sore, stiffened back. His tightened back cracked and popped several times before he was through. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he wiped the thick sweat off of his brow, looking out across the debilitating vision of death surrounding him. His face was stony, and his eyes iron-hard, but deep within he was not unmoved by the sorrowful aftermath of the battle.

  A couple of his Jaghuns were eagerly yapping and barking, indicating that yet another living being had been found in the carnage. Each and every such moment represented a small victory, of a kind that Gunther savored with gladness and gratitude.

  A couple of the others from Gunther’s four-legged entourage were diligently sniffing and pawing about in their continuing search for others. There was not much more left of the battlefield that they had not sifted through, a reality that dampened Gunther’s spirits, as much as the discovery of survivors bolstered them.

  Commanding his tired legs to move, Gunther plodded across the battlefield, to where the two Jaghuns were making their commotion. They had found another Saxan with breath yet in him, clad in a blood-stained mail shirt. The man had a significant wound near his midsection, where he had been pierced by a sword or lance that had since been removed.

  The presence of a stout, well-crafted coat of mail, as well as the tri-lobed, silver-gilt pommel on the sword lying on the ground at his side, said more than enough about the warrior. The items indicated right away that the man was no common Saxan farmer or artisan, called forth by the mass levy of the General Fyrd.

  Carefully, Gunther removed the Saxan’s half-helm, a segmented construct of four iron plates set within an iron frame. Sounds of labored, erratic breathing emitted from the deeply unconscious man.

  His thick beard and long locks were matted with sweat, blood and grime. The rounded face and broad, flat nose lent the man a rather kindly natural mien. Despite the circumstances, Gunther could imagine such a face regularly exhibiting expressions of jest and mirth before the battle.

  He had encountered the burly, jovial type many times before in his life, drinking copious amounts of ale and booming with laughter. Gunther suspected strongly that this was a similar kind of man, as the etched lines in the Saxan’s face were indeed conducive to laughter and smiles.

  Yet the man also exhibited physical characteristics indicating the presence of a capable warrior. The broad shoulders of the man accented a powerful, bullish neck, all of which gave open testament to a great physical strength present within the unconscious warrior. Thick, powerful arms ended in massive, rough hands, of the kind that Gunther suspected could wield the most robust of weapons skillfully enough, though all now lay idly upon the ground.

  In a tedious, careful fashion, Gunther began the onerous task of removing the battered, penetrated mail shirt. Underneath it was a woolen tunic that had been thoroughly soiled with the filth of battle. When he got down to the man’s midsection, and peeled away the tunic, he got a much better look at the wound that had eliminated the warrior from the battle.

  From the looks of the glistening, oozing wound, a spear had managed to penetrate through the mail, driving dee
p into the man’s side. Gunther breathed a sigh of relief, as it looked as if the wound was not a mortal blow. The man had been incredibly fortunate, for if the blow had been just a few inches to the left he would have long since left the world behind.

  “Water,” Gunther called out to a lone Unguhur that hunkered in the shade of a tree nearby.

  The Unguhur walked over to Gunther’s side, and extended a waterskin towards him that had been filled up from a creek in the vicinity. Gently, Gunther cleaned off the wound, before rinsing it with some of the wine left within the other waterskin. When the wine touched the wound, the unconscious warrior was awakened with a start.

  “Wha… what?” the man stammered, his eyes widening with an element of fear, as well as pain from the sharp stinging that was undoubtedly radiating from the wine-cleaned wound.

  Gunther put his hand out, shifting his speech back to Saxan, “Sssshhh! You are safe… be still. It is lucky that we found you. I believe that you are going to survive. The wound that you received was not a killing blow, and it has been treated before it could fester… I am Gunther, here with the Unguhur, who have come to your aid.”

  “The… Unguhur?” the man iterated, with a look of momentary confusion. It was then that his eyes wandered past Gunther towards the tall Unguhur standing idly a few feet behind. A look of surprise and awe sprang upon his face. “What has happened?… The battle?… The Avanorans… What has happened?”

  “The Unguhur have helped the Saxans, the Avanorans have not won. We will speak of more later, but you are in the hands of friends, be assured of that,” Gunther replied firmly. “First, you must rest.”

  The man’s eyes reflected desperation, and an underlying stubbornness. His mind was clearly gaining in focus, and something was troubling him greatly. “No! I must know now… please… what has happened?”

  Gunther replied, “In time, my Saxan friend.”

  “No!” the man shouted with desperation, his body trembling in pain at the sudden jostling. “I must know now! What has happened?”

  Reluctantly, Gunther acquiesced to the man’s wishes. “The battle is over… we have only found a few who are wounded, and yet live, along this ridge. We do not know how many Saxans retreated or survived before we arrived. The Avanorans have been driven back, and their camp overrun. I am not sure that any force from the surface world won on this day.”

  To Gunther’s surprise, the warrior’s eyes suddenly reddened and a few tears leaked out, as the man exhibited a countenance rife with frustration and forlorn sorrow. Gunther was transfixed by the man’s emotive expression, the mask of a dying hope.

  “Aethelstan…” the man’s lips barely mumbled, just above a whisper. “Aethelstan… is he alive?”

  Gunther was frozen by the name that came out from the mouth of the wounded warrior. Aethelstan, who had tolerated Gunther’s eccentric presence in the outer forests of Saxany for so many years, had evidently been involved in the terrible battle.

  Gunther’s eyes immediately shifted over the long array of bodies that he had inspected. A horrible chill welled up in him at the mere thought that one of the helmeted, dead bodies could be that of a rarity in Ave; a man that Gunther could sincerely call a friend. A new fear raced through his veins, though he made an effort to keep his face steady for the benefit of the other man.

  “There is no sign of Aethelstan, dead or alive,” Gunther said quickly, straining not to choke on the emotion that threatened to grip him tightly.

  The other man winced, whether from pain, recoil at the uncertain news, or from a combination of both.

  “I must… look… for him,” the other man said. His eyes closed, and he mercifully passed out again, leaving Gunther alone with the unsettling news.

  Gunther finished binding the man’s wounds, though he felt a great tension and anxiety as he did so.

  “Get him to a place of rest,” Gunther ordered the Unguhur when he was finished, standing up straight and staring down at the man beneath him, watching the Saxan’s chest lift and fall with each breath.

  Curtly, Gunther turned and called to his Jaghuns, consumed with the desire to know for certain what had become of Aethelstan. Of the small pack, he sent out four to search for any living beings just beyond the outermost boundaries of the fighting area. The others he kept with him, as he resumed attending to any living souls that could be found amid the bloodshed.

  It took tremendous discipline to set his eyes upon any figure that wore mail or helm. Fear rose in intensity, with each and every dead face that he looked upon, garbed in anything that might possibly be worn by a Saxan thane.

  As Gunther went across the battleground, his heart shook with the notion that at any moment one of the bodies found could be that of Aethelstan. His eyes wavered constantly, and were determinedly, and grudgingly, brought to bear on each area of fallen warriors. He was tormented by the dread of seeing Aethelstan lying still, devoid of breath, a truly noble man who Gunther had always seen as flowing with light and life.

  A part of him turned in silent supplication to the All-Father. He prayed that the Jaghuns would either discover a surviving group of Saxans, or find a passage of retreat that would eventually lead Gunther to the still-living Aethelstan. A storm of tremendous regret and frustration engulfed him as he realized what was ultimately happening to him.

  Though he had so fervently resisted, for many long years, he could not deny that he was being drawn back into the affairs of kings and emperors. He had sworn never to do so again, but now he had no choice.

  Yet he could not betray the man that he was at heart, and then expect to live with himself, not for even one day.

  *

  EDMUND

  *

  Edmund, and the other two hale Saxan warriors, assisted by the heightened senses of their Himmeros steeds, kept a tight watch out of the cave opening. The atmosphere all around them was quiet and ponderous, each uncertain moment weighing upon their nerves.

  The three of them had already shared their amazement that not one Avanoran warrior had yet crossed into the area in front of the cave. The end of the battle had been inevitable when they had fled with the unconscious Aethelstan. There was not a speck of doubt in any of them that the Avanorans had gained free reign throughout the forest by then.

  As time crept on, hunger and thirst began to draw upon their reserves of willpower. After conferring, the three had decided that they could not risk a foray for sustenance, as long as they felt very strongly that they were in immediate danger.

  A little hard bread, which was in one of the leather saddle-pouches carried by one of the Himmerosen, and some equally stout, rather dry cheese was divided up amongst them. They were able to wash it down with a little water from a skin. The meager fare was far from satisfying, and did very little to blunt the edges of their gaping appetites.

  In short shifts, the Saxans afforded each other precious moments of rest. Aethelstan remained unconscious, drained and wounded from the arduous battle.

  Edmund looked over towards one of the other Saxans, a man named Webba, who was now standing with him by the opening of the cave. Both men had taken their bows and quivers off of their sky steeds. Quivers hanging at their waists, and bows in hand, they would at least have some means of deterring an intruding, enemy presence from a distance.

  “We cannot take to the skies, Webba,” Edmund mused, in a low voice, looking out into the hushed woods. “There is little doubt that we would soon be overwhelmed. We cannot go along the ground recklessly, for we would be destroyed if a full force of the enemy swarms over us. We both know the outcome of the battle. Even so, I would risk something, were it not for Aethelstan… but I fear that we are now trapped.”

  Webba nodded grimly. A very pious man, and father of three well-mannered sons, he often served in Aethelstan’s garrison in Bergton. Unsurprising to Edmund, his advice was religious in nature. “Pray, Edmund. That is something that you may do.”

  “You speak truly, and maybe the All-Father will deliver us yet
,” Edmund replied softly, smiling gently, and taking a deep breath to offset the pressures that he felt rising from their deteriorating prospects. With so much tugging at his mind, it took several moments to relax the tensions riddling his body.

  Webba suddenly held up one hand, an abrupt gesture that at once quieted Edmund. With a finger, Webba pointed firmly just off to the right. Through the trees, a horrific sight brought a sudden, freezing chill to Edmund’s heart.

  Edmund felt a tingle of adrenaline race through him as he witnessed multiple large forms moving among the trees, heading right in the direction of their hideout. Turning, he took a silent step back into the shadows of the cave, and carefully roused the last sky rider from his nap.

  Edmund signaled to the man to stay silent, and to arm himself, before he rejoined Webba by the cave’s opening. Slowly, Edmund drew an arrow and notched it. He raised the bow up, drawing the string back until it held a modest tension. To his right, Webba elevated his own bow and selected a target.

  The two arrows were honed upon the point where the first massive form finally broke through the underbrush. The feline-like creature that broke through the trees, and gazed directly towards the cave, was paralyzing to behold. Edmund knew that it could be nothing other than a Licanther.

  Three others emerged just behind the first. Their huge heads held an arsenal of formidable teeth within powerful jaws, including the two curving, sword-length monstrosities that protruded down from their upper lips. The immense, stabbing pair of teeth had given the creatures a legendary reputation that had worked its way into many fireside tales.

  The creatures seemed to move almost effortlessly, their rippling musculature flowing in undulating precision, as they crossed the floor of the forest on their broad paws.

  There was no sign of any Atagar with the robust cats, as Edmund would have expected, from what he had learned of the Avanoran forces arrayed against Saxany. This was clearly a pack that had somehow been set loose, whether for some unknown purpose, or due to the death of their rat-like masters.