While the invaders had sent raiding and foraging parties into the area, the Saxans’ intimate knowledge of the forest lent a great advantage to the small war band. Those that were native to the land knew the natural pathways that enemies would have had to scout out endlessly, so as not to be stuck within an obstructive labyrinth of thorns and brush. With a surety of direction, the Saxan war band was able to maintain a brisk pace, covering well more than four leagues through the thick forest-growth.
The stout fortress belonging to the alloidal lord Godric now stood before their eyes, at journey’s end. The fortress’s high, palisaded walls crowned a tall earthen rampart that sloped sharply downward, completely ringing the circular perimeter. It was a fort designed in the old way, reflecting methods of the former Southern Kingdom. Four gates set at equal distances from each other pierced the fortress, effectively dividing the interior into wedge-shaped quarters.
Within the main walls of the fortress, they could identify a more streamlined enclosure, filled with a variety of timber buildings with sharply-sloped roofs. A large hall with gable ends stood out prominently amongst all of the sundry buildings, a structure that Wulfstan surmised was the main hall of Godric himself. A number of guards bearing spears, and a few with curving longbows that were strung and at the ready, could be seen walking slowly along the inner perimeter of the palisade-crowned rampart.
The final instructions given to the Saxan warriors involved the existence of a specific underground tunnel, one that all of their hopes rested on. The information also imparted some of the history and lore of the fortress to Wulfstan, and those others of the group who were not from the immediate area.
The fortress might have been bequeathed as a freehold in past times, but one small aspect of its construction had been acutely remembered, and passed down quietly, within a few certain families in the Saxan Kingdom. That carefully transferred heritage of knowledge was about to demonstrate its value.
Wulfstan had to concede that the storied southern king Clovis II had possessed excellent foresight in the moment that he had initially bestowed the fortress and lands upon Conrad the Ironheart. In the instance that a day of treachery or grave threats beckoned towards the larger kingdom, if the freehold was ever held by someone as suspect in their integrity as Godric, Clovis II had taken a precaution. He had seen to it that the future generations would have a valuable piece of knowledge at their behest, to utilize during a dark hour such as the present time.
If the tunnel was still fully in place, and had not ever been discovered and blocked by its occupiers, the continued diligence of a small group of related nobles down the long ages would have made possible a gift of hope to the present Saxans. It was now undeniably the darkest hour that the Saxans had ever faced, and each possible advantage at hand was worth more than many towering piles of silver.
“The question is simply where the tunnel entrance is, exactly,” Wulfstan said in a low voice to the men close at his side.
“Should we spread out now?” a warrior on his left side asked. “We know the general area.”
“Not yet,” Wulfstan said, shooting a serious glance at the warrior. “We need to watch this place, closely, for as long as we can spare. From what we have come to know of this Godric, there are no certainties regarding his loyalties. They may have already been given to our enemies, and we need to see if we can tell.”
The other warrior nodded to him in apparent agreement, and went back to a mode of silent observation. Over the course of the next hour, as the morning sun crawled ever higher into the sky, the small group of Saxans remained almost motionless, in their places on the hill’s summit.
Wulfstan’s eyes scanned the wide, open ground surrounding the base of the fortress, studying the land and its features carefully. To the immediate west of the fortress, there were cleared fields that likely belonged to the nearest village. There was no sign of any activity within the fields, which did not surprise Wulfstan entirely. The villagers were likely to have gone into hiding at the presence of such vast armies as those now invading Saxany.
The villagers were wise to choose seclusion in any instance. Whether an army in the vicinity was friend or foe, there were always individuals within any force who were both capable and willing to commit atrocities, such as spilling blood over a little bread, a haunch of meat, or a cask of ale. That did not even begin to take account of the pervasive lusts of humankind that erupted viciously within the chaos of a war.
Men with shadowy hearts tended to swiftly avail themselves of the breakdown of order, escaping from their own hatred of life by visiting great evils upon others. The harsh reality was that the value of life always tumbled precipitously during a time of war, and Wulfstan could not begin to find fault in those who still valued it enough to flee.
As for himself, he valued life as much as they did, but knew that he was both readily able and highly motivated to strike back against those who did not. Not everyone in possession of good intentions could be said to be in such a position, mostly due to a lack of necessary skills.
It was a regrettable truth borne out over long ages of warfare. Many a peasant villager had the inspiration to oppose barbarity, but few had the capability. Such a reality had resulted in a sad litany of tragedy, filled with flames, gorged lusts, and blood.
Off in the distance to the east of the fortress there was a large contingent of mounted warriors coming within sight, with pennons flying from the ends of several of their lances. The mass of riders were still at a far enough range that Wulfstan could not make out the specific designs on the pennons, but he was all but certain as to whom the riders belonged to.
Another hour passed by, with no significant activity perceptible around the fortress. Godric’s men kept pacing along the wall-walks, and several individuals could be seen moving among the buildings within the enclosure, but there was nothing to indicate the presence of anything unusual.
A few of the men in the band of Saxans began to get edgy as time passed, looking up regularly towards the cloud-streaked skies for signs of enemy sky riders. Wulfstan then heard the light shuffling of cloth against the dew-dampened grass, just as he felt a body pull up right beside him.
“What do you wait for?” Cenwald whispered to Wulfstan. “The longer we stay, the greater the chance we may be discovered.”
“I am waiting for certainty. It would appear that few trust this Godric,” Wulfstan replied evenly, glancing over to Cenwald. He then added, “And we should not become lax in this. We may be free now, but we are far from our encampment and army, and the moment that we go into that fortress we will place ourselves in Godric’s power. Let us first see in whose influence that power lies.”
Whether Cenwald’s growing impatience invoked something or not, the sight of a broad shadow crossing the expanse of ground before the hill subsequently grabbed their attention. The dark patch glided along the ground’s surface, moving speedily towards the fortress.
Looking upward, Wulfstan espied the distinctive form of an armed Trogen mounted upon a Harrak. The sky rider was coming in at a very low altitude from the east, where the armies of the Unifier were fiercely engaged with the massed Saxan forces.
The position of the Saxan observers on the hilltop was a fortuitous one, as they were located almost directly to the south of the fortress. With the upper contour of the hill that they were prostrate behind, they were afforded a good measure of concealment, and were well-hidden to the eyes of the low-flying rider.
The sky rider would have only caught sign of them if he had been carefully scanning the hilltop, but the summit was clearly of little concern to the Trogen. The sky rider’s eyes were fixed ahead on the fortress, as the Harrak swooped in on a fairly level plane.
The Harrak then angled even lower, as the rider guided the creature down sharply. The sky steed came within bow-shot of the high ramparts at last, without its rider showing any kind of care, or even signal of some kind. Significantly, no alarm was forthcoming from within the fortress either,
nor were any arrows loosed in defense of it.
The guards on the walls paused in their walking for a moment, idly watching the Harrak’s passage just over their heads into the midst of the fortress. Rider and steed disappeared from Wulfstan’s sight as they landed upon the ground within the inner fortress, close to one of the four gates.
“There, some other riders,” Cenwald then whispered, a little excitedly, drawing Wulfstan’s attention towards about a half-dozen figures mounted on horseback that were sauntering up the winding path leading to the eastern gate.
One of the men was flying a pennon near the blade end of a long spear. The pennon was largely rectangular in shape, with the longest edge vertical. From the side opposite the spear shaft, there were three, elongated, triangular tendrils that streamed out to their endpoints. Most of the pennon was yellow in color, save for a vertical blue strip that formed the right edge of the rectangular portion. The middle of the triangular extensions was also that same blue color, the other two being yellow.
“Avanoran,” Wulfstan murmured to Cenwald tensely, taking note of the pennon whose appearance and coloration he had so recently learned about, under very life-threatening circumstances.
He watched as the gate swung open to allow the riders unimpeded access to the interior of the fortress. The calm, unopposed entrance of the sky rider and the mounted warriors into the fortress made a clear, unobstructed statement concerning the situation at hand. It told Wulfstan everything that he needed to know, confirming the worst of his fears.
“That explains everything, and answers the certainty that I sought,” Wulfstan said in a low, edgy voice, the lines on his neck popping above the skin’s surface, as he clenched his jaw in hot irritation. All of the fears and rumors that he had ever heard about Godric had manifested before his eyes. “You see, caution is sometimes very advised. Now we know that a traitor is surely at hand.”
Wulfstan fell into a stony silence, passing on the word for all of the others to wait just a little longer. There would be no need to send any sort of delegation to the perfidious lord, but there was always need for information on an enemy.
All of the years that Saxany had allowed Godric, and those who preceded him, running all the way back to Conrad the Ironheart, to flourish, had counted for absolutely nothing in the darkest of hours. When the entire Saxan realm was under grave threat, and needed the loyalty of the allodial freehold the most, Godric had discarded the years of support, friendship, and trade, on a calculated gamble.
The realization was maddening, and a burning desire for retribution coalesced inside Wulfstan. He began to foment a rough idea involving the tunnel, one that just might deliver Godric the reward that he so richly deserved for his duplicity. Wulfstan was not a commander in the group, such that he could order any attack, but he could put forth a suggestion for the others to consider. Having a good idea of the mettle of the men who he had traversed the forest with, he felt that there was a good chance that any workable idea to strike a blow at Godric would be well-received.
Wulfstan had to think quickly, but he did so clearly, and without any inner conflict, as there was no doubt as to what side Godric had cast his lot with. The tunnel had to be found very soon, and fires would have to be started swiftly from within.
Food supplies would be the most valuable target, as Godric had likely hoarded a substantial supply from the nearby villages under his dominion. Wulfstan knew that it would not go to the people on Godric’s land, but would feed the hunger of the invaders. The timber buildings that served as stores for such foodstuffs and supplies would have to be identified before the Saxans moved into the fortress.
Keeping to his belly, Wulfstan began to back down the hill, in order to summon the war band together. There remained a matter of consensus, before any final evaluation of the fortress’s buildings and layout could take place for a possible raid. Agreement to a strike on the fortress would also decide the necessity of searching out the tunnel entrance.
He had gotten no more than a couple body lengths down the slope when Cenwald’s agitated voice called out to him from above.
“Wulfstan, more come, quickly, get up here!” Cenwald whispered hurriedly, looking fleetingly back to him, and gesturing sharply for him to come back up with impetus.
Wulfstan got to his hands and knees, and scurried up the short length, forsaking meticulous caution and falling flat on the ground next to Cenwald. He peered back in the direction of the fortress.
“Up, there, to the right,” Cenwald directed him, pointing. “Look at that!”
Like a cloud breaking up into several tendrils, a massed contingent of Trogen sky riders were rapidly descending from the upper skies. They were approaching along a similar route to that of the lone rider that had arrived just moments before.
“The new day is bringing many surprises,” Wulfstan muttered darkly, keeping his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him.
As if instinctively, Wulfstan’s eyes shot back over towards the place where the small group of horsemen had been sighted. His eyes alighted upon another, much larger force of mounted riders, just a second before Cenwald urged him to look upon the newly-arriving, swiftly moving contingent.
A realization dawned on him, even as Cenwald called his attention to the fact that the horse riders were cantering as a full body directly towards the eastern gate of the fortress. The rumbling of the steeds’ hooves pounding across the ground flowed like a muffled thunder.
A large number of the incoming Trogens swarmed around the same gate that the horse-mounted force was heading towards, and faint cries of alarm erupted suddenly from the wall-walks. There was no time to gather any significant defense, as Godric’s men had plainly been caught unawares. A raid was taking place, though not one that Godric or his men had apparently expected.
Harraks dipped and swooped around the wall-walks, while others dropped down behind the wall. A few others broke away to beset other areas of the wall-walk, darting and flying about the high ramparts.
The tall wooden gates then slowly swung open from the inside, as the horse riders continued their approach along the ground. Drawing closer to the fortress, the riders shifted from a canter to a full gallop as they streaked towards the opening. They were now close enough for Wulfstan to see that the pennons flying in the riders’ midst were identical to the ones carried by the small group that had freely entered just moments prior.
The light of day gleamed off helms, mail, and weapons, the sparkling, deadly stream coursing uninhibited towards the gaping entrance. The mass of riders covered the last expanse of ground swiftly, and with lances lowering the lead elements issued through the open gate, virtually unopposed.
The clash of arms and shouts of fighting had broken out from within, but it would be no contest. Wulfstan knew that Godric’s men were doomed. In a lightning strike, the Trogens and horse-mounted warriors were seizing the fortress, and everything within it. There would be no bartering, as Godric probably had hoped. The fortress was a possible liability that the enemy was not going to tolerate, not to mention the inviting prospects of acquiring sizeable stores of foodstuffs and other supplies. Godric had been deceived, even as he had deceived the Saxans.
The need to search for the entrance to the old tunnel was rendered unnecessary, almost at the same moment that the tunnel’s continued functionality was revealed. Three figures appeared to hastily emerge from the very earth, as an opening suddenly manifested well beyond the fortress’s high ramparts to the south, right before the eyes of the Saxan observers.
Breaking into a run, as if pursued by a pack of wolves, the three figures raced across the open ground just to the west of Wulfstan’s position. They carried swords and shields with them, and he had a deep-seeded suspicion as to who would be among the first to flee the attack.
Reflexively, and spurred by his great ire, Wulfstan stood and bounded off to the west, racing along the top of the ridgeline. He put himself on a direct line to intercept the three warriors, whom he guessed
were heading for the refuge of the wild forestlands spread just in back of the Saxan position. Wulfstan altered his course slightly, to descend behind the crest of the ridge, so that the oncoming trio would not be able to see him.
The three men aided his cause, as they called out to each other several times in panicked exhortation on the other side of the hill. Honing in upon their voices, Wulfstan adjusted his approach until he was certain that he was in their path. He lowered himself into a crouch, waiting and listening carefully to the gasps, grunts, and heaving breathing of the three men scrambling to climb up the slope on the other side.
The three men nearly tumbled over the top of the ridgeline in their manic haste. They were feverish in demeanor, choked with fear, and gasping for air, such that they were a little off balance as their forms were outlined starkly against the morning sky.
Wulfstan moved quickly, thrusting his leg out at the nearest man, who tripped over his shin and crashed into the ground. The sudden impact provoked an audible gasp, as the air was knocked out the surprised warrior. The man’s hands opened up, and his sword and shield went flying out from his grip.
The other two men had run right by Wulfstan’s position, staggering and striding down the hill as they picked up speed and struggled frenetically to keep their balance.
Wulfstan scurried forward and pressed his right knee down heavily into the middle of the fallen warrior’s back. He used his left knee to pin the man’s left arm down, while using his right arm to immobilize the man’s right. His free left arm clutched his seax tightly, the point placed at the base of the fallen man’s neck.
“Hold! Hold!” the man cried out desperately, as the point of Wulfstan’s seax elicited a small drip of blood from where the sharpened tip pressed down into his skin. The man then stammered, “I am Godric, of nobility, I can pay you.”
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