Dream of Legends fie-2

by Stephen Zimmer

  Gunther rolled over and scrambled to his feet, spurred by the surety that he was much slower than the beast attacking him. With all of his might, he raised his sword up and brought it rushing down without delay, knowing that the creature was unbearably close.

  The ensuing blow was more than he ever could have hoped for. It landed squarely on the head of the Hyaed, whose jaws were already stretched wide in anticipation of a crushing, killing bite.

  The steel edge cleaved through the bone of the beast’s skull, burying itself into its brain and slaying the Hyaed instantly. The creature’s tongue lolled out over its still-glistening muster of blade-like teeth, as it collapsed heavily onto the ground. With a strong heave, Gunther pulled his sword free.

  It had all happened within a whisk of time, yet the blood-chilling sense of danger had seemed to last forever. Regaining more of his wits in the midst of his battle rage, Gunther bounded over to retrieve his bow from where he had thrown it down. He still had a few arrows remaining in his quiver, and he risked a couple of moments to notch one.

  Pulling back the arrow, he trained his sights on the last two Hyaeds, who were still being held at bay by the relentless harassment of his Jaghuns. The stalemate provided him with his choice of targets, and he hoped that the huge creatures continued to hesitate, and did not move to engage his remaining Jaghuns. Of the two Hyaeds, Gunther preferred to keep his concentration focused on the massive, older male, instead of the female.

  Keeping his hand steady, it was as if he assimilated his entire being into an unbroken continuum with the bow, arrow shaft, iron tip, and intended target. Everything was an extension of himself, even the air between him and the Hyaed. As he had done a hundred upon a hundred times before, he loosed the arrow, with the kind of exceptional, sharply honed skill that made it appear as if he delivered the arrow’s point by hand to his desired target.

  The shaft flashed across the clearing, and burrowed deep into the chest cavity of the large male. With its teeth still grinding, the beast slumped ponderously to the ground, as the fires were extinguished within its eyes.

  Gunther dexterously switched back to his sword again, knowing that he was within just a couple strides’ reach of the last remaining Hyaed. There would be no chance to notch another arrow.

  Instinct for preservation prevailed in the female. The creature was now faced with being outnumbered, having already witnessed the three formidable males silenced permanently, and severed from any possibility of courting her as a mate.

  Backing up slowly, the female spun, and vaulted in the other direction. Her legs churned rapidly as she propelled herself into the depths of the forest. The Jaghuns darted forward in her wake, snapping the empty air where she had just been. They halted just beyond the base of the tree, canny enough not to give chase recklessly.

  The area was now cast with an eerie silence, made even more disquieting by its suddenness. Gunther took a deep breath, and looked back towards the broken body of the fallen Jaghun.

  The creature was a male named Arrow, who had always raced through the woodlands with the grace and directness of the object for which the creature had been named. Images of Arrow, vibrant, alive, and bounding through the foliage, as if nothing in all the world could hinder the creature, flooded Gunther’s shaken, grieving mind. The living kaleidoscope of memories contrasted starkly with the still, lifeless, and broken form sprawled on the ground before him.

  Thoughts and emotions racing, as the weight of yet another terrible loss was heaped upon him, he gazed hotly up into the tree, to where Ryan and Erin were still crouched. His fiery look threatened to spark a conflagration in the wood of the tree.

  He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and all of his muscles tensed, as he visibly shook with the tremors generating from within. It appeared that he was readying to try and cleave through the trunk of the tree, in one blow. A fearsome madness danced in his eyes, as his psyche strained to corral the delirious impulses brought forth by extreme sorrow and fury.

  “Get down… now!” Gunther thundered at them, his voice shaking with his surging anger. He left no room for any questions or debate, glaring at the tree-bound pair with a look that was dangerously close to murderous in its ferocity.

  Meekly, and clearly frightened as they beheld his countenance, Ryan and Erin started climbing slowly down the branches. Gunther ripped his attention away from them, knowing that he was on the very brink of snapping, and trotted back over to the fallen Jaghun. Kneeling down, he hugged the body of the slain beast, a practice that was becoming all too common.

  Unseen by the other humans, a couple of tears welled up and broke free. They crawled down his sweaty, blood-stained face, wetting the musky, blood-matted fur of Arrow’s body where the drops touched.

  He offered up a fervent prayer to the All-Father for the soul of his Jaghun, defying some of the priests that he had heard, who claimed that only humans possessed souls. To Gunther, it was unfathomable how such loving, loyal creatures as his Jaghuns could have anything less than a soul. When his supplication was finished, Gunther quietly set about making a makeshift funeral pyre.

  Gathering wood and stone, he had to pause for a moment, wiping his eyes as they leaked from the overflow of heart-rending emotions within him. His brooding, mournful silence pervaded the air with a great heaviness, one that was not disturbed by any that witnessed him, whether human or beast.

  He gently laid the body of Arrow down upon the wood, and then brought flames to life within it. The flames spread steadily, and the body of the Jaghun was quickly consumed, the smoke rising above the trees and climbing towards the heavens.

  In his own mind, Gunther imagined Arrow bounding once again, in a land where no harm would ever come to the creature. With a little effort, he could envision a forest where the very leaves glistened with the light of undying life, blinking back more tears as he was left behind in such a miserable world of decay and sadness.

  At the very least, Arrow’s body would not be left to rot and decay, no matter what the Western Church felt about the old world’s funeral practices. Gunther’s body might one day lay in the ground, according to the Church’s teaching, but those of his Jaghuns would not.

  In a way, he thought of the burning pyre as conveying Arrow’s body over into the next world, where it would exist forever, incorruptible. The light shining from that thought provided a singular, precious drop of comfort within the sprawling fires of his bereavement.

  “Won’t that attract something?” Ryan tentatively asked, from where he stood a few feet away. The youth eyed the smoky tendrils swirling up into the sky.

  Gunther slowly turned his head towards Ryan. The sight of the youth rekindled his ire, which swelled quickly. The woodsman’s body trembled, until his pent-up anger could be held back no longer.

  Stomping over to Ryan, his right arm shot forward, and he threw the young man to the ground in an outburst of violent force. Ryan skidded, and his startled, fearful outcry could not finish passing his lips before his throat was seized in Gunther’s left hand.

  “Do I care?” Gunther hissed at the young man, applying more force to his grip. Ryan squirmed and gagged, but was helpless against the overpowering force applied by the woodsman. “Would this have happened

  … if it was not for you, and that other dimwit?”

  Gunther spat the words out, each one feeling like hot bile in his mouth. There had been no good reason for his Jaghun to die. Arrow was filled with vitality, coming into the bloom of his prime. Gunther had raised the Jaghun since the day of his birth in the woodlands. Like the others, the creature had a unique, special personality that Gunther had come to know well.

  The death was needless, inarguably avoidable, and had the two otherworlders had even the slightest bit of sense Arrow would still be alive down in the Unguhur Realm. Gunther had given of himself for the Saxans, and for the otherworlders, and he now found himself continuing to pay a price that was far too high for his liking.

  Pulling his knife out in a
blur of movement, he pressed the tip of it against Ryan’s exposed neck, just above the point where he was choking him. Ryan was wide-eyed, desperate and panicked, and his face was wracked with sheer terror. His staggered breaths were curt, as he peered back into the visage of a grief-crazed, enraged man. The youth blanched as he took in the look growing within the depths of Gunther’s eyes, trembling fearfully and whimpering. There was no doubt that the youth knew that his life was teetering in the balance.

  “Please, Gunther… Ryan is foolish, and he is young… he did not intend any of this… please forgive him,” Lee interjected, pleading in a low voice, moving to within a couple of feet of Gunther’s right side.

  Gunther did not so much as twitch, keeping his focus bearing down hotly on the foolish lad pinned on the ground before him. He pressed his knife in a little harder, pricking the youth’s skin, and holding it there for a long moment. A thin trickle of blood worked its way from the knife’s bite, meandering in rivulets down the left side of Ryan’s neck.

  “A life for a life, yes?” Gunther growled dangerously. “Is that not what the old writings say?”

  “Please Gunther… don’t do this!” Lynn begged Gunther, from his other side, raw passion saturating her words. “They are stupid, not evil. Please don’t kill him, I beg you.”

  Erin made no move to draw any closer to Gunther, or to attract his attention. She watched his fearsome reaction to Ryan from a distance, with pure, wide-eyed horror splayed across her face.

  After pressing the metal point to the very edge of penetrating deeper into the flesh of Ryan’s neck, Gunther swiftly withdrew the blade, and replaced it in the sheath at his side. Without another word, he released Ryan, stood up, and whistled to his Jaghuns. He did not spare a single glance or word to the four otherworlders.

  The Jaghuns regrouped around their caretaker, emitting whining sounds that carried a distinctive, forlorn quality. The saddened master and beasts strode off in the direction from which they had come, heading back towards the cave entrance leading to the Unguhur Realm.

  Gunther did not pause to see whether the four otherworlders followed him, and at the moment he hardly cared. Grief had overwhelmed him, almost to the point of changing him irrevocably. That shook him more than anything else, as he began to realize what he had nearly done.

  He knew that a momentous, inner struggle loomed, one that would determine whether or not he could keep the foundations of his spirit from crumbling.

  *

  WULFSTAN

  *

  Returning on a long, looping route through the dense woods, the band of Saxan warriors finally emerged a short distance behind the front lines of the titanic battle. They had encountered a few Saxan scouts and patrols as they drew closer, but fortunately had evaded those of the enemy in the contested region.

  Wulfstan had found the Saxans warding the forest to be both anxious about the ongoing battle, and elated to see the return of the small party. It was obvious from their reactions that they had not expected to see Wulfstan and his companions again.

  In the light of day, Wulfstan could appreciate the Saxan efforts that had been undertaken within the forest. Any stretch that would have been passable by larger groups or mounted warriors had been heavily barricaded, utilizing masses of felled trees and branches.

  Time and time again, Wulfstan’s group had passed by the obstacles, and he could understand why the enemy had attempted so little through the woods. It would have been an outright killing zone, and no amount of numerical superiority would have given much of an advantage in such treacherous environs. Cavalry would easily have become bogged down, and subsequently cut to pieces, in such an environment.

  The trees also negated any advantages that the enemy may otherwise have enjoyed from the air. There were few areas to land steeds, and the thick foliage of the upper branches prevented effective surveillance.

  Truly, with such a large army in the field, the enemy’s only viable option was to come right at the Saxans through the Plains of Athelney. That the enemy had to take a direct approach was of little consolation, though, as the enemy had an ocean of force to hurl at Saxany’s shores.

  As they walked out of the woods, and back into the full embrace of the sun, Wulfstan was filled with mixed emotions. It had been a successful journey, but the battle itself was far from over. Even more troubling was the undeniable reality of the strange sight that he had witnessed in the sky, a vision directly related to the recurring dreams that he had been having in ever greater intensity.

  The Saxan band worked their way to a rendezvous point, where their helms, mail, and other potential encumbrances on the woodland mission had been discarded until their return. Several of the light horsemen from Annenheim that had been used to scout for, and guard, Wulfstan’s group on their outward foray were now warding the pile of items. With broad smiles and vigorous shouts, they hailed his band. It took only a few moments more for their eyes to fall on the conspicuous prisoners being conveyed along in the group’s midst.

  Wulfstan felt a sense of relief, as he put his mail shirt on, and placed his half-helm back on his head. As close as he was to the ongoing battle, he felt much more secure with the mail and helm returned to his possession, almost as if he had been sent naked on the woodland sojourn.

  Once they had retrieved their items, the small party took a long walk as they were escorted well behind the Saxan lines, and guided towards the main encampment. Wulfstan’s heart ached as he saw badly wounded men stumbling back of their own accord, or being aided by what few individuals could be spared to attend to the stream of stricken men limping and trudging in from the fighting to the west.

  Far to his left, the horizon was inundated with a dark mass of warriors, banners, and flags, reaching as far as his eyes could see. The battle itself was raging furiously. The air was filled with a terrible din, a cacophony that swelled and ebbed, as choruses of horns called out new commands to various contingents on both sides.

  The booming war drums far down the lines, where the Andamoorans were located, brought a chill to Wulfstan’s spine. A flood of vivid, gut-wrenching recollections from just a day prior blazed through his mind. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to settle his rattled nerves.

  From what he could tell, the general lines of the Saxans still seemed to be holding, and the great dragon standard of the King still soared proudly in the winds from its high shaft. That the standard was still in the center, and behind the lines, was a very reassuring sight. Prince Aidan had not yet engaged the reserves, which could only suggest that the day had not yet gone badly.

  At last, Wulfstan, Cenwald, and the others walked through the entrance to the encampment. They quickly sought out a couple of Aelfric’s men who had been assigned to wait for them, should they return. Like the Saxan men that they had encountered in the forest, the two men were overjoyed at their return. Their spirits were made even more boisterous by the quarry that the small band had brought back with them.

  Wulfstan had to calm one of the men down, when the identity of Godric was revealed, in the first moments after a portion of the tale of what had transpired was told. Aelfric’s warrior walked up and spit right into Godric’s face, and would have struck him a heavy blow, but Wulfstan caught the man’s arm in time, and forcibly held him back before his balled fist could connect with Godric’s jaw.

  “None of us disagree with your urges, but stay your hand. I am sure Aelfric will see to his justice, let us not bloody our hands with such a poisonous wretch,” Wulfstan said firmly, keeping an iron grip on the man’s forearm.

  The Saxan glowered at Wulfstan for an instant, but finally simmered down, though he was far from being in a tranquil mood as the three prisoners were led away. Wulfstan was exceedingly glad to rid his hands of the prisoners, as Godric’s mere presence raised his own ire, and sorely tested his reserves of discipline and patience.

  Nothing within him could reconcile how a man could become such a traitor to the land that had made his own good for
tune possible. Wulfstan was glad that treachery had been Godric’s reward, even if the act had given a sizeable fortress, a quantity of foodstuffs, and some villages over to the enemy, to be used as a base or foothold in Saxan lands.

  Wulfstan looked around the camp, endeavoring to turn his thoughts to other matters. All around him were an overwhelmed mass of priests, monks, Sisters, camp attendants, and a fair number of peasants, most of whom were from the villages in the immediate region. All were heavily engaged in their grisly, dour labors, doing everything in their power and ability to tend to the seemingly unending stream of wounded being brought in from the battlefield.

  Almost to a man or woman, their faces were weighed down with fatigue. He recognized some of the faces from the previous day, and had little doubt that they had exerted themselves all through the night to aid as many as they could. Most had clearly done so without regard for themselves, as one glance at a number of them revealed several who were not far from outright collapse.

  The Sister that he had witnessed comforting the dying continued in her grim task, with the same sense of gentleness that he had observed before. He did not even want to consider how weary she must have been in her spirit, much less contemplate her physical debilitation.

  Though the sight saddened him, there was a certain inspiration that he gleaned from watching her display of quiet determination. She refused to give in to her growing burdens, bringing light through her kind smiles and words as she labored to soothe the terrified, pain-wracked men she attended. Wulfstan was grateful for the spark of inspiration, as he needed as much of it as he could get, given the morose surroundings.

  A number of the bodies lying on the ground no longer held any life within them, mixed among those who still struggled to hold breath in their lungs. There was blood everywhere, and the air was filled with a noxious stench. Moans, cries, and occasional screams of horrible pain formed an unholy chorus that flooded the air.