Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  Imperial banners, showing a great, black dragon, with wings outstretched wide, set against a field of gold, flew from the contingents from Schueva, as their widely renowned Duke possessed the unique honor to display the imperial ensigns.

  There was a sense of elegance to the attire of these greater knights. A good number of their helms were fashioned with an aesthetic fluting, whose graceful contours beautified a design that carried great practicality, resulting in perhaps the strongest helms found in any realm. Others wore helms with full iron visors affixed to the brow, protecting their entire faces. A few still wore older, conical designs, which had little more than a nasal guard extending down for facial protection.

  Over their mail coats, several knights wore finely fashioned surcoats, complete with “V” shaped necks, and drooping, pendant sleeves. Exquisitely crafted swords rested in gilded sheaths, tied into belts whose ends were split into slits, and then knotted together in a fashion common across the lands of Ehrengard.

  Their shields were largely of the variety prevalent among Ehrengard’s knights. Broad in width, with the two top ends rounded and extending downward, they narrowed gradually into a narrow, curved bottom that evoked a shorter, wider rendition of the elongated kite-shields carried by so many of the foot soldiers.

  Even their robust war stallions carried an elite aura about them, many being covered in quilted trappers, richly colored to match the colors on their riders’ shields and surcoats.

  The majestic appearance of knights was not limited just to those in the rear on the right side of the line, but were spread among the other mounted elite of Ehrengard that followed the masses of infantry in the center and left.

  The imperial dragons flying in the center of the formation heralded the presence of Heinrich VIII’s most powerful Oath Knight, Markward of Augenberg. The powerful, proud form of the great knight sat astride a regal war steed, covered in a spectacular trapper, fashioned entirely of glinting chain mail.

  Markward wore a fully encompassing great helm, surrounding his face and all parts of his head with iron, a new style of helm that had just started to be crafted and used. He was surrounded by a host of lower-ranking Oath Knights, all of whom were bonded to Emperor Heinrich.

  Not far from Markward, was the Archbishop Anno of Colgonach, one of the Empire’s greatest ecclesiastical princes. Like Markward, he was also mounted on a great warhorse that was clad in a full mail trapper.

  A distinctive type of leather mitre-cap, with two vertical extensions, curving gradually to rounding summits, one rising in the front and one at the rear of the mitre-cap, crowned his iron great helm. The mitre-cap was snow-white, with curling red patterns interwoven on it. The two facings in the front and rear were curved slightly outward on the edges of the great helm, forming an open space between the two extensions.

  The cap was held in place by a circular base that wrapped tightly around the top of the helm, with a white cloth mantling hanging down in the rear, covering the back of the great helm.

  The Archbishop was a vision very different from that of a humble rural clergyman or monk, the latter two striving to distance themselves from the temporal world. His tall stature was covered from head to foot in a finely fashioned suit of mail, surmounted by a blood-red, sleeveless surcoat that was split up to the waist in the front and back.

  He carried a mace with flanged head that was not intended for any act of faith. One would have presumed that the mace, in a great stretch of the proper intentions, addressed the commonly held belief that the clergy of the Creator should not shed blood. Such a notion was imminently refuted by the presence of a prominent sword, fit with an ornate pommel, resting in a finely-crafted, silver gilt scabbard hanging outside his surcoat at his waist.

  Like many of the martial bishops and archbishops of Ehrengard, Archbishop Anno had brought a mighty contingent with him, and would not hesitate to lead them into the thick of the fighting.

  Though a few drops of water could do little to alleviate a parched desert of dismay, the notable absence of black spear blades on white backgrounds amid the Ehrengardian host was a welcome recognition among the Saxan leaders.

  The Order of the Sacred Lady, whose fierce monk-knights bore forth the legendary, black spear blade ensigns during their countless struggles, had evidently not deemed the Saxans to be apostate foes of the Western Church.

  It was an exceptional absence in light of the great force arrayed against the Saxans, as the Order’s high masters had gained the status of Imperial Princes during the reign of Gerard III, the grandfather of the current Emperor, Heinrich VIII.

  With the apparent cohesion among the great princely and ecclesiastical powers of Ehrengard, the addition of the Order of the Sacred Lady to the force would have been nearly too much to bear for a defending army whose apprehensions were already being pushed to their outermost limits.

  *

  THE AVANORANS

  *

  A host of blaring horns heralded the coming of Avanor’s force in the heart of the three primary forces, scant moments before they surmounted the horizon. Their line of pennons and gonfalons proudly rose up and spanned the edge where the world touched the sky.

  They faced the middle of the Saxan line, connecting the army of Ehrengardians on the Avanoran’s right flank to the massive force from Andamoor on their left. A continuous wall of lethal intent now confronted the Saxan ranks.

  A solid line of foot soldiers advanced at the forefront, well equipped with long triangular shields, solid lances, and conical helms, and an ample portion of them wore coats of mail. They were no mere peasant rabble, but rather professional soldiers, filling feudal obligations and receiving steady pay in return.

  Marching just behind the line of spearmen were sizeable numbers of archers and crossbowmen. Mostly without armor, and armed with little else save a dagger, they shielded themselves for the moment behind the ranks of heavy infantry, at least until the need for their deadly missiles was required.

  An unrelenting rumble filled the air, as another mass of warriors then came into view, causing many Saxan observers to feel their breath catch in their throats. Rank upon rank of heavy cavalry followed closely behind the front lines of Avanoran foot soldiers, archers, and crossbowmen.

  This new formation held the most feared element of the Avanoran force, and perhaps the most formidable amongst all of the forces gathered upon the battlefield.

  The middle and rear ranks of the cavalry formation were filled with a thick mass of stout warriors, comprised primarily of mounted sergeants and squires. Many dedicated contingents of sergeants had come from ecclesiastical lands, equipped and supplied under the order of bishops or abbots, to fulfill the clergymen’s feudal obligations to Avanor, as any lord would be required. The greater part of the sergeants were hardy, experienced warriors, armed capably with cavalry maces, lances, swords, and shields. Yet as tough fighters as they were, the sergeants were not the ones that elicited an instant dread at their mere presence on the battlefield.

  The squires were also fiercely dedicated men, some on their way to becoming knights, and others fully content to serve as squires. Whatever path their future held, every squire assiduously attended to the needs of his master.

  Beyond attending to equipment and war horses, they formed foraging parties in hostile lands, and conducted wood gathering forays. Many had received considerable training in the arts of war, so that when they stood on a battlefield, they were staunch opponents in their own right, if they were made to engage the enemy.

  Their purpose during a battle was dual in nature, for as much as they could fight, they kept up a close watch on the masters they served, bringing spare horses to knights whenever their steeds were injured or killed under them. Such was the deadly duty that required much courage to execute, and a mass of squires was a force not to be underestimated, imbued with great bravery and solid, martial skill. Still, like the sergeants, they also evoked little outright fear within experienced, defending ranks.

 
; The ones feared were those whom the squires served, and the sergeants rode behind, the warriors whose lofty status soared far above even the best of fighters among the latter. These men were located right at the front of the mass of heavy cavalry, positioned there for all opponents to see without obstruction.

  The great knights in the cavalry formation rode upon mighty war stallions. The elite steeds were given diligent care, resulting in coats exhibiting a rich sheen, one that effectively displayed the sculpted contours of their impressive musculatures. Never before had there been such a concentrated, luxurious display of well-bred destriers, such as the mustering of Avanoran war horses upon the battlefield that day.

  Carefully cultivated from stock once brought from Andamoor, which itself reached back to bloodlines originating from the Sunlands, the Avanoran breed of war horses were exceptional creatures. Compared to any mount within the Saxan ranks, even among the absolute best of the defender’s cavalry, the Avanoran warhorses had noticeably longer backs, thicker hindquarters, and substantially greater body mass and height. They even had longer manes, now flowing free and unbraided after their journey by sea.

  The vaunted human bloodline of Avanor was represented in its most elite, potent incarnation in the knights astride the magnificent steeds. Men of prowess, they hailed from a land that had spawned a great many conquerors and renowned warriors, ranging from Norengal to Paleria, and even extending to the coastal kingdoms in the Sunlands.

  They bore their lances high, the pennons signifying the positions of smaller units, called conrois, that had trained, lived, and fought together until they could flow as if one body upon a battlefield.

  Saxans who knew of the Avanoran methods of war, and had knowledge of the accounts of their battles, knew the grave danger inherent in those upright lances when in the hands of such skilled warriors. Leveled, with shaft gripped just under the arm’s pit, and carried forward at a force ranging from a brisk canter to full charge, there was little to nothing that could withstand such an assault, if ever the Saxan shield wall was broken.

  Some of the knights held authority over strong counties, others presided over a single castle, and many served in simplicity as household knights for their lords, but all were of a storied, proud brotherhood of arms. A great many were knights that had honed and exhibited their skills at the great tournament melees held within Gallea, many gaining considerable fame for their proficiency at arms. Most were knights who had already seen, and excelled in, the face of war, and had thoroughly bloodied both sword and lance.

  All of the knights, whether a higher lord or household knight, whether possessing fame garnered from war or tournaments, or just newly ordained into knighthood on the eve of battle, were Avanoran. The legacy of that mythic heritage flowed amongst, around, and before them onto any battlefield, Athelney being no exception.

  It was an energy and sense of threat that was felt by friend and foe alike, from the Ehrengardians to their right, to the Andamooran’s on their left, and to the Saxan lines that they were marching towards.

  *

  WULFSTAN

  *

  Wulftsan stood in position towards the front of the shield wall, able to gain a clear sight of the colossal storm approaching. The thunder of drums boomed, as he felt the ground rattling beneath the leather soles of his shoes. He looked to his left and right, and could see the trepidation displayed on the faces all around him.

  Just ahead of him, Saxan thanes, ceorls, and other strong warriors held their shields firmly in place. Despite their stoic, hardened postures, Wulfstan knew that they struggled with their nerves at the terrible sight of immense forces pouring over the horizon and shaking the ground, surging towards them with murderous intent.

  “We are the wall! If they do not break this wall, all of that means nothing! Keep your hearts strong!” Wulfstan cried out to the men around him, most of whom were from the villages and burhs of his home territory. He could have identified nearly every one of them. “Cenwald, you hold strong, too!”

  Standing close to him, and clearly looking frightened, Cenwald glanced quickly towards Wulfstan and nodded.

  “All of you, if the enemy has come with an intent from hell, then give them a taste of the hell that drives them!” Wulfstan called out to his comrades.

  His bold words caused a large number of men around him to erupt with raucous cries, even as the ground continued to vibrate from the tread of the oncoming forces.

  Wulfstan gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his old sword tightly, and raised his round shield up a little higher. He clenched the narrow iron bar that spanned the inside of the raised shield boss.

  Turning his head, and looking back, he saw that Father Dunstan was standing with the levy men towards the rear of the ranks, even though he did not bear a weapon himself. The mere sight of the loyal priest slowed Wulfstan’s anxious heart down a couple of beats. The old priest was making the spear-shaped gesture over the men around him, and would continue to give out his blessing when enemy arrows began to fall amongst them; and Wulfstan knew even that would not stop the old priest.

  Such a perilous moment, of sharp iron rain, would not be long in coming. The enemy battle ranks were drawing ever nearer, such that Wulfstan could vividly see the lines of shrouded heads behind the strange, tall shields that the enemy fighters bore along with them. The resonance of the pounding war drums engulfed the Saxans, the booming, pulsating beats eliciting further nervousness from many within the Saxan ranks.

  Behind the approaching line of shields, it looked like an ocean of men was flowing in their wake. Were it not for the circumstances, Wulfstan might even have found something aesthetic about the sights arrayed upon the plains before him. There were great numbers of colorful, bright battle flags and banners held aloft within the enemy ranks.

  He halfway imagined that if he could get up into the sky, perhaps on one of the Saxan sky steeds, a sight echoing one from the natural world would greet him. The grand effect of the massive enemy army would probably have looked like a menacing storm, sweeping across open plains, blotting out a clear sky.

  The only difference would be that he would look down upon it, rather than up at it.

  The sky steeds were said to feel like horses in some ways. Wulfstan believed that he could remain strong during the sensation of flight. A tinge of regret cut through his adrenalized nerves; if only there was the time to explore his strange, repeating dream.

  A bitter chuckle threatened to break his expression, as at the brink of an immense battle his thoughts of recurring dreams were still at the very forefront of his mind.

  Girding himself, he fixed his stare on the foremost enemy ranks, right as they drew to a halt just a short distance before the Saxan lines.

  *

  FRAMORG

  *

  The air was crackling with martial energy, and a soaring euphoria erupted within Framorg as he lifted his great longblade high above him. The weapon’s newly-honed edge gleamed in the bright light of the new day, as yet unstained by the blood of enemies.

  A deafening roar broke out from the assembled Trogen ranks before him, mounted proudly upon their well-rested, saddled sky steeds. Their eyes burned with the fires surging within each of them, and every single warrior looked ready to take the measure of himself in the ages-old test of combat.

  “The hour is now! We fight this day to free our lands! We do this for all of our Clans! We do this for all time!” Framorg thundered, feeling the swell of anticipation emitting from the Trogen warriors. They could be held back no longer. The time for battle was upon them all. “My brothers, take to the skies!”

  With a flurry of spreading wings, the massive force of riders surged forward upon their Harraks. The front ranks bounded ahead, and lifted off the ground, followed a few moments later by the second line, and then the next. One rank after another, the Trogens flowed in an orderly manner off the open grounds leading away from the eastern edge of the encampment, where they had concentrated earlier that morning.
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br />   It was as if a broad, elongated cloud was wafting up from the ground, as never before had so many Trogen sky riders set off in one, extended formation, into the skies. Framorg felt fires racing through his blood, as Argazen soared rapidly upward, flying at the tip of the vast, ascending throng. The battlefield spread out before his eyes, expanding in its scope as they reached higher and higher.

  Initially, the Trogen war chieftain felt a shadow of disappointment as he peered forward, as there was absolutely no sign of the enemy’s sky warriors. A few minor skirmishes in the days leading up to the titanic clash had shown the skill of the Saxan sky warriors, and their Himmerosen steeds had proven to be a very capable breed of Skiantha. Framorg greatly anticipated engaging a large mass of them head to head, all across the skies.

  He had to remind himself that they would likely come soon enough, probably in direct response to the Trogens now marshaling in the skies over the battlefield. For the time being, he turned his attentions towards studying the battle spread out upon the ground, if only to occupy his thoughts until the enemy sent something up to challenge the Trogens.

  What he saw before him was beyond colossal in scale. He knew that few, if any, Trogen war chieftains or human kings in all of history had ever had the privilege of looking upon such an incredible vision of war. The battle that was unfolding was like nothing that he had ever witnessed or, for that matter, even imagined. While he had been amazed at the sheer size of the encampments on both sides as the conflict approached, nothing could have prepared him for the spectacular array of martial force now unfurled upon the plains.

  Winds of war rippled through the standards and banners of both sides, undulating and defiant where they rose above their respective throngs of warriors. Resonant drums and horns heralded the movements of the dense ranks of the invasion forces, mounted and on foot, as the open ground between the two sides diminished.