He was beyond caring, and felt that he would rather not delay a moment more, and get whatever fight was coming over with. Gripping his Thunder Wolf amulet on the leather cord about his neck, he spoke aloud an oath that he would die well, in a way that would honor the Trogen race.
Placing the amulet back down to rest upon his chest, he reached down and slid his longblade out of its sheath once again.
Breathing in a deep draught of air, he shouted loudly into the forest. “Who is it that comes now? I know that you are there. Reveal yourself! Fight me if you will! Beast or man, I do not care!”
His glistening, sorrowful eyes peered out into the shadows, awaiting a response. After several long moments, in which it seemed as if nothing more would happen, a solitary figure moved out from among the trees just across the brook. The beams of moonlight revealed that the figure was dressed in a flowing cloak that draped the being from the neck nearly to the ground. On the figure’s head was a wide-brimmed, round-topped hat.
“It is not safe in this area. Especially for a Trogen,” a deep, yet gentle, voice emerged from the being. It was a decidedly non-threatening tone, one that contrasted mightily with everything that Dragol had felt and experienced since deciding to land his steed in the forest. Even more surprising, the words had been spoken fluently in the Trogen language.
“Who are you?” Dragol queried, utterly surprised at the presence of a stranger, clearly not of his own kind, speaking in the Trogen tongue.
“One of past, present, and future,” returned the cryptic reply, again in perfectly rendered Trogen. From what Dragol could judge, the individual was a human male.
“Are you of the Five Realms?” Dragol asked.
“No, for my loyalty is only given to one Kingdom, though my path has taken me through many,” the other stated calmly.
“Which Kingdom is that?” Dragol asked, his curiosity rising.
“A Kingdom not of this world, though it still resides in the hearts of many who yet walk the face of this world,” the other replied.
The figure walked to the edge of the brook, pulling his cloak up as he stepped through the shallow waters to reach the bank on the other side. The strange figure surmounted the bank and stepped towards Dragol, approaching closely enough for the Trogen to make out some further details.
Underneath the broad brim of the hat was the face of an old man, with thick, flowing locks of white hair, and a copious, white beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. The old man wore a patch covering one eye, while the lone, exposed eye seemed to sparkle, even in the dim environs.
Despite the outward signs of advanced age on the human, Dragol noticed that the man moved with a certain litheness that belied the elderly appearance. He also had fairly broad shoulders, carried well, in good posture. The man exhibited none of the frailty that old humans usually showed.
“I have heard of no such Kingdom,” Dragol countered, not knowing what to make of the peculiar figure. His hand remained tight upon the hilt of his longblade, though his instincts still perceived no trace of threat. Nevertheless, he warned the man sternly, “Go no farther.”
The old man halted, about ten feet away from where Dragol stood. There was no hint of aggression in the man’s posture or face.
“Why are you in these woods? This is far from those under your command, Dragol,” the old man addressed him, as if they were merely sharing a casual conversation.
The words caused the Trogen chieftain to pause. His body was tired, and his mind was probably very dulled after all of the recent, arduous trials, but he had not completely lost his wits.
Dragol wondered immediately how the old man knew his name and that he was a commander of warriors. It was even stranger than the fact that the man spoke the Trogen language with fluency, and moved with far more suppleness than a human of advanced years normally did. Whatever the explanation was, it was apparent that the man likely possessed some sort of mystical power.
Dragol could not afford to assume otherwise, or he was sure to find himself in even greater peril. The huge Trogen’s grip tightened further on the leather-wrapped hilt of his longblade. He was not one with inclinations to trust Wizards, for that is what he perceived the man to be.
“There is no need for alarm, Dragol. No harm shall come to you from me,” the old man said, as if he had just read Dragol’s thoughts.
The old man then grew quiet for a moment, his attention distracted, momentarily intent on another, unspoken matter. He suddenly brought his head up and looked at Dragol. “Another patrol of tribal warriors is coming this way.”
A few moments later, Dragol’s sharp ears caught the sounds of a group approaching through the trees. Deftly, he snatched up the saddlebags and moved to the side, taking refuge behind a large tree.
He took his eyes off of the old man for only an instant. When his eyes reverted back to where the old man had been standing, he gnashed his teeth in frustration and rising anxiety. The old man was no longer in sight.
A few hushed voices indicated that the oncoming entities were even closer. Not knowing whether he had been betrayed or warned by the old man, Dragol quietly awaited his fate.
Straightening up, he became as still as the wide trunk of the tree that he stood next to. Moments later, a party of tribal warriors passed by, sweeping through the trees from the right. Dragol found himself marveling at their considerable ability to melt in and out of shadows. In all, there were about forty warriors, and Dragol quietly edged around the tree as they passed down the near bank of the brook.
It was a very large war patrol, and fully armed. Dragol stood no chance against them if discovered. He held his breath as a few of the warriors passed within just ten paces of his position. The warriors did not seem overly intent upon a search, and they soon passed beyond his position, heading deeper into the woods.
Long after Dragol could no longer make out any sounds of the warrior group, he slowly came out from behind the tree trunk. He looked around for the strange old man, wondering if he was still in the vicinity.
“A large patrol, and concerned with other business than finding you, but that may not last much longer,” the voice of an old man remarked, breaking the stillness.
Dragol whirled about, raising up his shield and deadly blade in the same movement. The old man was standing about twenty feet behind him, in full sight. He bore no weapons, and held no threatening posture, but Dragol still remained very cautious. The Trogen’s eyes darted about for signs of others, just in case the old man was trying to distract him.
“They are sure to come across the bodies of those Pahyna that you slew, and the remains of the fire,” the old man continued in a relaxed manner, not even flinching at Dragol’s swift movements. “It would not be wise for you to tarry here much longer.”
Dragol felt speechless, stunned at the man’s appearance and audacity.
“If you are wondering why I did not assist you, I arrived after your fight was already over. I am very sorry over the loss of your good steed,” the man said, in a voice that seemed entirely sincere. A compassionate smile came to the man’s face. “Just know that Rodor will not forget you, and that he spreads his wings in another place.”
“Who are you?” Dragol queried again, with an edge to his voice at the open mention of Rodor. Dragol was incredulous at the man’s unbelievable ability to move imperceptibly. He was equally shocked at the man’s highly personal knowledge regarding Dragol, having just openly named his fallen steed. He then added, with exasperation, “What do you want of me?”
The old man smiled warmly, a radiance that seemed to evoke light amid the deep shadows of the forest. His singular eye appeared to glint with amusement.
“Want from you? Or want for you? The two questions are different, and perhaps you should ask the latter,” the elderly man replied. “I see good fortune in our paths crossing. In time, you will understand. I believe you are set for a greater path, if you choose, and if you survive to set foot on it. Take heed of yourself. I was
not expecting to meet you, as I am in these woods for other purposes, but I will endeavor to return to you. For now, I must go onward.”
“Go, now?” replied a sorely rankled Dragol.
“Look to the things of your heart. Is that not the way of your kind? It does not always come easy, to gain wisdom, nor should it be easy,” the old man said reflectively, his lone eye holding Dragol firmly in place. “Draw strength from your heart, and find the truths that have taken root there, and grown over time. Often, we have already learned the answers to what we seek, only we have not realized how to ask ourselves the right questions to discover those answers within us.”
“The questions?” Dragol responded, now thoroughly perplexed.
“When you first learned to use your longblade, were there ever times where a lesson or a movement seemed difficult?” the old man asked him.
Dragol nodded slowly, remembering the many ordeals of being a youth training to be proficient with the longblade. It had been a very painful trial, and he had incurred innumerable bruises during the process. Many were the nights that he went to sleep with his muscles wracked with soreness, and his body feeling as heavy as mountain stone. Sparring, learning defensive movements, body stances, striking techniques, and everything else involved with the mastery of the Trogen longblade had been an extended process that had taken many years, and Dragol knew that he could still get better.
“And did you not have days where a lesson that once seemed mystifying suddenly made sense to you? Or a movement that was once awkward and clumsy suddenly came much easier to you?” the old man asked him.
Again, Dragol had to agree, remembering his own amazement during such moments. “Yes, I remember.”
“What I speak of is a different matter, but it is not unlike the times when realizations suddenly came to you, long ago, as you learned the use of your longblade,” the old man said. “There are things that you know you are struggling with, and there are also struggles going on within you, that you do not know are happening. Perhaps these things will all become clear to you in time, as things became clear to you over time when you were learning to wield the longblade. I do not wish to depart, but I must go now. I will try to return to you soon.”
Without a further word, the old man smiled, before turning abruptly and walking off into the depths of the forest. A bewildered and amazed Dragol watched quietly until the old man disappeared into the thick, woodland growths.
As the old man vanished into the young night, Dragol found himself wondering if he had just experienced his first personal encounter with a Wizard. A very sobering thought then struck him in the midst of his wonderment. If the man was indeed a Wizard, then Dragol was either being faced with a wondrous boon, or a very grave danger. Only time would discern which of the two it was.
*
AYENWATHA
*
Ayenwatha, accompanied by an entourage of Onan warriors, strode briskly down towards the bank of the Shimmering River. Resting farther up on the shore, and streaming in towards it, were an abundant number of sleek Midragardan longships.
Atotarho was already standing close to the water’s edge with another welcoming party, which, to Ayenwatha’s delight, also included Deganawida. Upon looking up, and seeing Ayenwatha, Deganawida gave him a warm smile as he approached.
Both Atotarho and Deganawida were wearing the traditional hide caps upon their heads, graced with two eagle feathers, one pointed up, and one down. Deer antlers were affixed to each side of the caps, to display their status as Onan sachems.
The armada of warships was an exquisitely welcome sight for Ayenwatha to behold, almost bringing tears of joy to his eyes. The prows of many of the graceful ships were carved into the forms of fierce beasts, including an array of dragons, wolves, serpents, and other formidable creatures revered by Midragardans.
The designs of the prows were often echoed in the stern, whether the coiled end of a serpent, or the tail of a dragon or wolf. The effect that the war-girded ships had on the Onan warriors and sachems, standing along the shoreline, was immense relief, rather than the alarm that they would have brought to enemies.
It was truly the sign of a different age, as in truth the sight of Midragardan longships was far from a welcome sight to the tribal peoples living in Ayenwatha’s lands in earlier ages.
The arrival also heralded something beyond just the presence of physical assistance itself. The numerous warships sent a clear, resolute message, that other men, who were not themselves blood members of any of the five main tribes, would stand side to side with the people of the Five Realms. They would share the risks and dangers that the tribesmen faced. The Five Realms was no longer isolated in its fight with the Galleans and their allied invaders, and this alone would bring the tribesmen an enormous boost in morale.
Ayenwatha basked in the reassurance that the ships represented, even as his vision flowed over the features of the incredible vessels. Swiveling gently, and looking almost like axe heads, whether perched at the top of the main masts of some vessels, or affixed at the forward prow of still other ships, were shining, gilt-bronze weathervanes, inscribed with intricate designs.
The great square sails of the longships had been furled already, but the sides of the boats were lined with round shields, resting in the wooden battens running along the sides. Whether their facings were leather-covered or bare wood, the shields were colorfully painted in a variety of patterns and forms, their circular iron bosses glinting in the center.
There was a defined color scheme to some of the ships, reflected in the colors of their prows, their sails, and even the displayed shields, demarcating which ships belonged to which Midragardan chieftains. From the color schemes, Ayenwatha could tell that the fleet represented a variety of leaders and chieftains among the Midgragardans. Some of the leaders commanded just a few ships, and many had just one, but all of them were united in purpose.
Warriors in a state of full readiness for combat occupied the ships. Most of the men on the boats offshore were still helping to row and steer the longships to berths along the shoreline, but all would have been prepared if the group welcoming them on the bank were enemy fighters, and not tribesmen from the Five Realms.
A majority of the warriors were wearing conical iron helms upon their heads, a good number with stout nasal guards projecting downward. Most wore some sort of protection on their upper bodies, as only a small number of warriors were equipped with just helm and shield. Several had donned a distinct type of leather jerkin, crafted from the hide of a unique kind of deer from their own lands. Others wore padded leather jerkins, which displayed a raised, checkered pattern. A small number of warriors possessed coats of chain mail. Their stern visages, visible underneath their shining helms, revealed their hardened readiness to fight from the moment that they landed upon the riverbank.
The ones that had landed their craft on the beach had already removed their shields from the racks along the outer strakes, and had armed themselves with an assortment of wide-bladed spears, broad axes, swords, and bows.
“A time to stand together, as brothers, against an enemy we all share,” called out a huge Midragardan warrior, in Quoian, the language of the Five Realms.
The sound of the booming voice further brightened Ayenwatha’s spirits. Familiar and well-trusted, the voice belonged to one of the few men that could speak rather fluently in the tongue of the Five Realms. The Midragardan warrior who had spoken was standing next to a sizeable, beached longship. Ayenwatha did not fail to notice that the longship was perhaps the greatest in size among the vessels in the wide river’s curving bend.
Behind the huge Midragardan was another particularly large warrior, who had disembarked from the same exceptional warship. The second man bore a standard upright, steadying it with his massive right hand.
Ayenwatha recognized the standard instantly. It was the standard of Gunnar, a great black banner pierced by a long, forked streak of white lightning. Almost the reverse of the standard of the grea
t Jarl Bjorn Magnusson back in Midragard, it showed the deep respect held by the seafaring Midragardans for the great power of the weather itself.
The black and white color pattern was repeated on the serpent head of his warship, the shields still set within the side rails, and other small elements of the warship. The color pattern was likewise reflected in four other Midragardan longships beached nearby, all of which were under the authority of Gunnar.
“Truly spoken, Gunnar!” Ayenwatha exclaimed, walking over towards the powerful Midragardan. “You are a welcome sight to these eyes.”
Right behind them, another longship coasted up onto the beach. Several Onan warriors hurried forward to assist some Midragardans in pulling the ship snugly onto the solid ground of the riverbank. The shallow draught of the boat, with its narrow oak keel, enabled its amazing efficiency in landing. Ayenwatha could never cease being impressed at how the wondrous vessels were so capable in navigating both river and open sea.
Gunnar, with a wide grin, took several long strides up to Ayenwatha. He took the revered Onan war sachem into a tight embrace that would likely have squeezed all the air out of a lesser man. As it was, it still squeezed most of the breath out of Ayenwatha.
The Midragardan chieftain was a full head taller than Ayenwatha, and significantly broader of shoulder. His thick, blond hair blew chaotically about his lion-like face, save for a single, tightly wound plait that hung down each side of his head.
The short crossguard of his sword rested against the bronze chape of a leather-covered scabbard, hanging at his waist from a baldric looped over his opposite shoulder. The lobed pommel and crossguard were ornately decorated, covered in golden foil, and inlaid with spiraling, intertwining designs. Between them was a grip fashioned from the purest ivory. It was a sword crafted splendidly in artistry and functionality, and did not wear its name of Golden Fury lightly.
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