Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  Several men came running into sight, streaking towards Wulfstan’s throng from the direction of the main encampment. A few of them tripped over their own legs in their frantic haste, scrambling desperately back to their feet, and continuing forward with pressing urgency.

  “The enemy comes! The enemy comes!” they yelled at the top of their lungs, eyes wide with panic.

  Wulfstan’s heart leapt up into his throat. He realized in that moment just what the huge flying creatures had been used for.

  He knew that the encampment behind them held wounded warriors that had been dragged out of the battle. It also held a great number of non-combatants, gathered to aid the stricken fighters, and to attend to the needs of horses and warriors. The encampment contained the primary stores of foodstuffs, barrels of ale and water, additional weaponry, draft animals, and other elements so vital to a large force.

  There was little doubt that Saxan scouts were all over the area behind the main battle lines, watching for any approaches by the enemy on horse or on foot. In both instances, whether a threat of enemy cavalry manifested, or a hard-pressed march of enemy foot soldiers, there would have been plenty of advance warning to muster a defense.

  As it was, the enemy had landed a force by air, in an unprecedented manner, well within the far-flung ring of scouts. The enemy was positioned where there was little to nothing set between the landing monstrosities and the Saxan encampment. Well-guarded against ground based threats, the encampment was highly vulnerable to the daring maneuver.

  “To the encampment! All Saxans, to the encampment, now! With all speed!” cried out a well-armed, mounted rider, waving his sword high in the air, as he urgently rallied the men around him.

  Wulfstan recognized the stocky, bearded man as Ealdorman Oslac, having seen him several times moving among the Saxan men during the days leading up to the battle. Ealdorman Oslac had a reputation as a just, strong-hearted man among the people of the Mittevald, and that reputation spurred a vigorous response.

  Wulfstan could tell which men hailed from the Mittevald in the surging response to his cries. Those from the Ealdorman’s lands took up their arms with a zeal that testified to the motivation that Oslac’s presence inspired within them.

  Gripping their weapons, and faces determined, the mass of warriors around Wulfstan bounded forth, running in a loose, disorderly throng towards the encampment. Adrenaline sped through Wulfstan’s veins, as they quickly crossed the last expanse of ground leading up to the outer ditch ringing the camp’s perimeter.

  Those in the lead of the body of warriors sprinted through the open gate set within the western section of the outer palisade. Wulfstan was among their number, having always been exceedingly swift of foot. Shield clenched securely on his left, and sword on his right, he pumped his arms vigorously, charging forward with urgency-fueled abandon.

  A hissing sound cut the air, and a curt cry of pain emitted from one of the warriors running near to Wulfstan, as an arrow shaft embedded deep into his chest. The man pitched over to the ground, hitting it hard, and skidding a few feet to a halt where he lay still. Other sounds of agony burst out from others around Wulfstan, as deadly arrows fell in a tempestuous hail all about them.

  “Shield yourselves!” Wulfstan cried out furiously, to any man that would listen. As he looked around, he saw that Cenwald was coming up just behind him.

  He hurriedly shifted his sword into his shield hand, struggling with a makeshift grip as he slowed down a few steps, and allowed his comrade to catch up to him. He reached out and grabbed Cenwald by the upper arm, just as his friend drew up next to him. Wulfstan pulled Cenwald forward with him, nearly lifting the other man off of his feet.

  Wulfstan’s eyes could not lie as he took in the sight of the predicament facing the incoming Saxans; the situation they faced was daunting.

  When the arrows had started to strike, the Saxans with Ealdorman Oslac had not yet proceeded far into the camp. There were only a few rows of tents left between the attacking enemy warriors and the greatest numbers of the wounded, most of whom were entirely helpless in their dire conditions. The rest, including the unarmed men and women serving as camp attendants, had little better prospects in the face of the determined enemy attack about to swallow them up.

  Wulfstan moved quickly with Cenwald to take cover behind a large, four-wheeled wagon. He slammed forcefully against its stout wooden side, dragging Cenwald behind him. Cautiously, he peered out around the edge of the wagon, even as he winced in pain from the force of the impact against the rough, unforgiving wood. His shoulder throbbed as he reached over and took the hilt of his sword back into the familiar clutch of his right hand.

  The shadowy forms of numerous enemy interlopers had drawn much closer, following the deadly barrage of missiles loosed by their brethren. A few of them broke into sight at last, brandishing broad, wicked-looking blades, and great wooden shields. The sight of the attackers came close to stilling Wulfstan’s rapidly beating heart.

  He saw at once that they were not human.

  They were all much taller, and broader of build, than an average man. They were powerful, brutish creatures, with fierce countenances, as if feral dogs of war had been endowed with the bodies of very muscular men of considerable height.

  There was only one creature, in all the lore and tales of the world that Wulfstan had ever heard, that held such a description. He was certain that they were the legendary Trogens, from their own faraway homelands across an ocean to the east.

  A feverish clash of steel erupted, and soared in ferocity as the Trogens poured through the tents and fell with fury upon the arriving defenders. One Trogen warrior suddenly moved past the corner where Wulfstan was crouched. The Trogen paused for a moment, momentarily unaware of Wulfstan and Cenwald’s position by the large wheel of the wagon.

  Without a moment’s pause, Wulfstan stepped out behind the unsuspecting Trogen. He brought his sword up into an arc that crashed down into the exposed neck of the huge Trogen warrior. Wulfstan had to wrench the blade free with a hard yank, where it had embedded itself deep in the Trogen’s flesh, as the body of the enemy warrior pitched over heavily to the ground.

  An enraged roar from behind gave Wulfstan just enough warning to spin around and deflect a descending Trogen blade. The force of the fearsome blow was jarring, causing his knees to buckle. The creature rapidly leveled another heavy blow, which Wulfstan caught on his raised round shield. Wooden chunks and shards flew outward where the heavy blade cleaved into it.

  The shield suddenly felt very heavy, as the blade had caught on the edge, if only for an instant. Yet it was enough time to give Wulfstan the opening that he badly needed.

  He kicked up into the area of the creature’s groin, connecting solidly. In the ensuing moment, when a flash of blinding pain gripped the Trogen, and held it within an instant of inaction, Wulfstan whipped his sword about and slashed at the side of the creature’s head. His accuracy was deadly, connecting just beneath the iron half-helm that the beast-man wore.

  Quickly, Wulfstan reached up to the edge of the empty wagon. He cast his sword and shield into the bed of the wagon, and jumped, hastily pulling himself up and over the edge.

  “Cenwald, up here!” Wulfstan cried out, turning back towards his friend.

  Thrusting his arm out, he grabbed Cenwald’s forearm, and put all his effort into hoisting his comrade up. Cenwald needed little additional encouragement, frantically scrambling and gaining a foothold on the protruding end of the wheel’s axle. He pushed upward, and flopped awkwardly over the top, tumbling down into the open bedding of the wagon.

  Remaining low, Wulfstan achieved a better view of the chaotic battle swirling all around him. More and more of the towering Trogens were streaming into the area. Wulfstan cursed the ease with which such a strong force had gotten behind their lines, carried directly over the main Saxan force and dropped right behind the largely defenseless encampment.

  Resistance was mounting quickly, though. Warriors from Sus
sachia and the Mittevald mixed in with light cavalrymen from Annenheim, as the Saxans started to form a stout line of defense, facing the Trogen onslaught.

  The worsening problem for Wulfstan was that the Trogens had largely overrun the area that he and Cenwald now found themselves in. The main defensive line was forming well behind the wagon that the two Saxans were huddled in.

  He looked about, as another of the long, wide blades of a Trogen shattered the wood of the wagon, unbearably close to where his head had been. A spear instantly shot over the top of his shoulder from behind, catching the Trogen squarely in the face.

  “That, I owe you for,” he called back to Cenwald, who was holding the other end of the spear’s ash haft. Though there was fear splayed on his comrade’s face, there was also a determined strength.

  Wulfstan looked around again, seeing that there were a substantial number of wagons and carts arrayed around them. They were pulled close enough together that an idea sprouted in his mind.

  “Let us try it! We are dead if we stay here!” Wulfstan yelled urgently. “Follow me! Let’s use the wagons to work away from here!”

  Taking a couple of steps, he built up some momentum and leapt upward, his foot catching and propelling himself forward from the edge of the raised wagon side. The inertia carried him towards a wagon immediately behind them, clearing the top of its side. He came down with heavy thuds as his feet struck the timber of the bed, but managed to keep his footing underneath him.

  He turned and waited for Cenwald to follow, helping him up when he fell to his knees following his own jump. The two men then cleared another wagon in a like manner, and then jumped down to the hard ground.

  Wulfstan and Cenwald found themselves on the edge of the area where the wounded from the battle were being quartered. He looked into a sea of terrified, helpless faces, but there was also the presence of courage.

  Many of the monks, Sisters, and others that had been dressing the warrior’s wounds had chosen not to try and flee, and many of the wounded had propped themselves up. Grabbing whatever was available, from a few formal weapons, to smaller knives, and even simple tools, they were readying to meet whatever end fighting.

  “Behind you!” cried out one of the Sisters to Wulfstan, her face a mask of sudden panic.

  The huge shadow of a Trogen loomed over him, a scarred brute that had followed them across the wagons, and was still standing in the bed of the last one in the line. It was armed with a long lance, which it now thrust rapidly towards Wulfstan. The Saxan ceorl spun around as the lance point darted past, feeling the shaft of the weapon brush against the links of his mail shirt.

  He hacked down with all of his might on the extended arm of the Trogen. The beast-man howled in agony, stumbling over the edge of the wagon to crash onto the ground.

  An injured warrior, who still retained full command of both of his legs, and Cenwald fell in swiftly together upon the fallen Trogen. Their weapons rose and fell several times, taking no chances as they finished the grisly task.

  Wulfstan saw that the situation facing the quarters of the wounded was tenuous at best. The hastily formed line of Saxans close by was all that kept a considerable number of Trogens from implementing untold disaster upon hundreds of injured warriors and camp attendants. Yet as Wulfstan had done, the Trogens could still cross over the massed wagons, and Wulfstan had to get word of the danger to the Saxan fighters.

  “Cenwald, stay here, with all who can bear arms, and watch for others!” he cried out to his comrade. He loped forward, keeping his eyes alert for any signs of disturbance.

  A shadow then darted over the ground just ahead of him, bringing him to a brief halt, as he looked up to see what the source of it was. Wulfstan immediately rushed forward, bringing his sword into a downward slash, and slaying another Trogen warrior as it leapt to the ground from another wagon. He was grateful that the burly creature was unaware of him, affording him the advantage of complete surprise.

  Some Saxans whirled towards him as he neared the main line of defenders. Seeing that he was human, they quickly lowered their weapons.

  “Some are coming over the wagons, and a few warriors need to go to ward the wounded in this camp,” he cried out to them.

  A grizzled thane, clad in half-helm and blood-streaked mail, nodded with a grim expression, evidently needing to ask no questions. The thane looked around, and called out forcefully to several men near him.

  Wulfstan did not wait for further response, his message effectively delivered. He looked behind him, towards the quarters of the wounded. He saw with horror that Cenwald and the few capable, wounded Saxans were already overwhelmed.

  A few Trogens had broken through their thin defense, making it past the heavily-engaged Saxans. The merciless creatures brought heavy maces, lances, great blades, and peculiar, long-hafted weapons, used like two-handed axes, down upon several semi-conscious, Saxan fighters situated upon makeshift ground coverings, including blankets, cloaks, and straw-filled pallets. A few of the Saxan warriors weakly tried to defend themselves, but their efforts were in vain, as they were easily overpowered by the immense strength of the Trogens.

  The carnage would mount rapidly, if it were not stopped immediately. Seeing nothing but rage through his burning sight, Wulfstan desperately rushed forward, without another thought, embracing full combat with the Trogens. As he neared one of the marauders, he instinctively felt something lunge towards him, just before he heard the guttural war cry of his assailant.

  Wulfstan leaned forward, and pushed off his right foot, seeing a blurring shape descending upon him out of the periphery of his left eye. He knew that a strike was already in motion, speeding at him from behind. There was not even a moment to spare, as a weapon closed the remaining gap, wielded in a swift, deadly arc.

  Wulfstan then felt a crushing blow to his upper back, hurtling him onto the ground. The impact had not caught him squarely, having missed Wulfstan’s head. It had also lost much of its power, extended well beyond its apex of strength when Wulfstan had leaned and burst forward at the last instant.

  Nonetheless, even overextended and awry, it was still a heavy blow, wielded with brute force by a Trogen warrior. The only good fortune was that it was not an edged weapon, like their lengthy blades and the strange, long-hafted weapons, which may well have cleaved his mail shirt.

  Rolling over, he used his sword to block the second blow from the huge mace, as it whipped back around to claim his life. He caught the stroke in time, the thunderous force reverberating throughout his body.

  The pain in Wulfstan’s back was intense, and there were flashes before his eyes as his very consciousness flickered in and out. The mace was pressed down hard upon his sword, as the jubilant Trogen reached back with a free hand and began to withdraw a long, single-edged dagger from a leather scabbard at its waist.

  Wulfstan cried out as the Trogen growled menacingly, feeling the enemy warrior’s hot, fetid breath upon his face. The sharp canines of the Trogen were bared at him, within a ferocious, snarling visage, as Wulfstan struggled with everything that he had left to resist the much stronger opponent. A part of him expected at any moment for the broad jaws of the creature to snap at him.

  The arm wielding the mace had him pinned in place. It would only be a moment more before the Trogen had the dagger in hand, and Wulfstan knew that he could do little to stop what was about to come.

  With a hissing sound filling the air for an instant, just above Wulfstan’s head, the Trogen appeared to instantly freeze in place. Its expression did not even change, as it crumpled toward the ground, an arrow protruding from the top of its left shoulder. It had died immediately, as the arrow had pierced its heart in a penetrating, downward thrust.

  Wincing from the thudding pain coursing through him, Wulfstan nearly doubled over. He raised his head, and turned to see a man holding an empty bow out in front of his chest, the weapon clenched in his left hand.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he also espied the form of another Trog
en striding around the end of a nearby tent, raising its blood-covered blade as it stormed forward with lethal intent. The enemy warrior was almost within range of the injured bowman that had just clearly saved Wulfstan’s life.

  With nothing more than sheer adrenaline, a lifting force that ignored the ferocious throbbing in his back, he rose briskly to his feet. Wulfstan lunged forward in a desperate, reckless attempt to reach the Trogen, without having any conscious regard for himself.

  Fortunately, the Trogen’s attention was fully intent upon the bowman on the ground. The enemy warrior did not see the onrushing Wulfstan until he was already upon the creature. The two adversaries engaged in a short, furious sword fight. Their exchanges lasted through several thunderous clashes of forged iron, until the slightly better skill of Wulfstan finally gained the upper edge over the sheer strength of the Trogen.

  Even so, the fight did not end before another significant blow was suffered by Wulfstan. A slashing stroke by the Trogen warrior grazed him, opening a bleeding gash in his upper left arm. Several links of his mail shirt were burst apart by the enemy’s enraged blow, which preceded the sword stroke from Wulfstan that ended the exchange. Wulfstan choked the fiery pain down, and turned back towards the injured warrior that he had just defended.

  Wulfstan’s chest heaved with heavy breath, and his arms seemed to contain the weight of boulders. His left upper arm continued to suffer the scorching touch of the open wound, while the Saxan warrior’s back pulsed with a terrible ache.

  He looked around for any new dangers. The thane that had responded to his warnings had arrived with several hale Saxan warriors, and the few Trogens that had made it among the wounded had been driven out. To his great relief, he saw Cenwald with a couple of the new arrivals, as the area before the edge of the wagons was secured. The sight was a tremendous relief, as he knew that he would not have survived another combat.

  He turned back to face the bowman again.