Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  Aelfric had no doubts that within Aldric’s mind, it truly had happened. Such was the supreme conviction dwelling within the determined Saxan.

  A murmuring broke out in the tightly crowded tent at Aldric’s words, as all of them knew that it indicated that a full strike by their stalwart, sky steed commander was going to be undertaken.

  “And what if the flying monstrosities return?” another thane asked. “We were not prepared for the attack today on the camp.”

  “I do not think they will repeat themselves. Many of their men and other creatures have expended themselves heavily today, and I look for them to try new ways tomorrow,” Aelfric answered.

  He had little doubt that the enemy would expect them to be wary for another similar strike, and in truth they would be, with some additional men held back to guard the wounded. There would be enough to hold off any attack at the palisade’s edges until reinforcements arrived. The enemy would not be able to pour uncontested through the camp’s eastern gateway, as they had done in the brazen attack that day.

  “Then what are our goals?” Count Leidrad inquired, his face awash with deep concern. “The Halmlander must be broken.”

  Aelfric had spent a good amount of time on the Saxan left flanks, and shared Count Leidrad’s anxieties. The first day had largely been a parry by the enemy, but the second day would likely be a thrust, or crushing slash.

  The Ehrengardians on the enemy’s right had been content to harry them with arrows and bolts, and unleash a few mounted skirmishes from behind their living fortification of Halmlander mercenaries. All of the Saxans who had been on the left flank felt strongly that the second day would see a much heavier blow delivered by the warriors of Ehrengard and their loathsome mercenaries.

  It was likely that the day’s debacle among the Andamoorans had caused a ripple all the way down the enemy lines, thereby preventing a stronger attack by Ehrengard on the first day. The Avanorans had probably been forced to break off their original contrivances. With the left and center distracted, the risks of committing the right flank had likely been too high for the tenuous state of agreement governing the command of the Ehrengardians, held delicately amongst their often-fractious princes and bishops.

  Aelfric was much relieved that the woods to the left and right of the plains were highly difficult to pass through, even in peaceful times. They were now even harder to navigate, with the presence of ubiquitous barricades erected along any path that might even be slightly conducive to horses. It was a younger woodland terrain, filled with brush and undergrowth alongside the trees, making even progress on foot quite ponderous.

  The thought of the forest, especially to the south and west of their position, brought his mind back around to the small band of skilled woodsmen who had been dispatched to look in upon Godric.

  He had no great hopes for Godric’s loyalty, but the truth needed to be known. Only then could the Saxans know to the fullest extent what position the enemy was in. Many among them hoped that Godric would make a bold stand, at least in closing the gates of his large fortress.

  He would not have to withstand a long siege. The enormous invading army could not remain stagnant for long, and certainly could not endure long delays. It was an army that had been built to break through in a rapid, decisive blow.

  If it could not break through, then it would be too unwieldy to sustain itself. A starving army would swiftly become its own greatest enemy.

  In a sense, all the Saxan hopes relied on the voracious needs of such a juggernaut of men, horses, oxen, and other creatures.

  *

  ALDRIC THE STORMBLADE

  *

  Aldric’s warriors took a wide, circuitous route under the concealing cloak of darkness, most accompanying him to the north, while a smaller force of sky riders headed directly towards the south.

  It was almost fitting that Aldric’s own force was able to reach one of the small tidal islands, of the kind that dotted the northwest waters off the shoreline and continued along the northern coasts of Saxany. They were places where legendary monks had lived contemplatively, some in their small, seaside monasteries and others in hermitages situated upon the tiny islands. It was also where some of the worst Midragardan raids in coastal waters had occurred, before the ocean in that region had become too restless for ship travel.

  The flowing and ebbing tides either made them into fully surrounded islands when in, or exposed land bridges when out. Aldric had heard some talk that the Avanorans had a huge, fortified monastery in such a place, which had been dedicated to the warrior Archon Mikhael. The knowledge had struck him as odd, as he doubted that such bloodlusting warriors of Avanor could ever honor the quiet spirit required of such a sanctified location.

  The Saxan sky steed commander was badly in need of some of the stabilizing tranquility that the monks cultivated in such environments. Aldric’s mind and heart were like two slow-burning embers, waiting to touch some kind of kindling, to burst forth into a full inferno. He had initially disagreed with Aelfric, but the Saxan thane had turned out to be correct.

  The enemy sky steeds had conducted their movements with great caution, largely keeping out of the battle, and hovering in the skies over their side of the battlefield. The absence of the Saxan sky steeds, and their unknown whereabouts, had neutralized what would have quickly become an enemy advantage born of sheer numbers.

  Toward the end of the first day, the incident with the landing of Trogen warriors, using the behemoths called Darroks, had been most unexpected, and was perhaps the hardest aspect of the first day for Aldric to live with. A part of him wondered whether the strike had been done with the purposeful intent to draw the Saxan sky riders forth. It was all that he could do to exercise restraint.

  He was now relieved that Aelfric had seen fit to listen to his bold suggestion. They now knew where the enemy reserve was lining up, held in the back and center of the vast, frontal formations. That reserve undoubtedly held the most important Avanorans, who would be the most important individuals amongst the entirety of the enemy force.

  With the Andamooran’s mauled, another heavy blow, one suffered by the elite of the Avanorans, might well tilt the favor of battle towards the Saxan cause.

  The timing would have to be about perfect, as the sun made its presence known in the east. It would be a maneuver in the form of a great hook. The Saxan sky riders under Aldric would come in from the north, in between the reserve and the frontal deployments of the enemy.

  They would then make a sharp turn back to the west, to strike at the reserve formations with the sun at their own backs, and in their enemy’s eyes. With the attack coming right out of the skies, the enemy could not help but look directly up into a large, blinding, and unforgiving sun.

  If timing was exceptional, that maneuver was to be preceded by a smaller diversionary force coming out of the woods on the far right flank of the enemy. Aldric had urged the others to be sure to be within striking range the minute that the horizon was lined with the first rays of the rising sun.

  His own final approach would be occurring just after that point, and if all went as he had planned, they would be among the Avanoran reserves well before the enemy sky steeds could respond in force.

  He could not dwell on what might come thereafter, as he knew that desperate and unconventional methods had to be done if there was to be any possibility of stemming the martial titan now facing them on the Plains of Athelney.

  There was only one vision to cling to, as his Himmeros steadily pumped its great wings, carrying him ever closer to the intended strike; getting into the midst of the Avanoran reserve, and delivering an enormous, shattering blow.

  *

  GUNTHER

  *

  Gunther, broken emotionally, and exhausted physically, from working his way through hundreds upon hundreds of bodies on the battlefield, stumbled into the cool darkness of the passageway leading down into the relative sanctuary of the Unguhur’s subterranean lands. His hair matted with sweat, and h
is face and hands smudged with dirt and blood, Gunther bore on his body the signs of the burdensome, grievous tasks that he had undertaken that day.

  His Jaghuns padded along with him, their tails down, and one of them walking with a discordant gait, as it struggled with the wounds suffered in the fight with the Licanthers. They were reflections of their despondent master, and their movements were entirely devoid of the confidence and energy that they normally displayed. They had been able to muster excited barks when coming upon survivors, but now only sorrowful whines passed from their muzzles. They did not stray far from the woodsman, keeping close company with the man that had raised all of them from the moment of their first breath.

  Gunther was barely able to make it through the main cavern, pausing every so often to lean against one of the tall stalks of the underground forest. His spirits were debilitated, lending him no motivation to spur his leaden legs forward. A few of the Unguhur workers nearby offered to assist him, but he wordlessly waved them off, as finally he trudged slowly down to the waterline of the wide, underground stream. The Jaghuns halted each time that he did, and they did not move again until he had taken a step, as they accompanied Gunther down to the waterway.

  It seemed as if he were moving through a dark dream. Everything seemed so surreal, and his spirits were almost entirely emptied of the spark of life. The gruesome, painful sights that he had pushed to the far recesses of his mind had stormed back ten-fold.

  He was caught in a mountain avalanche, not knowing whether he was tumbling down towards a cliff’s edge or not. No matter how much he resented it, and had fought it, the world had pulled him right back into the midst of its madness. Even more maniacal, the world had bluntly thrust him into the most ugly and degrading failures of mankind, in the form of the bloody war now underway.

  He had seen the loathsome face of war before, but had never drawn himself so closely to the numerous, individual faces of it as he had that day.

  His legs somehow carried him forward, as his stained leather shoes sank into the soft footing beneath. A lone Unguhur raft pilot, who was down by the moored objects, spared him the need to navigate his own raft. Gunther did not know whether he even spoke a word to the raft pilot, but the Unguhur must have sensed his great need. He accompanied Gunther and his Jaghuns onward, taking them through the water-carved tunnel that led on to the vast underground lake and Oranim.

  The woodsman rode in dejected, exhausted silence as the Unguhur’s stone city loomed on the far shore of the lake. He almost fell into slumber on the raft’s surface, lulled by the smooth passage across the waters. When they had reached the shoreline before the city, the Unguhur raft pilot nudged him as gently as he could with his massive, stone-grey hands.

  “Thank you, “ Gunther muttered in the language of the Unguhur, rousing himself slowly to full wakefulness, shaking his head to bring about some sense of clarity.

  His Jaghuns disembarked from the raft, one less in number than had started out on the grim sojourn. Most of them leapt to the solid ground, but the injured one whined and yipped as it gingerly stepped from the raft. The sight stabbed into Gunther, as he sorrowed over the agony of the creature, as well as the death of its comrade, both the result of his choosing to become involved in the world of humankind again.

  Gunther stared after the limping Jaghun as he set his feet upon the ground, and set off along the shoreline, listening to the echoes of distant voices and splashes, as large bodies broke the surface of the lake. Sound moved so very differently in the depths of the caverns than it did on the surface, but his ears had already begun to meticulously separate individual noises within the subterranean world.

  Skirting a few Unguhur youth who were running along the edge of the lake, he continued up to the wide, rock-carved steps leading towards the lower level of the mass of terraced, stacked dwellings. The way had already become familiar to him, and he made no mistakes in finding the chambers that had been given over to the use of the refugees.

  He left the Jaghuns with their other brethren in a lower chamber. His return had ignited a rush of enthusiasm, as the younger ones eagerly yapped at his heels, wagging their tails excitedly in their outright oblivion to his exhausted condition. He could not find it in him to begrudge their affectionate kindness, as he leaned over, rubbing and scratching their little heads for a few moments.

  His face still remained expressionless, no matter how hard he wished to force a smile. The young Jaghuns were fortunate creatures in a way, as they had not registered the loss of one of their number, and would not bear the same pain that Gunther carried in his heart.

  Moving carefully, as the youthful Jaghuns continued tussling about his legs, he moved over to the center of the chamber and ascended the ladder up to the next level. He shuffled forward across the roof and continued into the opening of the chamber in front of him. Once inside the entryway, he leaned his longbow against the wall to the right, setting his quiver down on the stone floor next to it.

  Dire fatigue was swiftly enveloping him, as every muscle in his body seemed to constrict. He paused for a moment, his normally powerful body now swayed with a severe paucity of energy. He slowly removed his baldric, and let it clatter to the floor, with his sword still sheathed in the attached scabbard.

  He slumped down upon the mats spread across the stony floor. He did not even bother to pull the hide coverings over him, as he collapsed in a tired heap. In just moments, he was mercifully sent adrift into the numbing ocean of a dreamless sleep.

  It was a tiny respite granted by his drained physical and mental condition. A thousand new personal demons had been created that day, adding their numbers to the legions that had existed before. A host of sleepless nights and nightmares pounded at the gates of his mind, but the abyss of unconsciousness had him confined for a few, short, precious hours.

  The time passed altogether too quickly. As if echoes from another world, faint voices reached out to him through the murky depths of black sleep. The voices reminded him of the world that he had left behind, calling him back to cognizance.

  When he became aware of them, his first impulse was to ignore them, and give himself over to the darkened embrace of forgetfulness. His world had been turned upside down, and his soul was spinning out of control in the midst of the horrors that he had done everything to avoid. The gray mists of nothingness beckoned invitingly, and there was even a part of him that did not really care if he ever woke up into the terrible world he had left behind.

  Yet like a last ember stoked by a breeze, the part of him that was resolute and persevering heard the distant, clarion calls. Though only having a shred of willpower to grasp onto, that latter part of him clenched onto it with an iron grip. He willfully made the gradual ascent back into full consciousness, emerging the victor over the swirling, debilitating impulses that fought for control within him.

  What had sounded like crisp voices belonged to one source, which rose steadily in clarity and volume, as he left the haven of oblivion. At the end, as he was on the cusp of waking, the sound filled his head like a booming din, conjuring a biting ache inside his head.

  “What!” he barked out irately, mustering a burst of aggravated energy.

  He heard the sound of shuffling feet, as someone moved backwards across the stone floor.

  “Gunther?” inquired a startled, soft voice from the dim shadows beside him. It took Gunther a moment to register that the voice belonged to the outlander named Lynn. “Gunther, I really need to speak with you. I’m so sorry for waking you … but it is important. I promise I would not have done it otherwise.”

  A part of him wanted to lash out, and command her to leave him alone. Fatigue had eroded his already thin patience for the travails of others, especially those that he had already paid a great price for.

  He could not deny that there was an edge to her voice, which told him right away that something was indeed very wrong. He had awoken to find himself cast right into another dilemma. The world was relentless in its merciless cru
elty.

  Almost hating himself for it, he knew that he was the one choosing to embroil himself continually in the things that he had expressly sought to avoid. Gunther had arrived in the woodlands of western Saxany with a precise, dedicated purpose, when he had used axe and adze to cut the first timbers of his remote, woodland dwelling.

  The gruff woodsman took a deep breath to temper the scathing fires of agitation that had arisen in him. Of the four outlanders, Lynn was definitely not the one that would be prone to needlessly rousing him. The young, headstrong male, and the moody female, Ryan and Erin, were much more likely to do something like that. The realization of that contrast was just enough to help him regain a vague semblance of rational control over his embattled emotions.

  “What is it, Lynn? What is so important” he muttered thickly, through dry lips.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes, the lids feeling as if they were made of stone. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to the All-Father, that the bright rays of daylight were not able to penetrate through the caverns to his sleeping quarters.

  He could see the wide-eyed expression on Lynn’s face, and her hands were clenched together in front of her, faintly shaking.

  “I think that Ryan and Erin left the caverns,” Lynn told him, following a nervous pause, before she drifted off again into silence.

  The words struck Gunther fully awake, as if a whip had been lashed against his bare skin. He sat up with an abrupt start, causing Lynn to flinch.

  “Gone? What happened? How do you know for sure?” he asked quickly, almost blending the questions together in his haste for immediate answers.

  The sudden urgency produced a throbbing ache and dizziness within his drained head.

  “They both have left this city,” Lynn replied. A look of worry and sorrow was prevalent upon her face, as he stared at her. “They wanted to go to the surface, to see the day again. Maybe it’s our fault, as Lee and I talked about how nice it was to breath the open air again, when you took us above earlier.