Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  The dream always ended with an immense shadow looming over him, as he slowly turned around to look up towards a shiny, silvery creature of enormous proportions. What the creature was, he could not say, as he was always stymied in remembering the detail of that part of the dream.

  In the dreams, the voice always faintly repeated the phrase once last time, ‘Bring them into the world’, before Wulfstan was returned back to waking consciousness.

  He had spoken of the repeating dreams to Father Dunstan several times before. To his surprise, Father Dunstan had never laughed or scoffed at the unusual night visions, but had merely cautioned him to keep his wits, and sense of discernment.

  According to Father Dunstan, there was nothing to say that the Almighty would not use dreams to communicate with a person, and, in fact, the older Sacred Writings carried many stories of such dreams. Yet there was nothing to confirm that it was a sacred message, and, as such, Father Dunstan wanted Wulfstan to be very careful. According to the priest, Jebaalos was also capable of working dark influences through dreams.

  On one occasion, the priest did make a passing reference to a legend that the Elder were said to reside in a place fashioned out of some ethereal substance. Such an environment was interpreted to reflect the purity of the stringent covenant that the great beasts were said to have engaged in, so many years ago.

  The echoes of that particular memory reverberated in Wulfstan’s mind, as he agonized impatiently for the sprawling cloud mass overhead to pass by and reveal the white patch once again. A part of him felt that if he stopped looking for it, the patch might vanish.

  “Is everything okay?” Cenwald inquired, with a very concerned expression on his face.

  “Just deep in thoughts, nothing more,” Wulfstan replied, forcing an amiable grin to his face as they continued onwards.

  *

  DRAGOL

  *

  Dragol stepped forward with cautious stealth, his eyes fixed upon the large animal lapping water at the natural basin just ahead of him. The long, white fangs of the creature flashed as its tongue dipped and flicked at the clear waters, where they pooled at the end of the waterfall. The waterfall itself obscured Dragol’s current position, but he was very careful not to shuffle or scrape his leather shoes against the rock footing underneath him.

  Massive of head and stout of shoulder, it was a beast that was constructed with incredible bodily power. Its sinewy, muscular legs hinted at a capability for explosive speed, as the talons at their end announced a capacity to inflict mortal wounds with one strike.

  It was the second sizeable animal that Dragol had come upon in the woodlands, adding to his encounter with the small pack of Pahyna. There was only the singular beast this time, as opposed to the four Pahyna that had stalked him before, but there would be no easing of his vigilance.

  Hunting a hunter was nothing new to Dragol, but it did lend much more caution to his approach. At the moment, he had the advantage of surprise, and he needed to retain it. Against a creature such as this, it gave him his best chance by far.

  His position within the shallow cave was precarious. If he chose to remain silent, and try to avoid the creature, he was aware that there was always the possibility that it would still pick up his scent and come after him. If he did attack, he also understood that he had to bring it down immediately, or face a terrific struggle, whose final outcome was definitely not for certain. In the truest sense of the words, it was a simple matter of killing or being killed.

  He had chosen his weapon, as the hilt of his longblade rested in the scabbard at his side. Slowly, he lifted his dagger up in his right hand. His target was much larger than the plump bird that he had slain earlier, which demanded an even more precise throw. He steeled his nerves. If he missed, or just wounded the predator, he would have to draw his longblade out with the quickest of haste.

  Without a sound, he hurled the dagger at the creature’s extended head. His aim was true, as the dagger thudded on impact, embedding itself deeply into the side of the beast’s skull. The killing throw occurred so quickly that not the slightest sound came from the beast, except for the thump of its heavy body, as it collapsed on the spot where it had been standing.

  Dragol drew his great longblade, trotted forward, and severed the head from the body as an extra precaution. He was not about to gamble with a creature as formidable as the one before him, and take the success of his strike for granted.

  With swift efficiency, Dragol carved himself out some portions of meat from the carcass. He took time to fix a small fire, and prepare a few chunks of meat on a spit, keeping his eye on the surrounding woods just in case there might be more unwanted visitors. While the juices of the meat hissed and popped on the crude spit that he fashioned, he took up his position behind the waterfall again.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. He should have kept in mind that a good watering site, such as the one he was resting in, would be an inviting location for predators. It was simply fortunate that he kept alert enough to have heard the creature padding out of the brush, before it began to drink from the pool.

  Yet there was a favorable aspect to the encounter. At the very least, he would not have to go hunting or foraging in the immediate future.

  A voice broke the silence, almost as soon as Dragol had settled into a comfortable position to survey the surrounding area.

  “A good hunt!” called the exuberant voice of the old, white-bearded stranger. “The bounty of this land will provide food for your body. The bounty of other things will provide food for your spirit.”

  Dragol looked around quickly, raising his blade in defensive reflex. His eyes came to rest on the elderly traveler, right as the man moved out from the trees to his left. The man walked with a brisk, youthful gait towards the pool of water, his deep blue robes swishing the tops of the grass with each step. It was clear that he did not really need the gnarled, twisting walking staff that he carried with him.

  “No danger … no trouble, my friend,” the man said calmly, before grinning, “Or have you forgotten about me so quickly?”

  With a little embarrassment, the Trogen warrior realized that he was still holding his longblade up in a combat stance. Dragol also noticed that the old man had not so much as flinched when he brought the blade up. He lowered the blade, turning it and sliding the weapon back into its leather-covered sheath.

  “I remember,” Dragol replied, “And I had little choice with a creature like this. It was good fortune that I heard it coming, long before it reached the water.”

  “It was good that you did,” the old man commented more seriously, looking to the remaining carcass. “Hyaeds are among the fiercest predators that these woods have to offer. It is good that you came across a lone one as well. While uncommon, they are known to hunt in packs.”

  Dragol inwardly shuddered at the thought of taking on a pack of such creatures alone.

  “Perhaps you should get moving. It will not be long before scavengers want at this meat,” the old traveler advised him.

  “I was just about to eat a little of this meat, and go,” Dragol stated, eyeing the tall, elderly man. “But it seems you have come back here. Can you tell me who you are yet?”

  “Just an old fellow, traveling through these parts, on some business I have in these lands. And still no favorable outcome yet. Or perhaps my hopes should be in you. It would seem we still walk upon a similar path,” the old man replied, with an amused grin.

  “You pick a dangerous time to be doing anything. War is all about this place,” Dragol remarked, as he walked back over to the roasting meat on the spit.

  He took it off the fire, pulling out his dagger, as he turned back to face the old man. “I have plenty here. Surely you get hungry sometimes.”

  “You would suppose that I do, but I never seem to work up much of an appetite,” the old man replied, as Dragol proceeded to cut off some smaller chunks of the meat. “But if you have a little wine, I would gladly accept that.”

  Dra
gol rumbled with laughter at the old man’s remark about wine. He hardly bothered to chew the meat, as he put the first piece into his mouth, and followed it immediately with another chunk. He savored the flavor of each bite, instantly amenable to the taste.

  “Good meat?” the old man queried. “I know a couple of gray furred rogues that would gladly indulge in the rest of that carcass over there.”

  Dragol glanced curiously at the old man, who was now sitting cross-legged on the ground. “So wars do not concern you at all?”

  “Wars are for the young. Surely an old man, with no weapons, and no chest of gold, or pouch filled with silver coins, is of little concern,” the old man replied. “I just have this old walking staff. Should not be much of a threat to hordes of warriors with axes and swords.”

  “Then you know little of your fellow humans, once the bloodlust is upon them,” Dragol commented darkly.

  He did not bother to point out the fact that the old man was wearing a shining, golden ring that held a magnificent, luxuriant blue stone in it. The ring alone would evoke a response from marauding warriors bent on plunder and loot.

  A somber expression then spread across the old man’s face. “Perhaps I do, but I have means of dealing with such things … or at least of avoiding such problems.”

  “Ever more questions,” remarked Dragol irritably, cutting off another strip of meat for himself.

  He thought back to the man’s demonstrative vanishing amid a thousand shards of light. The old man was doubtlessly speaking the truth, but Dragol had a feeling that there was a lot more to the old man than just his disappearance amid a burst of light.

  “Have you found more questions?” the old man responded inquisitively, a searching look in his single eye.

  “Just a short while ago, I was asking the wind to take my plea for help to you,” Dragol replied, wiping grease off his lower jaw with the back of his hand.

  “And I may have even heard you,” the old man replied, with a sparkle dancing in his eye.

  “Then I will ask you one of the questions again now … because if you did hear, I still have no answer. Why do you think I am anything more than what I am?” Dragol inquired, in a low, somber tone.

  The old man smiled, as if inwardly amused with some thought that was percolating within him. “You are what you are, in truth. It is more of a matter of what you will reach out to do.”

  His gaze lowered to Dragol’s chest. “That is a Thunder Wolf tooth, yes?”

  Dragol nodded, and replied with a hint of melancholy. “We have relics of them, even if their howls can no longer stir our spirits in the night.”

  “Incredible creatures,” the old man remarked.

  “Do you know much of wolves?” Dragol asked him.

  A bemused smile drifted across the old man’s face. “Yes, wolves have been a very close part of my life. Both friend and foe.”

  “I have heard stories of the Midragardans … the ones that came up the rivers and settled among the people to the south of our lands, long ago,” Dragol said. He noticed that the old traveler’s eyebrow raised at the mention of Midragard. For the moment, he decided to keep the observation to himself. “I heard a story once about a great wolf, who wished to be a friend, but was betrayed and bound for all time.”

  “Yes, that is a tale well-known in Midragard,” the old man stated, and there was a palpable tinge of sadness at the edges of his voice.

  “We have a similar tale, of the first Thunder Wolf who befriended the Trogens. Only the ending is different, as we embraced the Thunder Wolves from the first day. They came down from the storm-shrouded mountains … and they lived among us, as we did among them,” Dragol said, staring off into the woods, as the gentle forest breezes caressed his face. His heart always felt a little heavier when he spoke of the revered creatures who gave identity to his clan. “All of our own stories tell of incredible loyalty. They were our friends, they were steeds, guardians, and so much more.”

  He paused for a moment, and picked up the moon-shaped pendant in his hand, staring down at the wolf image and the sharp tooth situated within it.

  “And this is what is left, after what the Elves have done to us. This is what drives us into this war,” Dragol said, his voice taking on a harsher edge, with the saddened anger creeping towards the boundaries of his own psyche.

  “So you fight in a war that is not of your liking?” the old man asked. “You fight against those who are not your enemies? I thought this was not the Trogen way.”

  Dragol’s face darkened, in an abrupt flare of heated anger, which subsided a moment later as he thought further about the question. He responded as his ire simmered down. “When the first Trogens came into the world, the Elven kind already had built up their own lands, and sailed upon the seas. Before the first Harrak was tamed, the Elves had long been sky riders. I will match my courage and blade against any of them, but we have always been under a great burden.

  “Build a ship? Thirty Elven warships would be there the moment it was put into the waters of the sea. Take twenty sky steeds, upon new riders, beyond our mountains? A hundred Elven warriors on sky steeds, with hundreds of years of training on them, would be upon us.

  “Our kind had just begun to settle in our lands, when they came with warships, sky steeds, sorcerers, armor, and blades. We fight them hard now, within our lands, but until we can cross those seas in force, they will continue to hold many of us in bondage, laboring in their mines. They will continue to occupy lands that they took from us … and they will continue to raid us, to keep us weakened, and diminished.”

  The old man seemed to become lost deep in thought as Dragol finished his answer. His gaze was still set towards the ground when he replied, almost under his breath. “Fair of countenance, and deadly of intent. Among the First Born of Ave, they feel they are greater in the Creator’s eyes than the other high races of creatures. Such arrogance and power combined is indeed a dangerous thing. Dragol, I am very sorry for what your kind has gone through.”

  “Then you know why I fight this war,” Dragol concluded starkly. “Even if it takes us on paths away from the Trogen way of things.”

  “And yet what have the tribal peoples of the Five Realms, or the Midragardans, ever done to the Trogen kind?” the old man riposted sharply, his gaze rising to grip Dragol within its strong embrace. “Is this war so unlike what the Elven kind have done to your race?”

  Dragol felt a hot flush run through him again, though he kept his emotions under control. “It is not easy for me, but after many, many centuries of what we have been through, we have seized upon the one chance to cross those seas, to set our brothers and sisters free, and to end the torment on our lands. I do not deny you that it is an evil path we walk now. It has the most bitter taste for us, but if we do not do this, we let a far greater evil continue to prevail.”

  The old man made no reply, and seemed content to let Dragol brood on the words that both of them had spoken. It was as if he was letting Dragol turn the words of their conversation over in his thoughts, and Dragol did not doubt that the old man had a certain conclusion in mind.

  Dragol was determined that the old man could wait as long as he wanted, as there was nothing to really conclude. The war against the Five Realms was very distasteful, and Dragol could admit to that, but the necessity involving his own kind was paramount, to gain aid in their long struggle against the Elves. He simply could not see any other way for the Trogens.

  Despite the sensitive questions, Dragol found that he was feeling a growing affinity for the human stranger. The old man was one of the few humans to engage him in the manner that they engaged one another. Most others that he had been among regarded the Trogens as barbaric brutes, little more than walking beasts. At the very least, Dragol was grateful that the old man had shown him enough respect to desire the thoughts in his mind.

  Dragol held up a chunk of meat, and extended it towards the old man, wanting to further diffuse the insecurity that the old man’s words had con
jured up in him. “I may not give the answers that you wish, but you may share in my food, old one.”

  “I am still quite fine, and I will be sure to tell you when I am not,” the old man replied politely, with a smile. “I do thank you for your kindness. You will likely need the food much more than I.”

  “I see no pack, and you show no weapons. Do you ever eat? Or are you like those holy men who go for long with little or no food, to show their faith?” Dragol asked, as he bit into the tough meat, tearing off another sizeable chunk.

  “You could say that … in a way,” the old man replied. “It is not often that I just get to sit and enjoy good conversation. If I could just stay and converse with you for a time, it would be food enough for my needs.”

  Then he added, with a chuckle and a light grin, “Unless, of course, you perchance have some wine on you. I am quite fond of that wonderful liquid.”

  “It is good talking with you, as well,” Dragol admitted with a slight shrug, exasperated at the man’s apparent lack of normal human needs. “Most human kind do not bother doing so with Trogens, and do not master our tongue as you have. But I do not have any … wine … I have never tasted it, but have heard it is well liked among the Avanorans.”

  The old man laughed. “It flows like a river with them. I will have to get you to try it someday.”

  Dragol made no reply, focusing instead on the cooked meat remaining in his hands. He was feeling particularly ravenous after his sleep in the woods, and the exertions of the previous days. It did not take very much longer for him to finish the meat that was in his hands, and the remaining portion that had been cooking over the fire.

  The old man did not disturb him while he ate. Instead, he grew silent, and shut his eyes, sitting quietly as if in deep meditation. When Dragol had finally consumed the last morsel of meat, the old man’s eye calmly opened, as if the final swallow was some kind of cue.

  “So, where are you going from here?” the old man asked Dragol, his timbre casual.