*
Many leagues had been covered in a forced march, exhausting to those that undertook it, but there could be no thoughts of letting up on the pace. Save for a few of the hardiest warriors, virtually none of the people in the mass movement had ever been put through even a fraction of the exertion that they were made to endure.
The lethal hail of stones from the Darroks in the onset of the attack, and the rapid influx of enemy forces into the forest, made it imperative that the tribes put as much distance as possible between themselves and the western border areas of the Five Realms.
In one of the crueler twists of irony, stopping for extended rests would have meant that the tribal matrons and sachems were willing to unnecessarily risk the deaths of their own people. The onerous decision to coerce the tribal peoples forward, heavily taxing the energy of so many of the elderly, pregnant women, and children, to the edges of their health and strength, was done precisely because of the great love that the tribal leaders had for their people. The danger that pursued them did so with a murderous, merciless intent, and time was of the most critical essence.
Ayenwatha, Deganawida, and Gunnar walked ahead of a column streaming in the opposite direction of the main body of tribal people. They had also marched a very long way, and had only recently come into contact with the teeming horde of refugees heading southeast. At the moment, they were nearing the rear of the mass of refugees. Like the matrons, village sachems, and headmen, Deganawida felt a deep, inner pain within his heart at the sight of the strenuous odyssey occurring all around him.
The last ranks of refugees were entirely comprised of people. The few horses that had been salvaged from the villages were located in the middle to front of the trudging mass, and Deganawida had been relieved to see that most were holding up fairly well.
In a small glimmer of light, the fact that the Five Realms used horses primarily for bearing weighty burdens, and not commonly for riding, had the animals prepared more fully for the hardships that were now being asked of them. They were being made to carry baskets, bark casks, hide packs, and all manner of pouches filled with foodstuffs and other materials.
While the horses were being tested to the limits of their capacity and strength, they were very sturdy animals that did not easily wear down. Even so, Deganawida and the other sachems had insisted that caution be maintained with the animals. With so few horses available, the weary people could not succumb to the inviting temptation to overload the beleaguered creatures.
Even with the demand for conscious wariness, a few of the animals’ burdens still threatened to become unwieldy. Clan matrons and others moved quickly to reprove some of the villagers, and implore them to either carry the excess materials, or to leave the packs and containers behind, if they could not capably bear them.
More troubling, a few of the horses had already been unburdened of their material loads, and the reason had nothing to do with any weaknesses of their own. They were diverted from their tasks to carry the frailest members of the tribes, who could not hope to keep up with the others.
Though there was no hesitation in helping the struggling, aged tribal members, a dangerous quandary faced the tribes, increasing with each horse that was shifted to help a human. The average villager did not have the endurance of a packhorse, nor did they have the strength. Precious supplies were slowly being left behind in the wake of the refugees, food and other items that could well prove vital to the survival of many in the days to come.
The realities facing the tribal people, as Deganawida proceeded along the side of the retreating throngs, were growing worse and worse. Even those that were young and hale were being pushed to the limits of exhaustion. Often, the healthy and hale sacrificed their own strength to help elders or small children unable to move forward on their own power. Their very kindness and sacrifice became the source of mounting threat to them. Such was the extreme ugliness of a time of war.
The uneven ground sometimes added further to the difficulties, becoming tortuous for the people when they moved up inclines. Conversely, downward slopes allowed for a little rejuvenation.
The only significant reprieve allowed to the tribal people was the fact that they were moving through a more ancient part of the forest. The older, long-established trees within that region had woven a dense canopy overhead, preventing sprawling undergrowth from creating even more obstacles to their passage. While the gloom around them did little to raise their downtrodden spirits, it was a small price to pay for not having to navigate through thick brush. The natural cover also enabled their movements to be better screened from the skies above, though few held any illusions that so many people on the march could mask their travel effectively.
All of the tribal people knew that the greatest threat was coming from behind them now. Deganawida had noticed the extreme edginess spread across the faces of those in the rear of the great retreat. Many of them cast regular, anxious glances over their shoulders, as if expecting the enemy to pour out of the trees behind at any given moment.
Seeing Deganawida, Ayenwatha, and the long column of robust Midragardan warriors heading in the other direction brought visible relief to many faces, especially those that appeared to be struggling the most. Deganawida noticed many eyes widen in curiosity and surprise at the sight of the well-armed Midragardans. Gunnar was the first of many hundreds of hardened, sturdy countenances that the tribal refugees set their eyes upon. Shields on their backs, spears and long-hafted axes clutched in strong hands, and strung bows over many a broad shoulder, the Midragardan warriors exuded strength and determination.
Deganawida was glad that the tribal people were being afforded the plenteous sight of Midragard’s rugged warriors. It was one reason why he had them march along a path that took them right by the refugees, in addition to the fact that Gunnar’s warriors would be placed in a good position for responding to any unexpected threat to the tribal people.
Whatever fears Deganawida, Ayenwatha, or any of the other tribal warriors with them harbored, they also kept up strong postures, displaying resolute outward appearances in front of the retreating exiles. Deganawida angled close enough to the tribal people to speak words of encouragement to many. He brought the Midragardan column to a halt towards the rear end of the exodus, to lend some assistance to the last section of refugees laboring to cross over a wide stream.
The fierce-looking Midragardan warriors showed themselves to be extremely gentle with a number of makeshift litters and cradle-boards. They kept the vulnerable, the old, the sick, and the newborn, out of the waist-high waters, as they enthusiastically contributed their strength to the endeavor.
The Onan sachem watched closely as two of the wolf-skins carried the ends of a litter above their heads. They brought an elderly Onan woman, who Deganawida recognized as being from his own village, over to her daughter on the other side.
Another wolf-skin waded through the modest currents as he bore a tightly-wrapped infant affixed to a cradle-board across to an overly relieved mother. Her diminutive stature would have made fording the river with the baby a most difficult task, with so few available to help in the rear of the exodus.
Deganawida did not know much about the wolf-skins, but he did know that they, along with the bear-shirts, were regarded as the fiercest of the Midragardans by far. It had not escaped his notice that the other Midragardan warriors regarded them with an almost mythical reverence. There was something very dangerous about the wolf-skins, though, the hint of a tremendous ferocity lurking just under their brooding visages.
Yet to see them so very gentle in their handlling of the weakest of the tribal people, a people who were not their own, revealed something else about the wolf-skins that contrasted sharply with the fearsome reputation that they carried.
The younger tribal people were awash with gratitude towards the unexpected assistance, being at the bitter end of their physical limits.
Deganawida could not stifle a smile as the young mother emotionally expressed her gratitude to the wolf-skin conveying her baby to her, tears of happiness running down her cheeks. Though the wolf-skin could not understand her words, he was enveloped in her meaning, and the harsh-looking warrior had an awkward, uncomfortable expression upon his face. While the wolf-skins could display a very benevolent aspect in their actions, Deganawida saw that they were not very adept at expressing it.
Deganawida still recognized that it was far from unhelpful that the wolf-skins, and the other Midragardans, exhibited such a toughened exterior. He knew that the sight of the confident demeanors of the Midragardans and tribal warriors would go forward with the refugees. The images of calm, strong faces on the men in the warriors’ column would serve as a kind of reinforcement, and even rejuvenation, for what little strength and resolve that the hungry, sore, and exhausted refugees were drawing upon.
As the last of the refugees crossed the stream, Deganawida and the warrior column resumed their onward march. The forest swiftly grew silent around them. The tapestry of shadows echoed Deganawida’s melancholy thoughts, as he returned to pondering their circumstances.
Day and night would no longer be merely divisions of time, to mark periods of labor and wakefulness, and periods of repose and rest. Instead, the dominions of sun and moons would melt into a desperate, increasingly burdensome continuum.
The previous night had been the first such instance of the tribal people’s new, and daunting, reality, as the refugees had been cajoled onward despite a tremendous need for sleep and recovery. A couple of all-too-brief pauses had proved to be very difficult, as many had collapsed almost instantly into unconsciousness, wherever they had halted to take their short respite.
When the exodus had resumed, those that were asleep were unceremoniously roused from their slumber. If the refugees had any chance to gain some ground on the pursuing enemy, night remained their best advantage. The darkness of night strengthened the tribes’ own attacks and efforts to frustrate the enemy’s advances.
At the least, the skies above had largely been cleared of menace. The word that Midragardan sky warriors had driven off the Darroks and the Trogens had been an extremely welcome surprise to Deganawida. If the Darroks had been allowed to fly over the forested lands with impunity, the threats to the fleeing masses of tribal peoples would have been exceedingly dire, and the results absolutely devastating.
Unlike small bands of warriors who could easily seek cover in woodlands, a few thousand people could not blend into shadows and foliage. Using their new, dreadful method of warfare, the deadly rain from the Darroks would have inflicted staggering casualties upon the defenseless refugees.
Deganawida cast a furtive glance towards Gunnar, and felt a wave of immense gratitude towards the gritty, pale-skinned people from the far south. It was true that his people and the Midragardans had once shed each other’s blood in abundance, but those days were buried in ages long past. The tribal people and the Midragardans now enjoyed friendship and trade, and had come to deeply respect each other. Their relations had reached the point where the masters of the sea had come very swiftly, and entirely willingly, in the Five Realms’ hour of greatest need.
The Midragardans were such a mysterious people, but in many ways they were very similar to Deganawida’s own. Like the people of the Five Realms, they harbored a staunch, abiding loyalty to their own ways and traditions. Their warriors were undeniably courageous, and from what the stories told, they came from a land of harsh winters that had done much to forge a toughened, robust people.
Deganawida hoped that he might find a way someday to demonstrate his great respect for them. He wanted to do no less for a people that risked their own blood to allow the Five Realms to preserve their lands, lives, and ways.
Eventually, the long column encountered a tribal war band of modest size, heading in the same direction as the refugees. Deganawida recognized the warriors as being a kind of rear guard for the refugees, a first line of defense and warning.
At the sight of them, Ayenwatha moved away from the column and spoke with a few of their number. Deganawida kept moving onward at the forefront of the combined Midragardan and tribal column.
Ayenwatha soon caught back up with Deganawida, bringing word that there was a fair distance yet to go before they came within range of the lines of battle. Deganawida was gladdened by the tidings, as it meant that the refugees were not under any imminent threats.
The column stopped for a few brief hiatuses, near creeks or streams. Deganawida watched as the Midragardans partook of the fresh waters of his lands, and ate a little of the salted fish that so many of them carried.
Deganawida allowed himself a small portion of the roast cornmeal that he kept in a hide pouch at his waist, consuming what was a staple of a tribal warrior on the path of war. Sweetened with the nectar of the maple tree, it tasted altogether wonderful in the face of the hunger that dwelled within him, even if he continued to ignore it.
Even with the short respites, the grueling gait of the march accumulated fatigue as the day’s light began to fade. The gloom of the forest grew ever darker, and at last even the most optimistic among the warriors did not think that they could long sustain the pace that they had been enduring. Only the strange wolf-skins and the lone bear-shirt seemed to be physically unfazed, looking fresh, as if they had only just begun the march.
Gunnar and Ayenwatha finally called out for an extended rest, and the column drew to a halt, fanning out under the trees. Inwardly, Deganawida was immensely relieved, as his old muscles and joints had given all that they had to give for the day. He did not want to entertain any thought as to whether they would recover in time for the next march. It made him feel only marginally better as he saw Gunnar take in and release a long, slow breath, which gave outward evidence to the Midragardan’s own fatigue.
Deganawida and Gunnar plodded over together towards the wide trunk of a tree, where Gunnar sat down heavily, leaning his back up against the bark surface. He set his shield down at his side, within easy grasp.
Deganawida slowly sat down cross-legged at Gunnar’s side, his face tensing a little as he keenly felt the soreness in his back and knees. The wince ebbed from his face, as he gradually began to settle in.
At first, the two leaders were very quiet, content to let their minds and bodies ease further. Ayenwatha came over to join them after seeing to the organization of a few sentinels.
Gunnar looked over towards Deganawida, as Ayenwatha took a place on the elder sachem’s other side. “We are not far now from the fighting. It is time to think of what must be done. We must find a way to locate the strong points of the enemy… the places where their forces have concentrated their greatest strength. Have your scouts located where such places may be?”
“The enemy has attacked us along many points,” Ayenwatha replied grimly. “Their numbers are great, and they have been able to cross into our lands in strength at many places. Each loss we suffer is a heavy one, while the enemy can replace those who fall.”
“We will soon see to that problem,” Gunnar stated determinedly, with a look in his eye that closely resembled burning embers. “As soon as we can set Midragard’s axes to the trunks of the Gallean trees, we will see if they can grow them faster than we can cut them down.”
Deganawida did not doubt that there was no exaggeration to the sturdy Midragardan’s claim.
A rueful smile surfaced on Ayenwatha’s face. “May it be so, Gunnar, but even with your men, we cannot challenge them at every point.”
“Then we decisively meet them at fewer points,” Gunnar replied without hesitation.
Ayenwatha nodded.
“The Ulfhednar, the ones you call wolf-skins, and the Berzerk, will pursue the battle in their own way,” Gunnar stated, “but the enemies that encounter them will wish that they had run headlong into five hundred of my other warriors.”
“The matter of these wolf-skins and the bear-shirt… a conversation that I wish to have with you when we have some time,” Deganawida commented. “But my curiosities must wait. Now, we must each do what we can to keep the enemy away from the people of our tribes.”
“Agreed,” Gunnar replied, as his face took on a look of concern. “Many of your people are not holding up well. I looked upon many as we walked by, who do not look as if they can last much longer. Can they keep moving at the pace that you ask of them?”
Deganawida and Ayenwatha grew silent, as their countenances shadowed over.
“They must,” Deganawida finally said, in a low voice. “Anything less is certain death.”
Gunnar gave a low chuckle. “Is not death certain for all, anyway?”
Ayenwatha grinned. “What is certain depends on whether you believe death is a veil to cross, or an endless sleep.”
“I sure hope that it is a veil to cross, or there is no hope of justice, for those who live with honor, or for those who do not,” Gunnar answered a little more somberly. “I know little of this Palladium I hear so many speak of, but maybe it has a great warrior’s hall too. I have known several with great honor that I could not bear to think met only nothingness… and some other vile ones, that I would hate to think escaped their actions into nothingness.
“I do not think that the good of this world meet the same fate as the most vile,” Deganawida said.
“It would be a very ugly world indeed, if that were true,” Gunnar remarked. He then shrugged, and gave a slight sigh. “I can only choose my own path, whether it is an ugly world or not. And I choose to wield my sword for the good among your tribes, and the good among my own people. Yet I cannot deny that what has happened to your people shakes my hope in the All-Father.”
“As great tragedy does to many of a good heart,” Deganawida replied. “It is hard to believe that a Creator would tolerate such great evil, an evil that continues in generation after generation… and many would say has grown worse.”
“And not all of it of a man’s doing,” Gunnar said. “Failed crops
…disease…many things that do great evil are beyond the means of a man.”
Deganawida nodded. “It makes this path in life difficult. Seems that there are only choices, where there are no answers.”
Gunnar looked upward, and let out a long breath thick with frustration. “And the evils that plague the mind. I do not know whether this storm from the west will come to strike my own wife, my children, my brothers, father, sisters…”
“Maybe somehow we can put a halt to it, in these lands,” Ayenwatha offered in a low voice.
Gunnar glanced back down at the two tribal leaders, and Deganawida noticed that the stalwart Midragardan had a pained look glazing his eyes.
Gunnar spoke slowly, voicing a heavy inner burden, “It may yet be true that I have set my eyes upon my children and good wife for the final time. It is a very strange thing to think about, and one that I do not dwell upon, but it is always there, nonetheless.
Gunnar’s expression shadowed further.
“And if it is the final time? Then it may be that if this storm does indeed come to the shore where my wife and children now live, I will not be standing there before them, to wield Golden Fury against those who would seek to harm them. Yet at the same time, I could not stay on that shore to wait and see if the storm would come, while it falls heavily upon your lands.”
Gunnar clasped his hands between his knees, clenching them tightly, bowing his head towards the ground as he became silent. Deganawida could feel the anxiety tormenting the Midgragardan warrior. The man was not afraid of battle, or of risking death. His fears were concentrated in the thoughts of his family.
Deganawida did not want to think of how many tribal warriors had realized the fullness of such a fear, blood ebbing out into the soil of the woodlands, as their fading consciousness clung to final thoughts of wives and children. It was a horrific image to bring to mind, but it was something that no sachem of good conscience could shy away from.
Only a better world beyond that could reunite such warriors with those that they loved would bring any sense of goodness and beauty to the struggle of life, and the hardships of the world. Anything less would mean that life itself was ultimately senseless, and immersed in tragic, hopeless folly.
Faint and ephemeral, a part of Deganawida beckoned to him, as if to remind him of something long forgotten. He had experienced the odd feeling before, whenever doubts struck him particularly sharply.
It was an all too brief ray of light, one that inflamed burdened hopes, the radiance cloaked in an ambiguity that was tantalizingly close to the grasp of understanding. Yet just as he caught a wisp of the feeling, and reached out towards it with his focused attention, it always eluded his clutches like a dissipating smoke. Frustration, doubt, and sorrow, though, had no qualms about maintaining a clear presence within his besieged mind.
“This is truly a march filled with many pains, for all of us,” Deganawida added softly, as his expression saddened under the weight of his own feelings.
As the air grew quiet around the three leaders, they each turned to their own thoughts.
Deganawida’s contemplation centered once again upon the exiles. They were now laboring to move forward, somewhere off to the east, as his vivid remembrances of their strained, weary faces rose again in his mind.
In a way, all of the tribal exiles were warriors, and each and every one of them was fighting a battle. It did not matter whether they were a respected war sachem like Ayenwatha, one of the great clan matrons, or simply a young mother from a village, like the one that the wolf-skin had aided at the stream. All were engaged in a terrible struggle, from the strongest to the weakest, from the newborn to the eldest.
Yet it was the clan matrons that tended to occupy Deganawida’s thoughts most often as of late. They were at the center of the five tribes’ entire world, and the tremendous burdens that had been unceremoniously thrust upon them gave Deganawida many fears.
His concern for the revered clan matrons grew with every passing day, as many were of an advanced age. Stoically, and seemingly indefatigable, the clan matrons were striving to lift the spirits of everyone in the march, as Deganawida had observed time and time again. The clan matrons reflected every bit as much inner strength as that being showed by the warriors engaging the enemy in combat.
The deep, troubling worries were not unfounded, considering the place that the clan matrons had within the tribes. Their authority was not limited to enveloping their immediate family lines that they each headed within their own villages. In many ways the matrons were at the apex of both their own villages, and their greater tribe. Collectively, they were at the summit of the entire Five Realms.
The matrons held the exalted power to remove or place the deer antler headdresses upon the heads of sachems for the Grand Council. Selecting the fifty sachems of the Grand Council, and removing them whenever the matrons determined that Great Sachems were failing in their tasks, placed a tremendous responsibility into the hands of the eminent women.
The responsibility for designating, and ultimately continuing to evaluate, the members of the Grand Council flowed out of a very central core of authority that had been accorded to the great matrons within the tribal culture. Its nature spread far beyond the boundaries of a matron’s own village.
The great matrons headed the revered clan societies that all of the tribal people belonged to. The various clan societies, in turn, were not confined to just one particular village or tribe.
Deganawida himself belonged to the Bear Clan. Though his memory of his younger years had regrettably misted over, he knew that he had gained his clan affiliation at birth, as was the way for all new children in the five tribes. The Bear clan existed among the Kanienke, Onondowa, Onyota, and Gayogohon, as much as it did the Onan.
Others of the animal-affiliated clans existed only among a few of the tribes, but all of the clans represented a type of bond that transcended village and tribe on several levels. The way of the sacred clans was ingrained into the very heart of the tribal people’s identity and entire culture. It was through the clans that each village was organized. It was through the specific clans, the ones present within an individual village, that the matrons were identified.
This was the way of things that had led to the very day when the deer antler headdress was first placed upon Deganawida’s own head. That sacred day had anointed him as a very special sachem from the Bear Clan in his village. He had been carefully selected, to be sent forth to serve in one of the fourteen permanent positions reserved for the Onan sachems on the Grand Council. That reserved place had bestowed him with a storied name, one that he had kept ever since.
In truth, his was the most preeminent position on the Grand Council. It hearkened back to the very founder of the Council itself, the legendary figure for whom Deganawida was named. His selection to the prestigious seat on the Grand Council was just one of the ways in which Deganawida’s own life had been greatly touched, affected, and guided by the clan matrons.
There could be little doubt that the great clan matrons truly represented, and were imbued with, the spirit that bound the Five Realms together. There was also little denying that as the great clan matrons went, so did the morale of the tribes.
Above and beyond everything, the clan matrons would have to be protected and sustained, if the very foundations of the tribes were to survive. It was not a small burden, with the tribes moving into such a foreboding period of darkness. With the physical frailty of several of the matrons, the task would increasingly take on the appearance of hopelessness.
Gunnar reached out a hand, placing it firmly upon Deganawida’s shoulder, breaking him out of his deep, morose thoughts with a slight start.
“We will be there in time, Deganawida,” the Midragardan said firmly. The exasperation and sorrow that had clung to Gunnar’s face before had since been replaced by a stony look of resolve. The Midragardan had obviously called upon the depths of his fortitude after giving voice to his innermost torments. “Deganawida, do not forget that the sky warriors will continue to give the enemy much to think about. We will soon be able to watch their movements, as they have watched yours.”
“I had almost forgotten,” Deganawida remarked, with a brief smile at the buoyant reminder from Gunnar. “I have so firmly come to believe that the skies would never be an ally that we could count on during this time.”
“They will be,” Gunnar reassured Deganawida with a fierce pride echoing within his voice. “The accursed Darroks have been driven off, and you have seen that the Harraks are now absent from the skies. Over three hundred Midragardan warriors upon Fenraren have survived the fighting. The steeds will be resting tonight, and they will be at your people’s side tomorrow, ready to take part in the continued struggle.”
“I wish that we could be at their side in the skies,” Ayenwatha commented ruefully.
“How many of your valiant Brega steeds still survive, Ayenwatha?” Gunnar inquired. “They are indeed such magnificent steeds, who belong in the sky with as much honor as the Fenraren of our own lands.”
It was no vain compliment, as Midragardans did not idly equate anything with themselves. Gaining the esteem of the hardy people of the south was no easy thing.
Ayenwatha shook his head, his face a look of resigned frustration. “So many died in fighting off the first assault from the Darroks. As with our people, the number of Brega in our lands has never been great, and the number trained for bearing riders even less. They were once a gift of the Onondowa to the Grand Council, another great light joined within our Sacred Fire. It was the Onondowa that first tamed them, but we have never been able to breed great numbers of the winged ones.
“Among all the tribes, we may have a hundred trained sky warriors remaining, but less than fifty steeds that are healthy, and can be ridden. As all of the tribes have provided sky warriors, many of these trained steeds were kept in our villages, and are being brought along in the march. But there are far too few of them left to risk any more losses… unless circumstances grow most desperate.
“There are a few more adults and young steeds in the breeding herd, but those are not trained for riding, or fighting.”
“And what of this breeding herd now?” Gunnar asked Ayenwatha, bringing his gaze up to the war sachem’s eyes.
“The breeding herd was kept within the territory of the Onondowa, where the Brega first came from. But I do not yet know what has become of the herd,” Ayenwatha confessed.
“That is very ill-news, when we do not know what fate befalls a shining jewel among the Skiantha,” Gunnar responded, in a despondent tone.
Gunnar tilted his head downward as he again clasped his hands together, looking highly distressed by Ayenwatha’s uncertain tidings. Deganawida shared the Midragardian’s great dismay, fearing any harm that might have come to the precious breeding herd.
The bear-like Brega were a creature unique to the lands of the Five Realms, exceedingly rare animals in the eyes of the broader world. They were renowned for their steadfast nature, and their courageous loyalty to their riders.
The idea that their full population might be threatened to extinction was debilitating enough to a Midragardan that sincerely respected such steeds. To men such as Deganawida or Ayenwatha, who had lived alongside Bregas all of their lives, and understood their revered place among the tribal people, it was a most horrifying prospect.
“I must then ask you about the breeding herd,” Gunnar finally stated, his head still down, and his voice low and tense. “Can we find out what has become of them? Now that the skies have been regained, perhaps we can use our Fenraren to search them out… and if they find the herd, maybe something can be done. Our riders just need to know where the Onondowa sachems might be.”
“To the best of our ability, Gunnar, sachems are sending word out that all who are not engaged in combat are to be moved to the south and eastern region of our lands,” Deganawida replied.
The southern edges of the Five Realms, bordered by the tumultuous seas that separated them from Saxany’s coastlines, were not under any imminent threat. They held the greatest potential in the Five Realms as a place of refuge. Aided by long strings of cliffs and tempestuous waters, a large part of the southern coastline had its own natural lines of defense. There were very few good places to land galleys, or lay anchor for sailing vessels.
Below the Shimmering River to the east, down south to where the coastline rounded and turned west to run along the narrow, turbulent straits, were a few remaining places where the Five Realms people could cling to desperate hope.
“If that word has been received by all of the Onondowa, and those who tend the breeding herd, I do not yet know,” Deganawida continued. “Since our last Grand Council, we have not yet been able to take account of all the sachems who sit upon it. Our people have been cast out of their villages, and are scattered within our forests.”
“Is there a place where all of your tribes know to gather? A common place that they will be moving towards? What if the Onondowa lands are being invaded as your western lands are? Could the breeding herd be cut off from you?” asked Gunnar, a little anxiously. “I have only traded along the Shimmering River, and am not familiar with your northernmost lands.”
“We march to the east and south, and are trying to gather into one body, but there is not full consensus on a final gathering place,” Deganawida replied. “But do not trouble yourself greatly, Gunnar. The lands of the Onondowa are not so easy for the invaders to travel through. It is why the invaders came through the lower hills to the west of here.
“The Giant’s Furrow, and the swamplands to the north of it, make the Onondowa lands very difficult terrain for an army. If the breeding herd has not been brought to the south, or even if it is somehow blocked from reaching the south, it is not likely that it is under grave threat.”
The Giant’s Furrow, a deep, rocky gorge through which the strong Thunder River flowed, was a formidable boundary that had long been a blessing to the Onondowa. It alone was more than enough to deter the invaders from concentrating upon Onondowa lands.
The Swamps of Shadow to the north of it were impassable to those that did not know the pathways through them. If the Onondowa with the breeding herd were somehow cut off from the rest, they could sequester themselves deep within the swamplands.
“That brings a little more peace to the growing burdens of my heart. Long have I admired the nobility of your steeds,” Gunnar commented. “Though I still wish to send Fenraren to search them out, as the loss of your breeding herd is terrible to even contemplate. And maybe a few of your sky warriors can help our riders look for likely places.”
“I will see that your riders are accompanied by a couple of ours,” Ayenwatha replied, with a nod of agreement.
“We will find the breeding herd, and make certain that it is reunited with your people,” Gunnar declared in response, looking to both of the tribal sachems.
Ayenwatha then begged leave of them, to go look after the sentries, so that the ones who had been immediately assigned to the watch upon the column’s halt could gain a little rest.
Deganawida stared off into the night for a few moments in silence, before he turned towards Gunnar. The Midragardan’s bright eyes gleamed in the moonlight, as he took notice of Deganawida’s gaze.
A foreboding feeling was interminably nagging at Deganawida’s mind. He felt a compulsion to confide the speculations to Gunnar, curious to see whether the Midragardan perceived any sense of greater dangers himself. If Gunnar did, Deganawida wanted to know the man’s thoughts on the matter.
“Gunnar, long have you and I shared in friendship. Long have our people held bonds of goodwill and trade. Please listen to my words with an open mind,” Deganawida stated slowly. “I desire to know your counsel, if you would offer it.”
Gunnar’s expression grew somber, as he responded with a tone of piqued curiosity. “Of course I shall listen to you, Deganawida. You are both a true friend, and a true ally. Withhold nothing from me. What troubles you?”
Deganawida took a deep breath, and spoke in a low voice that was meant for Gunnar’s ears only. “I see only a vast darkness ahead of us
… something greater, far beyond this invasion. A matter of spirit, and not flesh.”
“A matter of spirit?” inquired Gunnar.
“I see a malevolent power driving the forces that are attacking us,” Deganawida replied. “It is like the blackest and most violent of storms is looming behind the hordes that beset us. It is something much more than this plague on our lands… and far older than even the Five Realms.”
“You are speaking of… “ Gunnar started to say, before hesitating, as if he did not want to give open voice to the thing that came to his mind. He finally added, at almost a whisper, “The Adversary, as my people would see it.”
Deganawida nodded silently, in confirmation.
“And the One Spirit of your people? Sounds much like our All-Father? Do you think for a moment that we will be forgotten if this is a matter that goes beyond the ken of mortal men?” Gunnar responded. A trace of firmness emerged within the worrisome look that had crept onto his face. “Emmanu, and The All-Father, like your One Spirit, will not leave us undefended.”
Deganawida looked upon Gunnar with a little amazement. Where Gunnar had earlier spoken of harboring doubts regarding the All-Father, the man had now given voice to a more simple level of faith, of a kind that so many Midragardans tended to carry.
For many of Gunnar’s people, the faith of the Western Church was simply something expected of them by their jarls and kings. Embracing that faith had been the proclaimed order of the legendary King Olaf the White, many years in the past, which had broken age-old bonds that the Midragardans held with their elder gods.
A great number had been forced to outwardly accept the new faith. Many had done so grudgingly, while some accepted it as a matter of course. A considerable number had been dragged into it under threat of life and limb, but some held fast to their old ways, meeting violent, barbarous ends for their steadfast refusal.
Despite the purging, a few Midragardans had secretly clung to revering the old gods, establishing a legacy that spanned to the present day. Deganawida had long wondered whether Gunnar was one of those who quietly revered the old ways, but his simple, direct statement indicated that he was a man who had taken the new faith to heart, even if he still wrestled with doubts.
“No, I do not believe so,” Deganawida responded. “But I wonder if we may be in the darkest days, spoken of in your prophecies. I know that it is said that the just and the honorable will be hunted down without mercy in those times… and that it will be a time like no other before. I cannot help but think of such a time, in the light of what my people are now going through.”
Gunnar looked into Deganawida’s eyes. Despite the relative absence of light, Deganawida could see the grave concern reflected within the depths of his gaze.
“There have been many such claims. There has always been war, and tidings of war, and there have always been storms and famine,” Gunnar said. “Only the All-Father is said to know of the time spoken of in those prophecies.”
“That is true, but the truth also remains that if the prophecies are not false, then the dark days will come,” Deganawida countered. “I have long meditated on this feeling that has grown within me, and my heart tells me that the Unifier is no mere man… not even one of the great Wizards. No, I suspect that He is something much more… something more dangerous than you or I can even fathom.”
“There have been other rulers whose hearts were governed by malice, Deganawida,” Gunnar reminded him. “Though it gives me no pride to say so, Midragard has been a home to such rulers before.”
“As has the Five Realms,” Deganawida said. “As has every land upon the face of Ave. Wherever there are people, there have been those that have chosen the darker path.”
“Then what gives this Unifier such greater importance?” Gunnar asked.
“What single ruler has ever been able cast a shadow across the world, like this Unifier has,” Deganawida replied. “He has lived far beyond the years of mortal men, and shows no signs of age. It is known that he is not a Wizard, though it is said that He works great signs, and possesses incredible powers. Yet it is not this that speaks in the silence of my heart.
“No, it is the willingness of other rulers to cast aside their own ambitions of power to align with the Unifier. The pursuers of power do not easily put aside their own interests.
“It is also the reality that kings and rulers of many lands see the Unifier as the bringer of a shining new world. It is the willingness of so many lands to acclaim the Unifier as the one to put all of their hopes in to bring about peace, even though they all know He sends great wars upon others.”
“Willingness? I would say that many have been forced,” Gunnar said, with a hint of a growl. “That is why we are fighting now. We will not be forced to bend our knee to this usurper.”
“And more have been forced, as time has passed, and His influence has grown… but in the beginning, this was not so,” Deganawida said. “No, power swirled around the Unifier because of desire… and then, once that power was established, it began to be wielded, as it is being used now.”
Deganawida recalled his reflections upon the Unfier. The fact that the Unifier had once called down a column of fire from the sky, in front of a great multitude, was not what had resonated most powerfully in earlier times. As fantastical as that singular event had been, engulfing a popularly despised troublemaker within a spectacular inferno, it was a much more subtle quality regarding the Unifier that lingered and endured in the minds of men and women.
Galleans living in the eastern regions of their kingdom, while trading with the tribal peoples, had oft spoken of their experiences with the Unifier. They had remarked about His striking, comely appearance, as well as the flooding of warmth and confidence that they had all felt while in His presence. Even if the observer was just one amid a numerous throng, it was a very common impression that the Unifier could somehow focus on each and every individual comprising a larger group; all at the same time.
Some attributed the peculiar sensation to some mystical art, but most held that The Unifier simply held the special favor of the All-Father. Galleans, by and large, deemed the Unifier to be blessed in abundance from the vaults of Palladium, as He had quickly empowered prosperity and stability in their own lands.
He had succeeded where even the Peace of the All-Father movement of the Western Church had not, empowering a rising peace that had soon spread across the western lands. The Peace of the All-Father movement had merely slowed some of the excesses of the nobles, and harsher levels of suffering incurred by the peasants during the incessant warring among Gallean lords. By contrast, the Unifier had brought many long, bitter feuds to a complete halt, washing away fiery acrimony that had burned for generations in many instances.
Many in the western lands would have been taken sorely aback at Deganawida’s speculations, if offense was not taken outright. He was well aware that the populations of the lands under the shadow of the Unifier found it incomprehensible that the Five Realms and Midragard, as well as Saxany, had refused to acquiesce to the Unifier’s bold vision for all of Ave.
Yet as a tree could be identified by the kind of leaf or fruit that grew from its branches, so could the Unifier’s true nature be perceived in the actions that were being done on His behalf. The stones plummeting from the sky, and crashing down into tribal longhouses, indiscriminately shattering the bodies of man, woman, and child alike, were not the fruit of any being whose heart was aligned with the One Spirit.
The remembrances of the devastation inflicted upon his people inflamed tensions inside of Deganawida, as his mouth tightened. His dark eyes took on a sharper edge as he glanced towards Gunnar.
“No, this battle we now fight is just a small part of a much greater war, and we must not falter,” Deganawida said. “We may be overcome by numbers, but we must stand as long as we possibly can. I will hold them back with my last breath, if that is what is asked of me.”
“We shall hold them back, and we shall hold them back together,” Gunnar swiftly returned, a fierce temperament surging to the fore. “And you must not lose heart. Never forget that even if these are the last days, even if they are the darkest that have ever graced this world, it shall not change the side that I stand with, and proudly wield Golden Fury for.”
A slight smile pierced the stony countenance on Deganawida’s face. “I know that you are true, my friend. Please understand that my heart grows heavier by the day. My tribal brothers and sisters are being slain, and driven farther from their homelands with each day. We are being forced from the lands that we have known our entire lives. I fear that there will be no end to this, as long as we still live.”
“I fear that as well, my friend,” Gunnar said, calming down a little. “And this shadow will not spare the homelands of my people. But we must not lose heart. The worse that it may all seem, the more we must believe in what we fight for.”
The look of deep concern etched on Gunnar’s face at the beginning of their conversation had transformed into a visage of grim determination, and now it changed again. A stoic, largely unreadable expression manifested, as the Midragardan grew quiet. After a little time had passed, without another word being said, Gunnar turned his head away from Deganawida, and stared out into the night.
Deganawida settled himself down onto the hard earth, and soon drifted off into the depths of a dreamless sleep. It seemed as if he had just blinked, before everyone was being roused to continue the march.
Judging by the position of the moons, Deganawida deemed it to be just past the middle of the night. It was still a long way until the mists of the pre-dawn wafted through the trees, but there was a decidedly crisper chill to the air.
Deganawida’s sore muscles and stiffened joints complained loudly as he labored to limber up his old, aching body. The journey was resuming all too soon, at least for his own body’s needs, but the column of warriors had to take full advantage of the shroud of night.
Ayenwatha came by and spoke for a few moments with Deganawida, and the old sachem could read the sympathy in the war sachem’s eyes. The younger warrior was fully aware of the much greater burden being embraced by Deganawida, who did not enjoy the swiftness of recovery that those with fewer years did.
There were only a few Midragardans and tribal warriors that approached Deganawida’s age, but even they were better prepared, as their bodies had been honed and conditioned on a more regular basis than the elder sachem. Yet none of them would have noticed any difficulties in Deganawida, as he gave off an untroubled outward appearance, despite bearing a plague of throbs and spasms within.
Deganawida availed himself of a few mouthfuls of water, and a little more of the maple-sweetened cornmeal, before the column started forward again. The ensuing, final segment of the march proceeded far better than Deganawida expected, as they found themselves journeying into a younger part of the forest.
While it was accompanied by a steep increase in the prevalence of brush, the thinner canopy overhead allowed for more light to break through from above. The faint light cast by the stars filling the night sky, and the sharp luminance of the pair of moons, was enough to reveal virtually all obstacles in their path.
The warriors of the Five Realms serving as scouts and pathfinders knew every contour and change in the terrain. It was an advantage gained from switching scouting duties over to whomever was from the villages within a given area. Years of hunting and tracking had given the men invaluable knowledge and experience that now greatly benefited the night march.
While regrettably too brief, the extended rest had still served to bolster Deganawida’s spirit and energy. His mind, though vexed at the danger to his people, was not being weighed down further. There was nothing new to consider, or contemplate, at least until more information could be gained regarding the enemy’s movements and attacks. When the sky began to lighten, and a dampness permeated the forest, Deganawida knew that it would not be much longer before they engaged the enemy in battle.
Realizing that, the steady, crunching trod of Midragardan footsteps upon the forest floor was welcome music to Deganawida’s ears. At the very least, the people of the Five Realms would not be standing alone when the new day dawned.
*