*
*
Wulfstan gripped the leather hilt of his sword tightly, fingering the solid iron ring attached to the lobed pommel. He slowly traced the outline of the ring with his last finger, over and over again. The repetitive gesture reflected the nervous tension coursing throughout him, as he hungered for any shred of reassurance that things would somehow take a turn for the better.
Right next to Wulfstan, Cenwald stood with a taut grip of his own, applied midway along the shaft of his spear. His flesh seemed to bind with the scuffed, nicked wood. Cenwald’s eyes were closed, as his mouth uttered silent prayers of supplication, beads of anxiety-ridden perspiration standing out upon the weathered skin of his broad forehead.
Wulfstan had been so relieved to see Cenwald after the swiftly alternating bouts of near victory and near destruction, finally culminating favorably when the formidable Andamooran flank had been decisively driven back. Cenwald was covered with scratches, bruises, and a modest gash, but nothing that left him with permanent injury, or likely threatened to fester with disease.
The battered Andamooran ranks had pulled back almost fully in the aftermath of the fierce fighting. A contingent of horse archers, and a few substantial formations of other cavalry, roamed the areas out in front of the Saxan right flank, if only to retain some residual honor while keeping an honest presence arrayed before their Saxan enemy.
The grassland before Wulfstan was now filled with the bodies of men and horses. A good number of them, man and beast alike, twisted and rolled in the agony of grievous injuries and open wounds. Far too many lay rigidly still. The ground beneath continued to slake its impassive, prodigious thirst on the innumerable small wellsprings of blood.
The mood of nearly all of the men gathered around Wulfstan was somber and drained. Far removed from the quiet fields and abundant forests of Sussachia, now perched on the western edge of their kingdom, an inevitable darkness was looming before them all.
As Wulfstan saw it, tasting the realization as a nauseous bile, the great armies of the Unifier were now settling into a war of attrition, one that they would eventually win. Until that happened, though, Wulfstan wanted only to be standing on his two feet, back at the very front edge of the fighting. At the very least, even his lone sword could help to slow that attrition and delay the inevitable; if only for a single moment longer.
Until further commands arrived, his desires would be restrained, as he was now forced into a bitter and chafing idleness.
A good number of men had been assembled and regrouped into a sizeable force behind the main shield wall. Many, like him, were from the heart of Sussachia, where Ealdorman Byrtnoth served as King Alcuin’s highest authority. Others were from Ealdorman Oslac’s lands in the Mittevald.
Ealdorman Aelfric was mustering all of them for some unspoken purpose, which Wulfstan believed would have to be revealed very soon, as the day was steadily growing older. It would not be much longer before night fell across the battlefield, and the fighting would most likely cease completely until the next dawn; unless a sudden breakthrough occurred.
Though it was a calm in the storm, the idleness was in itself a torment to Wulfstan’s mind and constitution. He tried to occupy himself by looking over to where a force of light cavalry from Annenheim was in the process of mustering. The horse riders were gathering just a short distance beyond Wulfstan’s contingent of northern Saxans under Ealdorman Aelfric’s authority. Wulfstan wondered as to what the lightly armored, lance and shield bearing horse riders’ purpose would be, in such late stages of the day’s fighting.
An uproar of excited voices erupted suddenly around him, forcibly gripping his attention. Most of the men immediately around Wulfstan were looking and gesturing skyward, with eyes and expressions widened with a combination of sheer amazement and gaping fear. Following their riveted gazes, he watched the ominous approach of two enormous creatures, incredibly long of body, each supported by a pair of unbelievably vast wings.
“Darroks! Darroks!” a thane exclaimed loudly, as the two flying monstrosities drifted closer to the Saxan lines.
“May the All-Father be with us,” Cenwald mumbled aloud at Wulfstan’s side, his face a caricature of alarm and fear.
The two flying juggernauts cast massive shadows, which flowed smoothly across the ground under the creatures as they passed over the assemblage around Wulfstan. As he was engulfed in the darkness of their immense shadow, he looked up and marveled at the beasts passing right above him. It was hard to even imagine that something so huge could fly through the air.
His brow then furrowed as he watched them closely. He could tell that the creatures were lowering in altitude, noticeably heading from the upper sky towards the ground. They were soon well beyond the reserve muster of northern Saxans and light cavalry. A few moments later, Wulfstan judged that the Darroks had passed over the main Saxan encampment, and were now far behind the Saxan lines.
The giant flying beasts disappeared from his line of sight, and he could only wonder as to where they had made their final descent. Wulfstan knew that it could not have been very far beyond the encampment, and also recognized that the two creatures were now far removed from the Unifier’s forces.
Yet they had not landed under duress, either. Their descent was done with pure intent. Whatever their purpose was, he knew that it did not bode well for the Saxans.
“I do not like this,” Cenwald remarked after a long passage of uneasy silence, echoing the thoughts bandying about in Wulfstan’s own mind.
“Nor I,” Wulfstan replied in a low tone, his jaw clenching in the tension enveloping him.
He could hear the rising murmurs among the northern Saxans, as the others wrestled with the strange, unexpected sight. It was not much longer before the first signs of an answer to the strange mystery became manifest.
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 Sussachia 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 Trogen 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.
“If we get past this battle, my debt to you is more than I can ever give in a lifetime,” Wulfstan said, gradually regaining his breath.
“Be glad I would not let go of my bow,” the other man replied with a slight grin.
The bow-carrying warrior slumped down fully upon the earthen-hued cloak he had been lying on, wincing painfully. His thick, red hair was matted, and his large eyes could not mask the sharp ache that was continuously being generated from his body, caused by the large wound underneath the ragged strips of blood-stained, wool-cloth bandages wrapped snugly around his side.
One of his leathery hands still grasped his bow tightly, the bulging forearm muscles pulsing with the throbs of pain wracking him. His other hand was reaching down towards a quiver of arrows, in a labored effort to draw one of the feather-fletched shafts out.
“Your name?” the man asked, pulling an arrow free of the quiver.
“Wulfstan, son of Ealdred, from Sussachia,” Wulfstan replied, as he kept his eyes searching for any remaining Trogens that might have escaped their notice.
“Then we are not far apart, Wulfstan,” the man said slowly, in a purposeful manner, forcing a smile through the clouding pain of his wounds. He spoke with no small amount of effort, pausing to take several deep breaths. “I am Sebright. Just a simple woodworker… from the village of Raven’s Nest. No, not from Sussachia as you… but we are on the very borders of your lands. Might be that just a few trees are between my village and the lands under Ealdorman Byrtnoth. You make me glad now that I have spent many years hunting with a bow.”
“It is the greatest misfortune that it takes wars to bring new friends together,” Wulfstan observed.
“But there is cause to celebrate,” Sebright said, with another grimace interrupting the smile on his face.
Wulfstan thought for a moment that the man was also delirious, in the light of the irrefutable circumstances surrounding them. He responded with a tone of incredulity, “Celebrate?”
“Right here… is your reason, something to always keep in mind, in times such as this,” Sebright uttered confidently. With his right hand he reached up and gestured to a small, silver pendant hanging about his neck. It was the spear-shaped symbol of Emmanu. “Look to the skies if it seems darkest. He will return. Believe it, Wulfstan. That hour is drawing near, as the world is shackled in madness.”
Wulfstan smiled gently, not wanting to offend the man. Times had always been dark in the history of the world. The course of Saxan history alone had been filled with challenges, as tyrants and kingdoms alike had risen and fallen. He had listened to many such stories over the years, from gleeman and family alike.
He just felt lucky that Saxany had been strong for hundreds of years, enough to withstand the inevitable onslaughts against it. Though he was not so certain about the current times, Wulfstan now believed that Sebright was probably another one of the doomsayers who were said to crop up at the end of centuries, millennia, and during great wars.
The wound that he had suffered had probably added a small dose of madness as well to the man’s sense of reason, taking him to its embrace.
Wulfstan had undergone the Three Immersions, and had attended the village church regularly, but that did not mean Sebright was prophetic. Emmanu was always said to be on the verge of return, even though each century continued to pass into yet another century, without even a hint of the possibility.
“He will come again,” Wulfstan echoed, a statement that he struggled greatly to believe could even possibly be imminent.
He hoped that he had at least humored the man that had saved his life, not entirely finding the moment appropriate to engage in a discussion of this sort.
“He will,” Sebright responded, matter-of-factly. The archer’s eyes darted about. “The threat here is now gone. You should go see to your other comrades.”
Wulfstan shook his head. “I am staying here, among you and those here. There’s nobody to stand among all of you if any of those creatures break through again.”
In all truth, Wulfstan was the only able-bodied warrior currently standing in the midst of well over a hundred badly wounded Saxans. The recently arrived thane and other Saxans had clearly bolstered what little defense could be placed near to the line of wagons, but it would not take many Trogens to break through to the wounded again. Wulfstan had no way of knowing just how large the force of Trogens was. He would almost have to be a second line of defense by himself.
Farther away, the Saxan line seemed to be thickening, bolstered by more incoming warriors. Some Saxan archers were now levying their arrows towards the Trogens, whose advance was stalled by the increasing weight of the defender’s numbers.
Wulfstan watched the monks, priests, Sisters, and others resuming their work on the wounded, seeing a determination and courage that was equal to that of any warrior.
A middle-aged Sister held the hand of a man, and looked into his eyes without wavering, as he shuddered and succumbed to a terrible stomach wound, laying her hand upon his sweat and blood matted forehead with a mother’s gentleness. She looked right into his eyes as he expired, showing no trace of discomfort, holding on to him till several moments after his spirit had fled his body.
Her lips moved as she whispered some private, silent prayer, getting up and moving in her grimy, blood-stained tunic to attend to yet another grievously wounded man, who also looked to be entering his final moments. Wulfstan inwardly knew that she would continue as long as there was a warrior in danger of dying alone, making certain that they did not.
A great yell arose from the Saxan line behind him, mixing with several deep, short horn blasts from the rear of the camp, where the Trogens had entered. The horn blasts had a deeper, different tone than the Saxan ones, and Wulfstan had no doubts as to what they meant. The Trogens were falling back. Wulfstan turned his head in time to see the Saxan line pressing forward, driving hard against the retreating Trogens.
Wulfstan took a deep breath. Another grave threat had been beaten back, the second such in just one day, but Wulfstan had no illusions that it would be the last in this terrible battle.
Several armed Saxans were being dispatched to search among the wagons, to look for any Trogens that might still be hiding. Wulfstan opted to stay among the wounded as long as he could, as he was now injured himself.
Some time later, a kindly-faced monk brought Wulfstan an ash-wood cup. It was filled with a rather poor quality ale, but Wulfstan received it with great enthusiasm nonetheless. He warmly thanked the monk, who nodded back, with a brief smile of acknowledgement, and moved away to other tasks. To Wulfstan, at that moment, it was as if the drinking vessel was a glass cup from Ehrengard, filled with the finest ale, set at the table of a wealthy Saxan thane.
With daylight ebbing towards darkness, Wulfstan doubted that anything more would be asked of the Saxans that had responded to the emergency defense of the encampment. Sebright, exhausted, and fully free of the threats, fell quickly into a deep sleep as Wulfstan watched over him.
The skies were soon cast with a decidedly reddish hue, and Wulfstan recalled the old saying of the Venerable Ethelwulf of the Jarrede Monastery. The legendary churchman and chronicler had once said that a reddish sky at the onset of night heralded the promise of a clear day on the morrow.
Wulfstan hoped that the All-Father would forgive him for outright disagreement with one of his highest, and most renowned, Saxan servants. With all those who had fallen on that day, Wulfstan did not see how the coming day could ever be seen as clear, no matter what the weather might be.
Rather, he believed, the battle was simply so terrible that even the ground could not hold the blood that had been spilled. The sky itself looked to have had been stained with the baleful dye of war.
He also mused over the common notion among his people that the blood of the Saxans had been much stronger in days of old. After what he had witnessed that day, he disputed that saying as well. It was hard to conceive of stronger blood than that which ran in the veins of the Saxan warriors standing courageously on the battlefield that day, and those other Saxans whose unyielding will served the dying and wounded within the encampment.
Many horns were sounded in the distance, where the main battlefront was. The sonorous blasts were Saxan in tone, and were clearly signaling the end of the day’s hostilities, as the first signs of the cessation of battle started to appear.
Wulfstan slowly strode among the tents of the encampment, working his way gradually back to where the contingents from Sussachia were situated. He endured the pain from his injuries, simply glad that they did not hinder him from moving.
Guards and lookouts were being posted at the rear of the camp, as streams of exhausted soldiers began to enter the boundaries of the encampment. Notched axes, torn mail, gouged and shattered shields, and other various mementos of the ferocious combat were commonly seen among the battered, blood-smeared men returning to the confines of the war camp.
Wulfstan finally reached his tent, and sat down outside the opening. Now that the fighting was done, a part of him was given over to the needs of hunger. He scraped up some pieces of hard bread, using the remaining ale in his cup to soften it to a level that he could chew.
Gradually, more of the warriors that had been in the assemblage prior to the Trogen attack filed back around Wulfstan. Several gave him nods or smiles that held sparks of gladness that he was healthy and alive, even as he returned the expressions in a like manner. The sparks could not take to flame, though, dampened as all of them were by the reality that many others would not be returning to their tents that evening.
Cenwald slumped down heavily next to Wulfstan, his face filled with weariness, and his spear holding several new nicks and scrapes. Overall, he was none the worse for wear, having made it through the end of the day without incurring serious injury. Wulfstan gave him a light pat on the back, as his friend sat down next to him.
They were allowed to light fires, and eat a meager fare of hard bread, which they dipped into a grain-and-vegetable pottage to soften. The provisions were accompanied with a modest serving of salted fish, and some more poor quality ale. It was a much lesser repast than that which they had enjoyed on previous nights in the camp, but after the long, tiring day, it tasted as if it were a sumptuous feast.
There was little to no conversation among the men, as each nursed his hunger, thirst, and various physical or mental troubles in private. Wulfstan found his mind returning to wondering over the purpose of the assemblage that had been taking place prior to the arrival of the Darroks.
The mystery did not linger for long. The purpose was soon explained to them by Aelfric himself, who presently came into the camp, and dispersed several of his thanes among the weary men. They summoned all those who had previously been mustering towards the end of the day together once again, except for those greatly wounded in the defense of the encampment.
Aelfric waited for them to gather within an open space, standing near to a large campfire. His face, reddish in the firelight, was grim of countenance as he spoke to them in the last vestiges of twilight.
Aelfric spoke of a free-holding lord named Godric, who held a sizeable fortress and attendant lands on the outer borders of Saxany. The use of Godric’s fortress, situated as it was near to the south and west of the battlefield itself, had to be denied to the enemy ranks. Diligent scouts had ascertained that there were still routes available to reach the fortress, despite the presence of the invasion forces.
A force was now to be sent, under the cover of night, to reach Godric’s lands. Their task was to entreat with Godric directly, to gain his cooperation to allow his fortress to be garrisoned.
Among those being gathered, a larger faction, including riders, would be involved with scouting and protection on the perimeters. Some of these would act within the areas that were now being heavily patrolled by the enemy, creating diversions if the need arose. A smaller group would be sent on foot to navigate the route through the dense woodlands to the actual fortress itself. It was a task fraught with danger, but one that the Saxan leader saw as entirely necessary.
After Aelfric concluded his address, everyone was mercifully allowed a short nap. Wulfstan and the others within the assemblage walked back to their tents and campfires in relative silence, most lost in the depths of a murk born of their dark thoughts and great fatigue.
When he reached his tent again, Wulfstan removed his mail shirt. He gave a low groan as he slid the protective iron links up and over his head, aggravating the tender area of his upper back and his slashed arm in the process. He then took off his half-helm, and set it down beside him, before pulling off his tunic.
He savored the relief of the cooling night air as it settled all over his body. With no threat of rain, he eschewed the small interior of the ridge tent. He sprawled out before the tent opening on the ground, under the night sky, feeling the soft grasses underneath his head. He wasted little time before falling into unconsciousness.
Once again, he found himself in the midst of a mysterious dream, featuring an old man dressed in the garb of a priest of Emmanu. The old priest carried within his hands an ornately bound codex, dressed richly with gold and gems. The priest had kindly, blue eyes, and though advanced in age his hair was a luxuriant black. His voice was gentle, but imbued with a great strength.
“To the skies, Wulfstan. Go farther, and seek the one that can help your people.”
Wulfstan awoke with an abrupt start, peering upward at a worried, familiar face. Cenwald was leaning over him, having reached down to lightly nudge him.
“Are you okay?” Cenwald asked. “It looked as if sleep was troubling you. The night force has begun to assemble. We will gather beyond the western camp gate. All would be awakened soon enough.”
“I do not fault you, Cenwald. Even so, this sleep is far too short,” he lamented, for the short draught of sleep had brought an enormous thirst to the fore.
“Will your injuries allow you to travel?” Cenwald asked him.
“I will bear the pain, it does not prevent me from movement,” Wulfstan replied somberly.
Stretching his tightened muscles, he sat up, carefully pulling his tunic back on. He winced with the pulsating pain coursing through his upper back, knowing that he would be nursing a very sore area there for quite some time from the Trogen mace blow. He slowly replaced his old half-helm on his head, tying the leather straps underneath his chin, to secure it firmly.
“Time to do what we must,” he said resolutely, forcing a smile of encouragement through the icy feeling gripping him, born of fatigue and the countless losses and sufferings that he had witnessed on the previous day.
Those gleemen who would someday be singing great songs of that day, and the rest of the battle to come, might well render heroic tributes to the Saxan warriors. Wulfstan would expect nothing less, for they deserved to be remembered in glory, but the costs that purchased that glory were a horrific burden that Wulfstan was only beginning to understand.
After adjusting the fit of his sword and scabbard, and pulling his shield up, he walked with Cenwald through the chilly night. His rigid muscles gradually became more supple as he moved. Wulfstan paused a couple of times to twist his torso and limber up his back, which ached even more from the short respite on the hard ground, and the accumulation of the previous day’s exertion.
They continued through the teeming campfires, which silhouetted the forms of a great many slumbering men. They finally exited the western gate of the camp, and followed some others that he recognized from the Sussachia contingent. They headed to where the small force that he was to join was now mustering.
On his way outside the camp’s entrance, he noticed a large number of warriors from Bretica heading out silently towards the battlefield itself. They were carrying an array of digging implements, from iron-edged wooden spades to sharp iron picks, affixed to long wooden hafts. A few of them led draft animals, the horses and oxen pulling carts and wagons in their wake.
He regarded them curiously for a few moments, wondering what their purpose was, before continuing on his way towards the growing assemblage.
More than one initiative was evidently being undertaken by the Saxans during that restless night.
*