122343.fb2 Dream of Legends - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 69

Dream of Legends - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 69

WULFSTAN

*

Wulfstan and the other warriors edged forward cautiously on their bellies, to the crest of a small hill. When they had reached the top, Wulfstan and a couple of the others crept carefully forward the last few feet, and peered over.

His heart was beating a little closer to normal. The harrowing, winding journey to the hills outside the fortress in view before them had been accomplished successfully, even if done under the clouds of constant threat.

The small band of warriors that had traversed the forest was entirely made up of skilled woodsmen, all of whom knew how to survive, and move elusively, within a woodland environment. Some were men who were important enough to send in such a delegation, but none were of such importance that their failure would greatly hurt the Saxan defense out on the Plains of Athelney.

All were from the Select Fyrd, ceorls of different means who were known for their skills in tracking, hunting, archery, and other areas that could prove useful to the covert, risk-laden delegation. The largely beardless faces amongst the small war band indicated their younger nature, as the sojourn was fraught with a high level of stressful, tiring physical exertion, and had to be pressed forward with the greatest of haste.

Movement and concealment were of the highest priority, an increasing difficulty under skies regularly patrolled by the enemy’s Trogen sky riders. The war band traveled very lightly, wearing no helm or mail shirt, either of which could glint inopportunely in the reflecting light of moon or sun. A few of the northerners wore ridged, forward pointing caps, but most let their hair flow freely.

Their woolen clothes were all of earthen, dull colors, off-whites and browns, the garments blending well with the shadows and trees of the woodlands that they traveled through. They carried only leather pouches at their waists, a single-edged seax, and their principle weapons, opting to leave their large round shields behind with their mail and helms, the shields a liability with their cumbersome size, and reflective iron bosses.

The night sky, with modest cloud cover, had capably shrouded their clandestine movements as they skirted around the territory being patrolled by the forces from Ehrengard. A couple of men who lived in the immediate region helped lead the group along the shadowy trails through the brush and trees of the thicker forest region located to the south and west of the battlefield.

There were no herepaths in the younger woodlands, by which an army could march through, and the forest itself presented an obstacle to a large force. It had been left that way long ago, so that any armies threatening the Saxan lands would be forced into the Plains of Athelney, or be made to face a highly vulnerable, plodding passage through the dense forest growths.

While the invaders had sent raiding and foraging parties into the area, the Saxans’ intimate knowledge of the forest lent a great advantage to the small war band. Those that were native to the land knew the natural pathways that enemies would have had to scout out endlessly, so as not to be stuck within an obstructive labyrinth of thorns and brush. With a surety of direction, the Saxan war band was able to maintain a brisk pace, covering well more than four leagues through the thick forest-growth.

The stout fortress belonging to the alloidal lord Godric now stood before their eyes, at journey’s end. The fortress’s high, palisaded walls crowned a tall earthen rampart that sloped sharply downward, completely ringing the circular perimeter. It was a fort designed in the old way, reflecting methods of the former Southern Kingdom. Four gates set at equal distances from each other pierced the fortress, effectively dividing the interior into wedge-shaped quarters.

Within the main walls of the fortress, they could identify a more streamlined enclosure, filled with a variety of timber buildings with sharply-sloped roofs. A large hall with gable ends stood out prominently amongst all of the sundry buildings, a structure that Wulfstan surmised was the main hall of Godric himself. A number of guards bearing spears, and a few with curving longbows that were strung and at the ready, could be seen walking slowly along the inner perimeter of the palisade-crowned rampart.

The final instructions given to the Saxan warriors involved the existence of a specific underground tunnel, one that all of their hopes rested on. The information also imparted some of the history and lore of the fortress to Wulfstan, and those others of the group who were not from the immediate area.

The fortress might have been bequeathed as a freehold in past times, but one small aspect of its construction had been acutely remembered, and passed down quietly, within a few certain families in the Saxan Kingdom. That carefully transferred heritage of knowledge was about to demonstrate its value.

Wulfstan had to concede that the storied southern king Clovis II had possessed excellent foresight in the moment that he had initially bestowed the fortress and lands upon Conrad the Ironheart. In the instance that a day of treachery or grave threats beckoned towards the larger kingdom, if the freehold was ever held by someone as suspect in their integrity as Godric, Clovis II had taken a precaution. He had seen to it that the future generations would have a valuable piece of knowledge at their behest, to utilize during a dark hour such as the present time.

If the tunnel was still fully in place, and had not ever been discovered and blocked by its occupiers, the continued diligence of a small group of related nobles down the long ages would have made possible a gift of hope to the present Saxans. It was now undeniably the darkest hour that the Saxans had ever faced, and each possible advantage at hand was worth more than many towering piles of silver.

“The question is simply where the tunnel entrance is, exactly,” Wulfstan said in a low voice to the men close at his side.

“Should we spread out now?” a warrior on his left side asked. “We know the general area.”

“Not yet,” Wulfstan said, shooting a serious glance at the warrior. “We need to watch this place, closely, for as long as we can spare. From what we have come to know of this Godric, there are no certainties regarding his loyalties. They may have already been given to our enemies, and we need to see if we can tell.”

The other warrior nodded to him in apparent agreement, and went back to a mode of silent observation. Over the course of the next hour, as the morning sun crawled ever higher into the sky, the small group of Saxans remained almost motionless, in their places on the hill’s summit.

Wulfstan’s eyes scanned the wide, open ground surrounding the base of the fortress, studying the land and its features carefully. To the immediate west of the fortress, there were cleared fields that likely belonged to the nearest village. There was no sign of any activity within the fields, which did not surprise Wulfstan entirely. The villagers were likely to have gone into hiding at the presence of such vast armies as those now invading Saxany.

The villagers were wise to choose seclusion in any instance. Whether an army in the vicinity was friend or foe, there were always individuals within any force who were both capable and willing to commit atrocities, such as spilling blood over a little bread, a haunch of meat, or a cask of ale. That did not even begin to take account of the pervasive lusts of humankind that erupted viciously within the chaos of a war.

Men with shadowy hearts tended to swiftly avail themselves of the breakdown of order, escaping from their own hatred of life by visiting great evils upon others. The harsh reality was that the value of life always tumbled precipitously during a time of war, and Wulfstan could not begin to find fault in those who still valued it enough to flee.

As for himself, he valued life as much as they did, but knew that he was both readily able and highly motivated to strike back against those who did not. Not everyone in possession of good intentions could be said to be in such a position, mostly due to a lack of necessary skills.

It was a regrettable truth borne out over long ages of warfare. Many a peasant villager had the inspiration to oppose barbarity, but few had the capability. Such a reality had resulted in a sad litany of tragedy, filled with flames, gorged lusts, and blood.

Off in the distance to the east of the fortress there was a large contingent of mounted warriors coming within sight, with pennons flying from the ends of several of their lances. The mass of riders were still at a far enough range that Wulfstan could not make out the specific designs on the pennons, but he was all but certain as to whom the riders belonged to.

Another hour passed by, with no significant activity perceptible around the fortress. Godric’s men kept pacing along the wall-walks, and several individuals could be seen moving among the buildings within the enclosure, but there was nothing to indicate the presence of anything unusual.

A few of the men in the band of Saxans began to get edgy as time passed, looking up regularly towards the cloud-streaked skies for signs of enemy sky riders. Wulfstan then heard the light shuffling of cloth against the dew-dampened grass, just as he felt a body pull up right beside him.

“What do you wait for?” Cenwald whispered to Wulfstan. “The longer we stay, the greater the chance we may be discovered.”

“I am waiting for certainty. It would appear that few trust this Godric,” Wulfstan replied evenly, glancing over to Cenwald. He then added, “And we should not become lax in this. We may be free now, but we are far from our encampment and army, and the moment that we go into that fortress we will place ourselves in Godric’s power. Let us first see in whose influence that power lies.”

Whether Cenwald’s growing impatience invoked something or not, the sight of a broad shadow crossing the expanse of ground before the hill subsequently grabbed their attention. The dark patch glided along the ground’s surface, moving speedily towards the fortress.

Looking upward, Wulfstan espied the distinctive form of an armed Trogen mounted upon a Harrak. The sky rider was coming in at a very low altitude from the east, where the armies of the Unifier were fiercely engaged with the massed Saxan forces.

The position of the Saxan observers on the hilltop was a fortuitous one, as they were located almost directly to the south of the fortress. With the upper contour of the hill that they were prostrate behind, they were afforded a good measure of concealment, and were well-hidden to the eyes of the low-flying rider.

The sky rider would have only caught sign of them if he had been carefully scanning the hilltop, but the summit was clearly of little concern to the Trogen. The sky rider’s eyes were fixed ahead on the fortress, as the Harrak swooped in on a fairly level plane.

The Harrak then angled even lower, as the rider guided the creature down sharply. The sky steed came within bow-shot of the high ramparts at last, without its rider showing any kind of care, or even signal of some kind. Significantly, no alarm was forthcoming from within the fortress either, nor were any arrows loosed in defense of it.

The guards on the walls paused in their walking for a moment, idly watching the Harrak’s passage just over their heads into the midst of the fortress. Rider and steed disappeared from Wulfstan’s sight as they landed upon the ground within the inner fortress, close to one of the four gates.

“There, some other riders,” Cenwald then whispered, a little excitedly, drawing Wulfstan’s attention towards about a half-dozen figures mounted on horseback that were sauntering up the winding path leading to the eastern gate.

One of the men was flying a pennon near the blade end of a long spear. The pennon was largely rectangular in shape, with the longest edge vertical. From the side opposite the spear shaft, there were three, elongated, triangular tendrils that streamed out to their endpoints. Most of the pennon was yellow in color, save for a vertical blue strip that formed the right edge of the rectangular portion. The middle of the triangular extensions was also that same blue color, the other two being yellow.

“Avanoran,” Wulfstan murmured to Cenwald tensely, taking note of the pennon whose appearance and coloration he had so recently learned about, under very life-threatening circumstances.

He watched as the gate swung open to allow the riders unimpeded access to the interior of the fortress. The calm, unopposed entrance of the sky rider and the mounted warriors into the fortress made a clear, unobstructed statement concerning the situation at hand. It told Wulfstan everything that he needed to know, confirming the worst of his fears.

“That explains everything, and answers the certainty that I sought,” Wulfstan said in a low, edgy voice, the lines on his neck popping above the skin’s surface, as he clenched his jaw in hot irritation. All of the fears and rumors that he had ever heard about Godric had manifested before his eyes. “You see, caution is sometimes very advised. Now we know that a traitor is surely at hand.”

Wulfstan fell into a stony silence, passing on the word for all of the others to wait just a little longer. There would be no need to send any sort of delegation to the perfidious lord, but there was always need for information on an enemy.

All of the years that Saxany had allowed Godric, and those who preceded him, running all the way back to Conrad the Ironheart, to flourish, had counted for absolutely nothing in the darkest of hours. When the entire Saxan realm was under grave threat, and needed the loyalty of the allodial freehold the most, Godric had discarded the years of support, friendship, and trade, on a calculated gamble.

The realization was maddening, and a burning desire for retribution coalesced inside Wulfstan. He began to foment a rough idea involving the tunnel, one that just might deliver Godric the reward that he so richly deserved for his duplicity. Wulfstan was not a commander in the group, such that he could order any attack, but he could put forth a suggestion for the others to consider. Having a good idea of the mettle of the men who he had traversed the forest with, he felt that there was a good chance that any workable idea to strike a blow at Godric would be well-received.

Wulfstan had to think quickly, but he did so clearly, and without any inner conflict, as there was no doubt as to what side Godric had cast his lot with. The tunnel had to be found very soon, and fires would have to be started swiftly from within.

Food supplies would be the most valuable target, as Godric had likely hoarded a substantial supply from the nearby villages under his dominion. Wulfstan knew that it would not go to the people on Godric’s land, but would feed the hunger of the invaders. The timber buildings that served as stores for such foodstuffs and supplies would have to be identified before the Saxans moved into the fortress.

Keeping to his belly, Wulfstan began to back down the hill, in order to summon the war band together. There remained a matter of consensus, before any final evaluation of the fortress’s buildings and layout could take place for a possible raid. Agreement to a strike on the fortress would also decide the necessity of searching out the tunnel entrance.

He had gotten no more than a couple body lengths down the slope when Cenwald’s agitated voice called out to him from above.

“Wulfstan, more come, quickly, get up here!” Cenwald whispered hurriedly, looking fleetingly back to him, and gesturing sharply for him to come back up with impetus.

Wulfstan got to his hands and knees, and scurried up the short length, forsaking meticulous caution and falling flat on the ground next to Cenwald. He peered back in the direction of the fortress.

“Up, there, to the right,” Cenwald directed him, pointing. “Look at that!”

Like a cloud breaking up into several tendrils, a massed contingent of Trogen sky riders were rapidly descending from the upper skies. They were approaching along a similar route to that of the lone rider that had arrived just moments before.

“The new day is bringing many surprises,” Wulfstan muttered darkly, keeping his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him.

As if instinctively, Wulfstan’s eyes shot back over towards the place where the small group of horsemen had been sighted. His eyes alighted upon another, much larger force of mounted riders, just a second before Cenwald urged him to look upon the newly-arriving, swiftly moving contingent.

A realization dawned on him, even as Cenwald called his attention to the fact that the horse riders were cantering as a full body directly towards the eastern gate of the fortress. The rumbling of the steeds’ hooves pounding across the ground flowed like a muffled thunder.

A large number of the incoming Trogens swarmed around the same gate that the horse-mounted force was heading towards, and faint cries of alarm erupted suddenly from the wall-walks. There was no time to gather any significant defense, as Godric’s men had plainly been caught unawares. A raid was taking place, though not one that Godric or his men had apparently expected.

Harraks dipped and swooped around the wall-walks, while others dropped down behind the wall. A few others broke away to beset other areas of the wall-walk, darting and flying about the high ramparts.

The tall wooden gates then slowly swung open from the inside, as the horse riders continued their approach along the ground. Drawing closer to the fortress, the riders shifted from a canter to a full gallop as they streaked towards the opening. They were now close enough for Wulfstan to see that the pennons flying in the riders’ midst were identical to the ones carried by the small group that had freely entered just moments prior.

The light of day gleamed off helms, mail, and weapons, the sparkling, deadly stream coursing uninhibited towards the gaping entrance. The mass of riders covered the last expanse of ground swiftly, and with lances lowering the lead elements issued through the open gate, virtually unopposed.

The clash of arms and shouts of fighting had broken out from within, but it would be no contest. Wulfstan knew that Godric’s men were doomed. In a lightning strike, the Trogens and horse-mounted warriors were seizing the fortress, and everything within it. There would be no bartering, as Godric probably had hoped. The fortress was a possible liability that the enemy was not going to tolerate, not to mention the inviting prospects of acquiring sizeable stores of foodstuffs and other supplies. Godric had been deceived, even as he had deceived the Saxans.

The need to search for the entrance to the old tunnel was rendered unnecessary, almost at the same moment that the tunnel’s continued functionality was revealed. Three figures appeared to hastily emerge from the very earth, as an opening suddenly manifested well beyond the fortress’s high ramparts to the south, right before the eyes of the Saxan observers.

Breaking into a run, as if pursued by a pack of wolves, the three figures raced across the open ground just to the west of Wulfstan’s position. They carried swords and shields with them, and he had a deep-seeded suspicion as to who would be among the first to flee the attack.

Reflexively, and spurred by his great ire, Wulfstan stood and bounded off to the west, racing along the top of the ridgeline. He put himself on a direct line to intercept the three warriors, whom he guessed were heading for the refuge of the wild forestlands spread just in back of the Saxan position. Wulfstan altered his course slightly, to descend behind the crest of the ridge, so that the oncoming trio would not be able to see him.

The three men aided his cause, as they called out to each other several times in panicked exhortation on the other side of the hill. Honing in upon their voices, Wulfstan adjusted his approach until he was certain that he was in their path. He lowered himself into a crouch, waiting and listening carefully to the gasps, grunts, and heaving breathing of the three men scrambling to climb up the slope on the other side.

The three men nearly tumbled over the top of the ridgeline in their manic haste. They were feverish in demeanor, choked with fear, and gasping for air, such that they were a little off balance as their forms were outlined starkly against the morning sky.

Wulfstan moved quickly, thrusting his leg out at the nearest man, who tripped over his shin and crashed into the ground. The sudden impact provoked an audible gasp, as the air was knocked out the surprised warrior. The man’s hands opened up, and his sword and shield went flying out from his grip.

The other two men had run right by Wulfstan’s position, staggering and striding down the hill as they picked up speed and struggled frenetically to keep their balance.

Wulfstan scurried forward and pressed his right knee down heavily into the middle of the fallen warrior’s back. He used his left knee to pin the man’s left arm down, while using his right arm to immobilize the man’s right. His free left arm clutched his seax tightly, the point placed at the base of the fallen man’s neck.

“Hold! Hold!” the man cried out desperately, as the point of Wulfstan’s seax elicited a small drip of blood from where the sharpened tip pressed down into his skin. The man then stammered, “I am Godric, of nobility, I can pay you.”

Wulfstan could not suppress an ironic smile. “You do not look so noble to these eyes, though I believe you will pay dearly.”

Speaking one of the five main dialects used in the northern areas of Saxany, Wulfstan drew a quick response from Godric.

“You are a north Saxan? Get me back to the lines, quickly. We have been overcome, invaded,” Godric sputtered out.

“You are coming with us, as you are going to answer for your treason against us,” Wulfstan said, letting his weight press heavier on his knees. Godric groaned in pain underneath him.

Wulfstan’s single-minded focus on Godric might have exposed him to danger, as he had completely forgotten about the other two warriors that had raced by him. Fortunately, both would be of little consequence, as they had been surrounded and confronted by several of Wulfstan’s fellow warriors, who had followed in his wake after he had raced down the ridgeline.

Cenwald had a big smile on his face, as he held a spear point towards one of Godric’s companions. “What do you think we should do with them?”

“I was not expecting to take prisoners, but we are not going to let these three walk away. Killing this one would be too much of a mercy. Get this dung pile bound and gagged, right away, as well as those two, with whatever we can find to bind them well,” Wulfstan spat out with disgust, voicing an order that the others were all too happy to oblige with.

As their belts were being used for pouches, seax sheaths, and the like, the Saxans had to get a little creative. Cenwald grinned, as he slipped his seax out from his sheath, and set about unwinding the fabric strips that were bound tightly around the lower length of his trousers. “I’ve got my wininga, Wulfstan. I think that I can live with some loose folds about my legs for the march back.”

Using the seax, he cut the long strips where needed, and soon had fashioned both bindings and a gag for Wulfstan’s principle prisoner. Some more material came from a couple of the other warriors, and the three prisoners were soon well-secured, with only their legs freed up for the return journey.

“There is nothing more we can do here, let’s get moving and press hard for our lines,” Wulfstan urged, as soon as they were done with the prisoners.

The band of Saxans headed back for the woods, moving to the south, away from the ridge. Though tired, they had gotten a little respite while waiting on top of the ridgeline. The couple of men who knew the forest well moved to the forefront to serve as guides.

The march back was conducted a little quicker, as visibility was far better than at night. The men with the prisoners had no problem prodding them forward, and the group made steady progress on the circuitous route back towards the waiting sanctuary of the Saxan lines.

Though the journey back was undertaken at a brisk gait, Wulfstan’s mind drifted towards thoughts of the ongoing battle, and the strange dreams that he had been having. His eyes looked up to the sky, wherever it showed through the wider breaks in the tree branches.

He went through scenario after scenario in his head, hoping that he could think of some way to envision the turning of the tide of battle. There just had to be some shred of hope to cling to, a ray of light to offset the darkness of the withering attrition that Wulfstan feared the Saxan forces were encompassed by.

Yet try as he might, his heart grew heavier after the morning’s events. The Saxan prospects had just gotten worse.

Godric’s fortress was now firmly in enemy hands, bringing a prodigious quantity of stored food, the fruits of the combined labor of many surrounding fields and villages, into the hands of the invaders. The fortress would also serve as a solid base, as it was far larger than many of the outposts dotting the western marches of Saxany, and was situated so ideally in relation to the Plains of Athelney.

As he was mired in his melancholy thoughts, the Saxans then skirted a large clearing, one where Wulfstan gained a clear, unobstructed look up into the sky.

A steady procession of clouds was lazily drifting by overhead. The clouds came in a variety of masses and lengths, broken by patches of silken, open sky, but it was a more distant, distinctive sight that suddenly drew his gaze. His eyes focused right in upon it, even as a light-headed feeling passed over him.

To most, even among those with farseeing eyes, it would have looked like just another layer of clouds. In comparison to the mass of the lower layers, it was much farther up, and beyond any reasonable level that any veteran sky warrior would have even dared to fly.

Wulfstan drew to a rigid halt for a few moments, peering fixedly upwards, as a tingling sensation passed throughout his body. The Saxans around him continued onward, although a few stared at him quizzically as they passed by.

Hunting had long ago taught him the value of keeping a steady, observant gaze, of the nature that would reveal even the slightest of movements against an immobile background. The skies were far from being like a deer moving against a still background, consisting of forest undergrowth and trees. It was a very different kind of vision spread above him. Yet the solid, unbroken, aqua sky enabled Wulfstan to ably contrast the lower cloud levels with the higher plane; the one that contained the conspicuous element that had so suddenly grasped his attention, and sent his head to the verge of spinning.

The lower clouds continued along on their gentle passage, as did a second formation of clouds that could be distinguished just a little higher up than the first. They were passing towards the east, buoyed forward by the air currents coming up from the southwest.

Wulfstan kept his eyes affixed studiously to the sight, focusing on the visible movements of those cloud layers, as the full force of undeniable cognizance struck him profoundly.

Well beyond the second formation of clouds was a white patch that was perceptibly moving in an altogether different direction than the cloud layers below it. It was also moving at a much slower rate, almost as if the amorphous white mass was not in motion at all, but Wulfstan’s trained eye could detect a very slight drift towards the north. The movement contrasted visibly with the motions of the cloud layers far beneath it. He had seen that distant white mass before; for many years, in fact.

“Wulfstan, let us get back,” Cenwald interjected, having returned from the front of their group, to come stand at his side.

Wulfstan broke his gaze away momentarily and looked over, seeing that the others had all moved past him. He understood that Cenwald likely reflected the opinions of many in the small band. He did not doubt that they were all very impatient to return to the Saxan lines at the Plains of Athelney.

All of them, Wulfstan included, desired the comparative safety of the massed Saxan armies, as opposed to marching through woodlands that were most likely being infiltrated and scouted by enemy war bands, of much greater size than their own.

Wulfstan glanced past Cenwald’s shoulder, to where a few of the other Saxans bringing up the rear of their short column had come to a stop. Several strides beyond Cenwald stood a lean, limber warrior named Eadric, who hailed from the westernmost edges of Sussachia. At Eadric’s side was a stocky southern warrior who served in the western marches, a round-faced man named Eudes. Eadric’s angular face was stoic in its appearance, but great anxiety was written openly across Eudes’s wide face.

Eudes shared one of the more onerous tasks in the war band, that of guiding the Saxans to Godric’s fortress and back. At the present time, Eudes’s mission was relatively close to being immaculately fulfilled, without having lost so much as one man out of the entire group.

The achievement of such a successful conclusion to the sojourn was a real, imminent possibility, now easily within sight. That such an end was at hand would make any strains harbored by Eudes all the worse.

Everything was now viewed in light of the glaring reality that a large enemy force could have come upon the Saxan force at any point during the sojourn, and might yet at any given moment. The Saxan guide was definitely not eager to endure any delays, especially so tantalizingly close to the bloodless completion of their journey.

It was a sentiment that Wulfstan could readily appreciate, even if he had not closed his eyes to the harder, more discomfiting truths surrounding their delegated task. He had no illusions regarding how he and his companions were seen and valued, or what was expected of them, even if the ones that sent them did not openly admit, or recognize, the truth of it themselves.

The contingent of Saxans had been sent to learn whatever they could of the fortress and Godric’s standing, risking little else but several ceorls, and a few capable peasants, in the eyes of those that commanded them. The mission was seen as a chance to uncover an opportunity to turn to the Saxan’s advantage, without being in danger of incurring any significant losses. It was much more of an exploration, rather than a succinct expectation, which said much about the status of those who had been sent to pursue the endeavor.

Wulfstan viewed the whole ordeal much differently. In his own eyes, none of the individual warriors in the war band were in any way expendable. They were as valuable to him as the greatest count, ealdorman, thane, or even king, as he saw things.

None of those with him, though, no matter how much he valued their lives, would understand his sudden, compelling skyward distraction, empowered by years of vivid, recurring dream images. Neither would they be in much of a mood to make an effort.

He nodded slowly towards Eadric, Eudes, and Cenwald, as he did his best to come out of his seeming trance. “My apologies. Something drew my attention… but it is nothing.”

Eadric nodded, with a slight smile breaking through his impassive mien. His voice was buoyant, filled to the brim with a youthful confidence. “No worries. I’ve been watching for sky raiders all through this march. I’ve seen nothing. With the battle on the plains, and the fortress taken, few will be looking for the likes of us… and it is not far till we are back.”

“And we should get back as soon as we can,” Wulfstan replied firmly, returning the smile in a friendly manner, while he started forward towards them. He could see the great relief on Eudes face, as they all turned to resume the march.

The group proceeded to pick up its pace, pushing and cajoling the three prisoners along with them. Wulfstan chanced a few more furtive glances up at the sky, whenever there was a break in the foliage above.

The brief glimpses he got of the sky were frustrating, as he could not get his mind off of the unusual, yet intimately familiar, white patch. A long, slow-moving embankment of clouds had momentarily obscured the peculiar mass, which seemed to be perched on the highest edge of the firmament.

He did not doubt himself for a moment, nor did he accept that the spectacle was any mere trick of the eye. The strange white patch was decidedly different from anything above in the skies. The faraway sight was something other than the regular clouds that he had observed countless times before; it was moving on its own force, in another direction.

The dreams and the stories that Wulfstan had known for so many years had now been conjoined with something visible and real. A rush of excitement rippled throughout his body, even as he wrestled with the absurdity he felt at taking the dreams and stories so seriously.

That white patch, ostensibly beyond reach in the sky, was the very image he had seen many times before in the embrace of deep slumbers. He had never been one to lie to himself, and he was not about to start now. The white patch represented something much more than any clouds, or other heavenly body. It beckoned to him as the place where great creatures of legend could be encountered, if such heights could ever be attained.

Through the years, he had always wondered if the repeating vision in his nights had been something triggered by the stories of the great, legendary entities whose symbol was still carried by the Saxan royalty. Whether folktales from a gleeman, or accounts written upon an old parchment affectionately saved in a monastery, the tales all agreed that the winged giants were still reputed to exist in dazzling abodes drifting far above the surface of the world.

Since their inception, the reputed abodes had never been intended to be reached by humans, or any living beings who inhabited the surface of Ave so far below. They were said to exist far beyond the highest clouds that the various Skiantha steeds, like the Himmerosen and Harraks, could reach.

The dwellings were said to be like distant islands in the sky, providing a haven for the undying beasts of ancient lore. Wulfstan knew that if the incredible beasts did truly exist, then they represented a great hope.

Most of their mythical kind were held to be benevolent. The stories spoke of how they were serving a self-imposed exile, which had been bound with the combined power of the great Wizards, in the early ages of the world.

It was said that the ones in the high havens were loyal to the Almighty, choosing to endure exile rather than to risk their standing before the Creator, following an ancient age of great upheaval and terrible wars. Wulfstan gleaned that the beasts feared becoming pawns of dark purposes, unknowingly being manipulated to serve the purposes of Jebaalos, rather than the Creator to whose allegiance they were pledged.

Such beings, as far as Wulfstan could see, had to have a keen sense of justice. There was no way that they would easily allow or tolerate innocent lands to fall completely under a malignant shadow, especially when they had banished themselves to avoid even the risk of such an occurrence.

He thought back upon the many dreams he had experienced over the long years. In his mind’s eye, in the depths of many nights while his body was still, he had often soared from the surface of the world towards the same, beckoning white mass that his conscious eyes had now perceived. He always remembered a feeling of being driven by the gentle voice that permeated his mind, the one that he heard inside his entire being each and every time that he experienced the recurring dream.

‘Bring them into the world.’

In many of the dreams, he had glanced downward, towards the ground, from his high vantage. The world underneath him was always revealed to be a maelstrom of smoke and fire, creeping menacingly, and unrelentingly, towards his homelands.

The white mass had always become blinding in its brightness, as he ascended at a rapid, increasing speed. The sensation of great warmth and peace had flooded through him, as if to reassure him that the ascent was something that he had to do.

What looked to be a white cloud mass from the ground never turned out to be clouds at all, but was instead a floating landscape of hills and undulating plains, of the purest white that he had ever laid his eyes upon. Everything there seemed to consist of a light, soft substance, which sank in a few inches with each step he took.

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.

*