122343.fb2 Dream of Legends - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 72

Dream of Legends - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 72

AYENWATHA

*

Sweat, blood, and desperation poured from the allied ranks of defenders. They had persisted in weathering the relentless onslaught hurled at them by the renewed Gallean forces, but it was becoming more unbearable with every passing moment.

Wherever they could deploy in any numbers, the Gallean ranks trudged stalwartly forward. Under the resolute leadership of their knights, they were lethally methodical. Gallean crossbowmen and archers loosed deadly barrages of arrows and bolts, while disciplined ranks of Gallean warriors pushed forward in tight lines of shields and lances. Wherever there was significant resistance, the invaders were augmented by the fast-moving Atagar in the boughs of the trees, and the huge, lumbering Gigans upon the ground.

“Keep faith!” Ayenwatha shouted out to his fellow warriors, as he landed a crushing blow on a Gallean with the balled wooden head of his war club.

He had no time to spare, as he ducked under the vicious sword slash of an oncoming Gallean knight. With a vigorous swing of the small axe in his left hand, he sent the attacker into the embrace of the afterlife.

Straightening up, and looking swiftly for the next closest threat, he yelled out, “Hold strong, my brothers!”

A little farther down the line, Gunnar fought with great fury, providing a fountain of inspiration to the sorely beset ranks of defenders around him. His men yelled defiantly, adding to the higher-pitched, vibrant war cries coming from the tribal warriors. Between Ayenwatha’s and Gunnar’s resolve, the wavering spirit of the defenders was kept from breaking.

The terrain was such that the battle around the two leaders was conducted on uneven, and often hazardous, footing. Trees, fallen trees, brush, the contours along the bases of hills, and other natural features of the forested hills afforded an array of obstacles, helping to lend further chaos to the swirling fighting.

In some areas, the natural features were to the defender’s advantage. The forested slope of a nearby hill afforded a small batch of tribal bowmen adequate cover, as well as a good vantage from where they could pick out their targets from a great number of options.

“We cannot hold this ground forever!” Ayenwatha shouted, as he worked to approach Gunnar.

He narrowly avoided a lance thrust from a Gallean fighter. A short, dart-like arrow whizzed by his head an instant later. Glancing up, he saw the Atagar that had loosed it, perched in a tree a short distance away, just behind the enemy line of battle.

He gestured towards the partially hidden creature with his war club, hoping someone would see it, yelling out, “There! Up the tree! The rat-man! In the tree!”

With a dexterous maneuver, he then felled the human spear bearer with blows from both axe and club. To his immense relief, a tribal archer heeded his warning, felling the Atagar with just one arrow.

Ayenwatha saw the rat-like being crumple, and fall lifelessly to the ground below. His heart skipped a beat as he saw that the arrow had been loosed just in time, as the Atagar had just trained another of its own missiles upon Ayenwatha. Its small bow, and the notched arrow, descended harmlessly to the forest floor alongside their felled bearer.

“No, we cannot hold for long,” Gunnar responded tersely, wetting his blade with the blood of another Gallean.

The careless Gallean had occupied himself too much with another Midragardan and left himself sorely exposed, a common mistake in a whirling melee. The hard-pressed Midragardan warrior that Gunnar freed up nodded in acknowledgement of the assistance, and briefly raised his beard-bladed long axe, in a gesture of salute and gratitude towards Gunnar.

With a powerful overhand swing, the fighter then brought the axe plummeting down over the shield of another Gallean warrior. The Midragardan caught the top of the shield with the lower extension of the axe. The shield was lodged firmly between the axe haft and the unusual-looking portion of the blade, where the bottom point had been sheared off to form a flat edge, giving it the bearded profile by which its type was known.

With a double-handed yank on the haft of his axe, the Midragardan ripped the shield back, leaving the Gallean highly vulnerable. A tribal warrior next to the axeman saw the opening and wasted no time. Loosing a shrill war cry, the warrior’s arm arced through the air as he smashed the end of his war club into the helmed side of the Gallean’s head, downing the man instantly.

As Gunnar had freed up the Midragardan warrior, so had the Midragardan freed the tribal warrior, who was being beset by the shield-bearing Gallean. Such was the synergy in the tumult of a battle, a stark reality played out in scant moments before Ayenwatha’s eyes. It was a sobering sequence to witness, as it underscored the truth that dangers in such a boiling atmosphere were always multiplied.

“Gunnar, we must fall back!” Ayenwatha declared hurriedly.

His heart raced as his eyes scanned the fighting before him. He cried out and gestured with desperation to a couple of archers, to bring their aim around to focus on a huge Gigan that was now tromping into view through the trees.

The Gigan was only about a hundred paces away. The ponderous juggernaut had just bludgeoned a Five Realms warrior with one deadly swipe of its great mace. Ayenwatha could not conceive of the force in the tremendous blow, lifting the hapless warrior off his feet, and effectively shattering his body, such that he landed upon the ground in a gruesomely distorted manner.

The powerful creature bellowed out a bone-rattling war cry, kicking the broken body aside, as it trudged forward to engage the defenders a short distance from where Ayenwatha stood. The archers needed little encouragement, quickly letting their shafts fly at the creature, and eliciting wrathful shrieks, as a couple of iron tips found a home within its toughened flesh.

In frustration, the creature turned the round shield of a Midragardan warrior into a mass of timber shards with another thundering blow. The creature roared as it stomped its broad foot down on the head of the man, who had collapsed to the ground under the incomprehensible force of the blow. Having seen all manner of wounds incurred in battle, Ayenwatha was nevertheless sickened by the sound of the crushing stomp, and the ghastly sight that followed in its wake.

Another Midragardan with a long-hafted broad axe opened up a modest gash on the creature’s thigh. A tribal warrior barreled forward, lodging his spear into the side of the Gigan, with all the force that the man could muster.

The Gigan roared in rage, snapping off the haft of the spear, and swiping its mace towards the axeman. The Midragardan fell back just a scant moment before the massive iron head swooshed through the place where he had just been standing. The Gigan backed up a stride, as another tribal archer’s missile burrowed into its left shoulder.

The axemen had a stunned look upon his face. Ayenwatha had no doubts that the Midragardan, feeling the potent rush of air from the passage of the huge mace, just mere inches from his face, was utterly relieved to see the Gigan retreat.

The creature staggered farther back, even as a couple more arrows landed in its body. Ayenwatha knew that it would take even more arrows to bring it down, though a small victory had been achieved, as the huge beast withdrew from the fighting, heading deeper into the forest to nurse its wounds.

“We must fall back!” Ayenwatha reiterated to Gunnar.

“I do not know if we can,” Gunnar finally replied. “We are very hard pressed.”

The words were more than prophetic in Gunnar’s own case, as the Midragardan rounded about in haste. The ensuing events happened in a blur of speed, though to Ayenwatha’s experienced eyes everything stood out clearly.

Two Galleans breaking away from a cluster of combatants surged forward, one bearing a spear, the other a sword, and both carrying long, triangular shields. With his own round shield, Gunnar blocked a sword strike, while he cleaved through the haft of the other attacker’s spear with his sword.

Turning in the same motion, he struck the swordsman down with an upward, diagonal slash. Gunner then threw a hard kick back into the bearer of the broken spear. The forceful blow caught the man squarely in the side of his knee, and collapsed him to the ground, where another Midragardan wielding a long spear skewered the fallen Gallean.

As was the precarious nature of battle, Ayenwatha had not been given any time to get himself into position to help his Midragardan friend.

“They come from behind! They come from behind!” erupted a frantic call.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Ayenwatha saw a wide-eyed Five Realms scout, out of breath, running in great haste towards their position. He exuded panic and anxiety, covered in sweat from his feverish pace.

“Tell us now! What has happened?” Ayenwatha shouted quickly to the scout, as he drew up to them.

He did not look directly at the scout, keeping his own wits and eyes alert for other attackers. Turning abruptly to the side, he hurled his short-hafted axe at a Gallean. The man had just disarmed a Five Realms warrior, and was about to land a killing thrust with his spear. The well-thrown axe deprived the enemy warrior of his victory, in an instant swing of fortune that turned the Gallean’s impending triumph into a lethal defeat.

The sorely winded scout, now having come to a full stop, gulped in breaths of air. Sweat streamed down his flushed skin, and Ayenwatha could see that the man had undergone a tremendous amount of exertion to reach him. Yet there was no time to allow the scout to recuperate.

“Hurry now!” Ayenwatha exhorted the warrior sharply. “Out with it!”

“A fleet of boats came up the river… enemies… so many! They overwhelmed and destroyed Midragard’s ships…” the scout announced, before pausing to regain his wind.

“The fleet?” Ayenwatha prodded him in disbelief, as the scout prepared to speak again.

“The longships are lost… none could escape… except by land. Great numbers of enemy warriors have landed… many places. And farther down the river… they swarmed over the ships… and are now coming inward!” the warrior hurriedly stated, inhaling a long breath as he finished. “I…”

The warrior gasped in abrupt shock, cut off by an arrow streaking in from the enemy ranks. He wavered for a moment with eyes wide, and then fell forward, first to his knees, and then toppling face first into the ground. The shaft of the arrow, buried in his chest, snapped as he fell.

Gunnar had his shield raised towards the enemy, maneuvering over to stand between Ayenwatha and the approximate position of the archer. Ayenwatha moved in closer behind Gunnar in the wake of the arrow, his eyes darting amid the chaos to espy the one that had felled the scout.

Gunnar’s movements were strong, and without hesitation, but he had heard the scout’s news clearly enough. He looked sickened by it, but gritted his teeth, and remained steadfast in the fight.

The fragments of ill news brought Ayenwatha’s own thoughts to an instant halt. He knew very well which river the scout was referring to. There was only one that mattered in the area where the battle was taking place; the Shimmering River, where Gunnar’s fleet had come up from the sea, and where all of the tribal people were now heading. It was the very place where all of their slim hopes had resided.

The enemy had deftly maneuvered behind the defenders. The invaders were closing in, to clamp their jaws down upon the tribal people, a powerful, gaping maw that was filled with teeming ranks of iron-forged, razor sharp teeth.

Ayenwatha took a deep breath, deliberately claiming a shred of composure amid the tumult and fading hopes. He could not give in to despair, even if it now permeated his being. There was one need that was imminent in light of the dire tidings. One particular man needed to know of the dilemma right away.

“I must tell Deganawida of this ill-fortune, now!” Ayenwatha called to Gunnar.

“Go, Ayenwatha! We’ll hold! None of these devils are moving past here now!” growled Gunnar. Ayenwatha could see immense anger boiling up within the Midragardan, a potency reflected in his fiery gaze.

Ayenwatha knew that the venerable sachem was somewhere just down the line of battle from where they were standing. The stubborn sachem still refused to be too far removed from the tribal warriors. Deganawida’s adamant insistence to stay near the warriors was a blessing and a curse, with many sound reasons in support of both perspectives.

Looking around, Ayenwatha saw a discarded spear, lying on the ground a few paces to his right. Fortunately, it was a tribal warrior’s spear, the balance and feel of which Ayenwatha was well familiar with. As with most things in the Five Realms involving iron, the blade end was of Midragardan make, while the crafting of the spear shaft, and the manner of fitting the blade to the shaft at the end, was tribal.

Grabbing up the spear, to replace the axe that he had thrown, Ayenwatha left the protection of Gunnar’s shield, racing swiftly down the general area of the fighting.

The cries and shouts of men, and the snarls and bellows of combatants not human, swirled all around him, as he nimbly skirted around the trees. He eyed a small hill off to the right, set back from the hostilities. He picked up his speed, pumping his arms as he streaked towards the lower part of the slope.

Deganawida was standing just in back of a group of archers, who were screened by a larger throng of tribal warriors, whose fierce countenances were covered in black and red war paint. Several of the latter warriors had donned the rather unique wooden armor known among the tribes, a long, mantle-like arrangement of wooden rods tied tightly together. Placed over a warrior’s head, one long section of rods descended in front, and another in back, of the wearer, hanging down to below the knees. The ones with the wooden armor also bore shields of a similar make, rectangular constructs of several timber rods lashed together.

Ayenwatha was very glad to see them all unscathed, without any wounded amongst them. He had personally gathered the protective group together, arranging them in a manner that mimicked the Midragardan methods of war, with shield-bearers in front, and archers behind. He had insisted that a stout defense be placed around the revered, Grand Council sachem, as he could not dislodge the stubborn sachem from the battle site himself.

The bared chest and arm muscles of the tribal archers bulged, growing taut with the strings of their pulled bows, poised at the very edge before the shafts were set free onto deadly flight paths. The instant that they recognized Ayenwatha, their muscles relaxed, as the tension on the bows was eased.

Deganawida stared quietly at Ayenwatha with a grim mien, as he trotted up to the band of warriors. Ayenwatha knew that the sachem was well aware that his personal presence during the thick of the fighting was an ill omen in itself.

Ayenwatha wasted no time as he halted in front of Deganawida. He proceeded without delay to the matter at hand, relating the dreadful news brought to him by the scout.

Deganawida, whose composure was legendary, did not so much as flinch at the highly-troubling report. His steely, dark eyes shielded the feelings and thoughts that Ayenwatha knew were storming all throughout the sachem’s heart and mind.

Having slowed down after hustling to reach Deganawida, Ayenwatha’s own thoughts were increasingly oppressed. The five tribe’s appalling predicament drove him deeper into despair, as he grasped about for any possible options.

“We must hold this line, for a time,” Deganawida stated, in his smooth, resonant voice, only a few moments after Ayenwatha had finished delivering the ill-news. “If they are coming from behind, then the lands towards the eastern cliffs, and just to the south, are the only answer for us. If we tried to go to the north, we will be driven straight into the lands of hostile tribes.

“We must get this message to our people immediately. Tell the sachems and matrons among the refugees that there is no other way. We must move south with haste. May the One Spirit shine light upon our innocent ones, and give strength to those that defend them.”

A pained look then spread within the eyes of Deganawida as he spoke the last words. His lower tone of voice reflected his abiding concern over the non-combatants of the tribes, something that Ayenwatha knew resonated throughout every fiber of the sachem’s being.

Ayenwatha believed he could even feel the mystical sachem’s wrenching apprehension over the fate of their people. It was like a surging emanation from his mentor’s body, wave upon wave increasing with intensity as the moments passed. Ayenwatha knew that there was no member of any of the tribes that held the same ardor for the land and people that Deganawida did.

In some ways, Ayenwatha wondered if Deganawida had somehow inherited the deep passion along with his name, when he had received the latter when being placed on the Grand Council. Deriving as it did from the ancient, legendary Wizard that had taught the Great Law, and formed the First Grand Council, perhaps a special connection was transferred to those who had succeeded to the particular council position bearing the Wizard’s name.

The apprehensive feeling engulfed Ayenwatha fully, as if his spirit was keenly attuned to that of the old sachem. His heart also burned intensely for the land and people, needing little to stoke its flames.

“We will get the tribes moving… with no delay,” Ayenwatha promised, with renewed determination, and a sense of pressing urgency. He looked straight, and unblinking, into Deganawida’s eyes. “I will go now, by myself, to see that this is done.”

“Take a Brega, to save you time. I know that some are being held close by, to the rear of this place, and down in between some hills. I do not know if they come from among the Onan,” Deganawida replied. He turned, and pointed off through the trees, down to where some higher rises in the land could be seen through breaks in the foliage. “Around the second of those hills.”

Ayenwatha nodded, turned, and broke into another run that took him down behind the battle lines.

A small shield wall of Midragardans protected the narrow pass between the two steep hills looming just in back of them. The Midragardans were hunched behind their overlapping shields, and several fervently called out warnings to Ayenwatha, the instant that he emerged into the open ground behind them.

Ayenwatha heard the whistling air, and unnerving swishes, as arrows and bolts raced past him. The sounds were intermingled with several thwacks, thuds, and other sounds of driving impacts, as iron embedded itself into the wood of shields and trees.

Ayenwatha darted to the side, and turned his body sideways behind the trunk of an aged maple tree, gaining shelter for the moment. There was no realistic way of averting the deadly hail, as there was no time to spare, to take a more circuitous route to reach the Brega. The battle’s momentum could change in an instant, and the message that he had from Deganawida was absolutely vital. The situation facing the masses of tribal refugees was precarious at best.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Ayenwatha offered up a silent petition to the One Spirit. Inhaling a deep breath, as his heart pounded, he bounded forth, holding onto his wits, even as a rush of fear flowed over him.

Another swishing sound cutting through the air, and the subsequent thud immediately ahead of him, caused Ayenwatha to snap to a sudden halt. His heart nearly stopped, for only a scant stride in front of him, set evenly in line with his head, was the newly-buried shaft of an arrow.

The fickle line between life and death had come dangerously close to being crossed for Ayenwatha. He shook himself out of his fleeting shock, reaching deep into his reserves of willpower to move forward again.

Adroitly, he ran through the rest of the perilous zone with a zealous impetus to pass through it unscathed. Fortune smiled on Ayenwatha, as he reached a more undisturbed tract of forest, where the ground sloped upward.

His eyes swiftly identified a few tribal archers, and other warriors who had taken refuge higher on the steeper slope. All were looking at him as he kept his stride and raced towards them.

“Brega! Brega!” he cried out, his legs straining as he pressed up the slope. “I need to find them, now!”

“Here!” came an answering shout, from a tall, lean warrior. “Follow me!”

The warrior led him on a course that wrapped around the side of the slope. It was moderately difficult to keep his footing, as fast as he was running, but they hurriedly covered the remaining ground, reaching the opposite side of the hill without incident.

A few warriors with bows and arrows already notched emerged from the foliage, as if they had formed out of the very trees and brush. The red and black painted faces fixated sternly upon Ayenwatha, and he knew that every arrow was trained on his body.

Ayenwatha would have almost felt pity for an enemy stumbling into such a reception. As with the group around Deganawida, the bows were lowered as the warriors recognized one of their tribal brethren.

“Ayenwatha!” one of the warriors called out quickly, recognizing him.

“Brega! I need a steed! I must take word from Deganawida onward! It cannot wait even a moment!” Ayenwatha declared loudly, looking towards the man that had spoken.

“Come with me,” the warrior answered.

The Onan warrior led Ayenwatha past the newly-emerged throng of warriors, and they angled downward, heading into a modest gully. Another small group of armed, vigilant warriors was gathered there. Just behind them was a loose assemblage of Brega, about twenty in number. He saw at once that the creatures were already saddled, which was a great relief.

“Which steed is the best on land? Who knows these steeds?” Ayenwatha called out, as they descended towards the Brega. He hoped that at least one of the warriors was more than a ward, and was a rider.

A little anxiety struck him, as he did not readily recognize any of the warriors within sight. Most were from different tribes, and any Onan gathered there were from villages farther removed from his own. The widespread chaos of the war was intermingling the tribes, though ironically the close cooperation among the members of different tribes reflected the ancient Wizard’s foundational idea that the Five Tribes were of one family.

After a moment, a warrior from just out of the edge of Ayenwatha’s sight strode into view, emerging from the shadows of a great oak tree. His eyes momentarily scanned the collection of Brega. Walking forward, he laid his hands on the reins of one of the creatures, and looked towards Ayenwatha.

The Brega was not the largest of the group, but well proportioned. The creature’s fur had a lustrous sheen, and there was an alert look in its eyes.

“Of these, Horizon is the best on land,” the warrior said to Ayenwatha, extending the reins. “I have been among these steeds, and know them well.”

“What is your name? That I might remember it,” Ayenwatha asked, as he reached to accept the proffered reins.

“Red Skies, of the Gayogohon, of the Beaver clan,” the warrior answered. He patted the neck of the Brega with obvious affection, a tell-tale detail that Ayenwatha’s eyes did not miss.

“This is the steed that you ride yourself,” Ayenwatha stated, as he realized the truth.

The warrior nodded somberly. “And the one that I know will bear you well.”

“The Young Brothers have brought me good fortune this day, Red Skies of the Beaver Clan,” Ayenwatha remarked, placing his hand on the warrior’s shoulder, as he moved to mount the creature.

Ayenwatha knew very well how a rider felt about a favorite steed, and the kind of trusting bond that grew between man and Brega in an uncertain environment such as the upper skies. A rider had no wings and was extremely vulnerable, fully dependent on the steed in the lofty, often turbulent heights of the air. The kind of relationship that was subsequently formed could never be taken lightly. Red Skies had shown Ayenwatha the sincerest form of trust.

Settling into place, Ayenwatha said in a low, grateful tone, “Know that what I do is of the greatest urgency. I take word from Deganawida, first Onan Sachem of the Grand Council. I thank you, Red Skies, and shall not forget this gift of trust! May we see each other soon, on a better day!”

Without further delay, he urged the creature forward. Ayenwatha guided the Brega away from the warriors and the others of its winged kind, heading eastward into the forest, and away from the battle.

The Brega stepped with excellent balance, and was clearly well-rested, judging from the explosive acceleration that occurred as Ayenwatha prompted the creature to go faster and faster. Ayenwatha inwardly commended Red Skies’ selection, comprehending immediately that the winged-beast moved as well, or better, than any land-based steed or forest creature could have.

The creature bounded through the forest with the confident command of body and dexterous agility of a deer. The trait was not commonly found among the Brega, as many ran in a very ungainly manner when pressed to sustain themselves at speed along the ground. It could only be imagined how graceful Horizon was when aloft, soaring in the air over the Five Realms, where the Brega were at their finest.

The forest rushed past Ayenwatha. He had to keep his wits focused to guide the Brega, though it was becoming readily apparent that the creature was harmonized with the signals given to it through the legs and reins of its rider.

The Brega navigated smoothly through the trees, crossing the uneven terrain at an exceptional speed. The sure-footed pace of the Brega allayed much of the trepidation that Ayenwatha would normally have had, at chancing the unpredictable hazards of forest ground. Even so, Ayenwatha could barely endure each moment that passed, wishing that he were already dispersing the warning and exhortation from Deganawida to the mass of tribal refugees.

A new, horrid notion began to tug at the back of his mind, adding to the weighty concerns plaguing him. The strange, foreign humans, Janus, Erika, Antonio, Kent, Mershad, Derek, and Logan, were quartered at Eirik’s homestead, which was not far from where the Shimmering River met the sea. If a mass of enemy ships had come up the Shimmering River, then they could easily have reached the small island. He could only hope that the longships had already come and taken them on to Midragard.

He wished that he knew their whereabouts or fate, but he also knew that he could not spare the time to find out. Ayenwatha could only worry about what had become of them. Yet neither could he lie to himself. Because the enemy had come up the river, if the foreigners had not yet departed for Midragard, then they were undoubtedly exposed to great danger.

Mercifully, the time passed quickly, as the Brega covered the last remaining distance to the main body of refugees. A number of alert warriors, watching over the perimeter of the rear areas, appeared at his approach.

Seeing the Onan war sachem upon a Brega, and recognizing his urgency, perplexed and anxious expressions emerged on several of their faces. Ayenwatha did not pause to satisfy their curiosity, heading onward without breaking his mount’s stride.

Fortunately, the masses of refugees had been brought to a halt for a sorely needed respite. Ayenwatha slowed the Brega to a trot as he made for the center of the sprawling, temporary encampment, which covered a broad expanse of hilly ground. Countless makeshift shelters were in evidence, thrown up hastily for cover by the tribal people.

The attentions of old men and women, children, several younger adults, and even a loose throng of barking dogs were drawn towards the incoming warrior astride the Brega. It was all a blur to Ayenwatha, as he arrived in the middle of the camp, a cleared out space where a few of the Grand Council sachems were sitting together.

All four of the older men gathered there stood up at his approach. Ayenwatha pulled the Brega to a halt, a few feet away from the elder Council members. Ayenwatha nodded towards them, in a gesture of respect.

“Ayenwatha, war sachem of the Onan, what matter brings you to us, in the midst of this terrible assault?” one of the men asked, another Onan Grand Council sachem named Skanawaadi, who was of the Turtle Clan. It was plain that there was no time for any formalities.

“A large enemy force has landed by river. They have taken the fleet of the Midragardans up the Shimmering River. These forces are coming from behind us, while the larger force presses their attack against our front,” Ayenwatha announced to the sachems.

Dismay clouded their faces further, with each troubling word from his lips.

“I have come by request of Deganawida. The people of our tribes are advised to head swiftly to the lands near the eastern cliffs. It is the only place that may yet be free from the enemy trap. We cannot go north, as we would be pushed into enemy lands. It is best to waste no time with this, for there is very little time for the warriors holding the invaders back. Our fighters, and those that help us, are heavily beset, even as I speak to you now.”

The four somber faces around him did not change in expression, and the men said nothing for several ponderous moments. Each moment seemed like a year, as Ayenwatha awaited their response.

“Then we must get the people moving… it is wise to do so immediately,” one of the four stated to Ayenwatha resolutely, a sharp-nosed sachem with leathery skin. Ayenwatha recognized him as Kanokareh, one of the Onondowa Grand Council sachems, a man that was well-respected amongst all the tribes.

Kanokareh looked to the other three sachems, who each nodded assent in turn, reaching a unified consensus without deliberation. Turning, Kanokareh gestured towards three warriors that were standing idly towards the edge of the cleared area. The warriors ran swiftly to him, and listened intently as he instructed them. Kanokareh dispatched the warriors to begin the process of spreading the word around the camp that preparations had to be made to leave immediately.

Unease was evident upon the warriors’ faces as they hurriedly moved off, to attend to their given task.

“How long do we have? Do you have any estimations?” questioned another of the four older sachems, one whom Ayenwatha did not recognize.

Ayenwatha shook his head. “No, I do not. Our war bands at the front lines of the fighting should be able to delay those who invaded from the west, but there is nothing to deter the forces that are coming up from behind. There are no warriors to spare. I would advise that everyone who can handle a weapon, or even hold one, be armed, for they may all need to use them.”

The admission came heavily to Ayenwatha’s heart, but he could not avoid the difficult truth. The forces available to him were stretched as thin as they could possibly be to oppose the main invasion force.

He had spoken truly to the sachem. Nobody could be spared, even if Ayenwatha understood that arming the refugees would ultimately prove futile, if even a modest force of trained enemy warriors descended upon them. It would be like Firakens among deer, and the result would inevitably be a tremendous slaughter.

The older man nodded with a grim expression, and Ayenwatha did not doubt that he understood the implications as well. Ayenwatha glanced around, and noticed that a pulsating energy was already rippling through the camp as the word carried by the warriors was disseminated rapidly. Agitated voices could be heard everywhere, some calling out with great urgency. People were working to collapse the makeshift tents and shelters, gathering together whatever belongings they could carry.

“I must return to my brothers at the front lines of the fighting. We will bleed for every moment that can be gained to give you. I hope to see all of you at the cliffs,” Ayenwatha stated, lowering his eyes and head towards the four sachems.

“May the One Spirit protect you,” Kanokareh replied in a low voice.

Tightening the reins, and tensing his thighs, he turned the Brega, and guided it away from the four sachems as he made his way back through the camp. He did not allow Horizon to accelerate beyond a trot, as the creature had been given such a short respite following the frenzied dash from the front lines. Ayenwatha desired to spare the noble creature a little exertion, by pursuing a more contained pace along the return path.

Yet once they had cleared the boundaries of the camp, the creature sprang forward lithely, as if it had not exerted itself at all that day. The return trip seemed to be much quicker than the initial journey, though Ayenwatha knew that they could not possibly have traveled faster.

The only plausible explanation was that he was now unburdened of his charges from Deganawida. He was relieved by the fact that he had accomplished the task of warning the masses of refugees, and had gained their acquiescence to Deganawida’s counsel. Each passing moment no longer felt like an eternity, even if his heart was still heavy.

The band of tribal warriors guarding the small group of Brega appeared visibly relieved at his swift reappearance, perhaps knowing the connotation. Dismounting, he patted Horizon on the neck, taking a moment to savor the exquisite steed, before turning to look for Red Skies.

He did not have far to look. Red Skies’s stoic face had taken on a little anxiety since Ayenwatha had departed. The relief in the man at the sight of his returned steed was obvious, another testament to the deep bond between rider and steed.

Red Skies approached Ayenwatha, and the war sachem handed the reins over to the tall warrior.

“Red Skies, I can find no words to say how special this Brega is,” Ayenwatha said approvingly.

The corners of the warrior’s lips turned up into a slight grin. “I thought that you would be satisfied with Horizon.”

Ayenwatha smiled, and patted Horizon on the back.

“May we fly together soon, during a day of peace,” Ayenwatha said to Red Skies, before giving Horizon a couple of last strokes on its neck, and turning away.

The warriors parted, as Ayenwatha moved through them.

“Be on alert! All of you! The fighting is not far from here!” Ayenwatha urged all within hearing, calling out over his shoulder, as he strode up the slope of the hill.

He continued around the hillside, carefully working his way back towards the area that had suffered the hail of arrows and bolts. The line of Midragardans was still in place, spanning the two rises. The ground before them was littered with bodies, both of enemies and allies. The air was eerily still, save for the faint sounds of battle drifting along the air currents from afar.

Ayenwatha paused for a moment, looking past the Midragardans, but could see nothing among the trees before them. The enemy had withdrawn, and he hoped that it proved that their supply of arrows and bolts was not inexhaustible. Again, he closed his eyes and offered up another silent prayer, one that contained thanksgiving and a plea for favor.

Though expecting a less-threatening return passage, he nonetheless girded his courage and ran forward, zigzagging amongst the trees as an added precaution. He crossed through the area without incident, as not even one enemy missile disturbed the stillness surrounding him. Were it not for the ubiquitous bolts and arrows sticking out of the ground and trees, one would have been hard-pressed to believe that the area had recently been part of the feverish woodland struggle.

The sounds of combat ahead grew as he continued at a loping jog, past the second rise. Farther beyond were flurries of movement, as the ebb and flow of invaders and defenders alike came into view, filling up his vision.

Raising his war club in one hand, and spear in the other, Ayenwatha charged forth, running towards the deadly chaos. The proud Five Realms warrior hastened to the fight, and the cause of his people.

A fire blazed within him as he eyed the enemy. Like Gunnar, his despair transformed into a tempestuous battle rage, as he determined not to let a single enemy warrior get by them that day. Every moment possible had to be purchased for the refugees, and like any other tribal warrior, Ayenwatha was more than willing to pay for it with his own blood.

*