*
Returning on a long, looping route through the dense woods, the band of Saxan warriors finally emerged a short distance behind the front lines of the titanic battle. They had encountered a few Saxan scouts and patrols as they drew closer, but fortunately had evaded those of the enemy in the contested region.
Wulfstan had found the Saxans warding the forest to be both anxious about the ongoing battle, and elated to see the return of the small party. It was obvious from their reactions that they had not expected to see Wulfstan and his companions again.
In the light of day, Wulfstan could appreciate the Saxan efforts that had been undertaken within the forest. Any stretch that would have been passable by larger groups or mounted warriors had been heavily barricaded, utilizing masses of felled trees and branches.
Time and time again, Wulfstan’s group had passed by the obstacles, and he could understand why the enemy had attempted so little through the woods. It would have been an outright killing zone, and no amount of numerical superiority would have given much of an advantage in such treacherous environs. Cavalry would easily have become bogged down, and subsequently cut to pieces, in such an environment.
The trees also negated any advantages that the enemy may otherwise have enjoyed from the air. There were few areas to land steeds, and the thick foliage of the upper branches prevented effective surveillance.
Truly, with such a large army in the field, the enemy’s only viable option was to come right at the Saxans through the Plains of Athelney. That the enemy had to take a direct approach was of little consolation, though, as the enemy had an ocean of force to hurl at Saxany’s shores.
As they walked out of the woods, and back into the full embrace of the sun, Wulfstan was filled with mixed emotions. It had been a successful journey, but the battle itself was far from over. Even more troubling was the undeniable reality of the strange sight that he had witnessed in the sky, a vision directly related to the recurring dreams that he had been having in ever greater intensity.
The Saxan band worked their way to a rendezvous point, where their helms, mail, and other potential encumbrances on the woodland mission had been discarded until their return. Several of the light horsemen from Annenheim that had been used to scout for, and guard, Wulfstan’s group on their outward foray were now warding the pile of items. With broad smiles and vigorous shouts, they hailed his band. It took only a few moments more for their eyes to fall on the conspicuous prisoners being conveyed along in the group’s midst.
Wulfstan felt a sense of relief, as he put his mail shirt on, and placed his half-helm back on his head. As close as he was to the ongoing battle, he felt much more secure with the mail and helm returned to his possession, almost as if he had been sent naked on the woodland sojourn.
Once they had retrieved their items, the small party took a long walk as they were escorted well behind the Saxan lines, and guided towards the main encampment. Wulfstan’s heart ached as he saw badly wounded men stumbling back of their own accord, or being aided by what few individuals could be spared to attend to the stream of stricken men limping and trudging in from the fighting to the west.
Far to his left, the horizon was inundated with a dark mass of warriors, banners, and flags, reaching as far as his eyes could see. The battle itself was raging furiously. The air was filled with a terrible din, a cacophony that swelled and ebbed, as choruses of horns called out new commands to various contingents on both sides.
The booming war drums far down the lines, where the Andamoorans were located, brought a chill to Wulfstan’s spine. A flood of vivid, gut-wrenching recollections from just a day prior blazed through his mind. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to settle his rattled nerves.
From what he could tell, the general lines of the Saxans still seemed to be holding, and the great dragon standard of the King still soared proudly in the winds from its high shaft. That the standard was still in the center, and behind the lines, was a very reassuring sight. Prince Aidan had not yet engaged the reserves, which could only suggest that the day had not yet gone badly.
At last, Wulfstan, Cenwald, and the others walked through the entrance to the encampment. They quickly sought out a couple of Aelfric’s men who had been assigned to wait for them, should they return. Like the Saxan men that they had encountered in the forest, the two men were overjoyed at their return. Their spirits were made even more boisterous by the quarry that the small band had brought back with them.
Wulfstan had to calm one of the men down, when the identity of Godric was revealed, in the first moments after a portion of the tale of what had transpired was told. Aelfric’s warrior walked up and spit right into Godric’s face, and would have struck him a heavy blow, but Wulfstan caught the man’s arm in time, and forcibly held him back before his balled fist could connect with Godric’s jaw.
“None of us disagree with your urges, but stay your hand. I am sure Aelfric will see to his justice, let us not bloody our hands with such a poisonous wretch,” Wulfstan said firmly, keeping an iron grip on the man’s forearm.
The Saxan glowered at Wulfstan for an instant, but finally simmered down, though he was far from being in a tranquil mood as the three prisoners were led away. Wulfstan was exceedingly glad to rid his hands of the prisoners, as Godric’s mere presence raised his own ire, and sorely tested his reserves of discipline and patience.
Nothing within him could reconcile how a man could become such a traitor to the land that had made his own good fortune possible. Wulfstan was glad that treachery had been Godric’s reward, even if the act had given a sizeable fortress, a quantity of foodstuffs, and some villages over to the enemy, to be used as a base or foothold in Saxan lands.
Wulfstan looked around the camp, endeavoring to turn his thoughts to other matters. All around him were an overwhelmed mass of priests, monks, Sisters, camp attendants, and a fair number of peasants, most of whom were from the villages in the immediate region. All were heavily engaged in their grisly, dour labors, doing everything in their power and ability to tend to the seemingly unending stream of wounded being brought in from the battlefield.
Almost to a man or woman, their faces were weighed down with fatigue. He recognized some of the faces from the previous day, and had little doubt that they had exerted themselves all through the night to aid as many as they could. Most had clearly done so without regard for themselves, as one glance at a number of them revealed several who were not far from outright collapse.
The Sister that he had witnessed comforting the dying continued in her grim task, with the same sense of gentleness that he had observed before. He did not even want to consider how weary she must have been in her spirit, much less contemplate her physical debilitation.
Though the sight saddened him, there was a certain inspiration that he gleaned from watching her display of quiet determination. She refused to give in to her growing burdens, bringing light through her kind smiles and words as she labored to soothe the terrified, pain-wracked men she attended. Wulfstan was grateful for the spark of inspiration, as he needed as much of it as he could get, given the morose surroundings.
A number of the bodies lying on the ground no longer held any life within them, mixed among those who still struggled to hold breath in their lungs. There was blood everywhere, and the air was filled with a noxious stench. Moans, cries, and occasional screams of horrible pain formed an unholy chorus that flooded the air.
Wulfstan’s own assignment had been filled with dangers, and had required tremendous endurance, but he knew that the non-combatants attending the wounded, whether religious or not, had been given perhaps the hardest of all tasks. He was aware that a great majority of them readily embraced it, even if the sights that they were seeing, and the screams that they were hearing, would scar them at the core of their spirits.
He felt his eyes moisten as he looked upon the wounded Saxan men, and regarded the resolute faces of the overwhelmed attendants straining to help them. He did not turn his eyes away, wanting to remember the images if ever his own resolve should waver.
He silently watched as an old, gray-haired priest slowly traced out the sign of the Sacred Spear and passed his hands over the eyes of a man who finally succumbed to his battle wounds. Not far from the old priest, Wulfstan observed another of the Sisters holding another dying man’s hand, as she looked into his eyes without blinking. The man’s body shook violently, and then he went still, his grip relaxing as his spirit fled his body.
Very likely a father and husband, Wulfstan could tell by the man’s plainer clothing that he was probably a villager who had come with the General Fyrd. The man would never see his home village or his family again.
The compassionate Sister had not flinched as she gave him a connection and comfort in those final moments. Like with the other Sister, Wulfstan could not imagine the strength of character that it took to endure such tragic, sorrowful moments, selflessly giving comfort to the suffering, dying men. To Wulfstan, the strength in the Sister was amazing to behold.
Close to her, a young man, who could not have been over sixteen or seventeen, cried out in anguish as a monk worked to bandage a horrific gash in the young man’s side. Even if the bleeding could somehow be stopped, Wulfstan knew that the young man was probably beginning a terrible descent into slow torment, as sickness and disease took root at the site of the injury. Even the smallest of battle-wounds could prove fatal, and the young man exhibited a wound that was anything but minor.
A dark, malevolent mood seemed to permeate and condense in the air around Wulfstan. The battle had not yet been lost, but an unimaginably terrible cost was being exacted from the Saxans. A weakness came to Wulfstan’s knees, as he continued to watch the flow of men being carried, dragged, or propped up on another’s shoulder, as they were added to the miserable, suffering assemblage within the camp.
Burning, salty tears came to his eyes, as he thought of what he had seen on the battlefield, and what he was looking at around him. The mental scars being formed were ones that he was sure would never fully heal.
Even more disheartening, those being brought back to the camp were perhaps the luckiest ones among the condemned. Wulfstan knew that there were many that even now lay alone, where they had fallen out on the field of battle. Where the fiercest fighting was raging, all too many were stranded out in the open, as others were prevented from reaching them.
He had set his eyes in quick glimpses on such men as he had fought his way back to the Saxan lines the previous day, after the Avanoran cavalry had fallen upon them. Cut off, and impossible to reach, many had found no succor during their last, gasping moments. They merely lay helpless where they had been struck down, with their life force slowly ebbing out through wounds inflicted by arrow, crossbow bolt, axe, sword, or lance.
A few were pulled out when night fell, during the time when a shaky understanding held concerning the removal of the dead and wounded from the battlefield. Yet most died where they had lain, having remained far too long on the field unattended, passing well beyond any slim hope of recovery.
Wulfstan was not ashamed of the deep emotions rippling throughout him, and could see that the men around him were stirred to the center of their souls by such devastating sights.
“Give me a moment,” Wulfstan said to Cenwald, his voice hollow and weakened. He turned and walked into the midst of the wounded.
Cenwald, who was also choked with emotion, merely gave a slow nod in reply. In the midst of everything, out of thousands of combatants around him, Wulfstan’s worries were focused on one, singular warrior who had been among the mass of wounded.
Sebright was still where Wulfstan had last seen him. To Wulfstan’s elation, Sebright was both alive and alert. The wounded man’s immediate burdens had been made a little easier. He could see that the dead bodies around Sebright had, for the most part, been removed. That was a relief, as Wulfstan could only imagine how distressing it must have been to be lying side by side with lifeless bodies, as those near the front of the camp were now doing.
To his further relief, he also noticed that there were a number of armed peasants, and even a few mailed warriors, likely culled from the rear reserves, who were now watching over the wounded. After the harrowing incidents of the previous day, the Saxans were clearly taking no chances.
A couple of Himmerosen could also be seen flying at a low altitude, off in the skies beyond the rear of the camp. Their presence reassured Wulfstan even further.
“You are back… and in one piece, I might say,” Sebright called out upon seeing Wulfstan, waving to him with a grin.
Sebright sat up, propped himself against the wheel of a cart, and glanced over to where a monk nearby was fixing some cloth bandages to the arm of a young man.
Wulfstan walked up to him, his smile cracking his now tear-stained, wearisome face. “Yes, back, and still in one piece, thanks to the Almighty… and I can see that the All-Father has also smiled favorably upon you.”
“I would rather be back in those lines, but I couldn’t stand to fight,” Sebright replied, with heavy regret in his voice. “How have you fared since we last enjoyed the enemy’s visit to our camp?”
“I would say well, if you consider what we were asked to do,” Wulfstan replied, still grinning at the welcome sight of his recently-forged friend. He knelt down, gently laying his hand on Sebright’s left shoulder “I brought back a traitor, we did not lose any men, and you appear well. It has gone as well as I could have hoped. I probably should be getting back to the battle lines. If we can just somehow survive this awful war… then you and I can sit down together, and speak of a number of things over some northern Saxan ale.”
“Northern Ale… would taste like the waters of life right now,” Sebright remarked.
“Northern Ale, eh? Perhaps I should share with you some of our Southern vintages… wine, of course… though I must admit that I never have tasted that which pours from silver vessels at the tables of counts and dukes,” interjected a man listening in to their conversation from the right. He spoke in a thick voice, having just emerged from sleep, and his heavy eyes showed that he was not far from returning to it. He grimaced as a stab of pain rippled from the considerable gash on his right leg, as he shifted his body weight. He gave a light chuckle a moment later, remarking wistfully, “What I would not give for just one cup of either your ale, or my wine.”
“I think most everyone on this battlefield would be in agreement with you,” Wulfstan replied, and then added with a smile, “Then we shall have to invite you as well, when this nightmare is all over.”
“That… I would like,” the man said, and his eyes fluttered as he drifted back towards a merciful sleep.
Wulfstan looked again to Sebright.
“So how do we finish this war and find ourselves surviving it? That is the real question left to us now. How do you think we can?” Sebright queried, his expression tinted with a saddening sense of fatalism.
It was clear that Sebright’s spirits had taken a downturn since Wulfstan had last seen the man. With what he had been constantly surrounded, Wulfstan could not blame him.
Regarding the question of survival, Sebright was most likely correct in wondering how a Saxan could hope to survive the war that was breaking out over their lands. In truth, it was the only question that most men could ask, when faced with such terrible circumstances.
Wulfstan could see that the wounded man did not expect a good end to the battle at hand. It pained him sorely to see Sebright’s hopes dimmed so much since the fight with the Trogens in the encampment. Yet the wounded man had been made to endure another night, and much of a day, surrounded by increasing numbers of wounded and dying Saxans.
Wulfstan frowned, shaking his head slowly. He could not willingly lie to his new friend. “I do not know how. I fear that this field is not going to be held much longer. We have fought hard and well, but the enemy’s numbers are far too great.”
“I am no ealdorman, or southern count, but even I know we cannot hide behind the walls of towns, if we make it off of this field of battle alive. We will be isolated and strangled one by one, until all resistance to the Unifier is choked to death,” Sebright remarked darkly. He stared upwards, and his chest heaved with a pronounced breath. “Alas, what wicked times have fallen upon us.”
As if confirming Sebright’s laments, a roaring outcry suddenly ripped back towards them from the far horizon, tearing through the air with great force. It was accompanied by a discernible rise in horns blasting out waves of unified signals. The sounds were breaking out from somewhere near the central area of the shield wall, according to Wulfstan’s estimation.
The surge carried strongly over the steady, hellish chorus of drums, horns, and other battle din that had formed into an incessant, droning background that Wulfstan had grown partially numbed to. The anomalous outburst of noise from the battlefield caused Wulfstan to shudder, as he knew very well how fragile the course of a battle could be. He had been caught up in the shifting currents himself, and the sounds pouring into his ears might well be heralding the onset of a great doom upon the Saxans.
“Ours or theirs? And what does it mean? I wish I knew,” Wulfstan remarked dourly, struggling to keep the worst of his worries at bay.
Conscious efforts were largely useless, as his subconscious was a maelstrom born from the essence of obsession. A sharp pang of anxiety lanced through him as he worked in vain to stifle the ongoing fears, of the kind that he and so many other Saxans carried with them during the extended battle.
Any number of things could be occurring, as shifts of fortune and newly engaged tactics governed the ebbs and flows of the fighting. Wulfstan’s greatest worry narrowed down on one particular situation, a crisis which would spell defeat for the Saxans; the full breaching, or breaking, of the shield wall.
Wulfstan knew that the Avanorans were deployed in the center of the battlefield, and also that they carried the greatest war reputation onto the Plains of Athelney, amongst all the combatants involved. He looked off in the distance nervously, wondering if their heavily armored knights had finally broken through the Saxan resistance. He tensed, as he listened for the thunder of hooves that would accompany such a disaster.
“This is no good,” Sebright commented, outwardly dismayed at the new waves of sounds. “If this army is destroyed here, then our whole realm is as good as conquered.”
“You speak truly, but what other choice is there for us?” Wulfstan asked Sebright. “This is where the battle must be fought. There is nothing more to call up in our lands, levy or otherwise. I did not even think there could be this many people in the entire world, when our contingents arrived in this very camp. The enemy must be fought here, before they could reach any of our provinces and villages.”
“No more levies here? Then maybe elsewhere… we should send a summons to the Midragardans, you or I. We should tell them that they would be ill-advised to tarry, as this threat is a threat to them as well,” Sebright responded, in a tone of voice that, strangely enough, was not entirely in jest.
He chuckled bitterly after he had said the words. A grim expression gripped his countenance, as he looked into Wulfstan’s haggard face.
“Truly, if there was some way to get out a cry for help, to send a message… then that is where I would go. The tales say that the warriors of Midragard are masters of the oceans, and it is said that they have no love for the Unifier either. But there is no way to reach out to Midragard, or to anyone that would help us,” Sebright muttered in a low voice.
“And what of our ealdormen and counts, even if there was such a way? I am sure they would take no time to counsel with a mere ceorl, especially with all of the things on their minds right now,” Wulfstan stated, with the fullness of sincerity girding his voice.
Sebright looked at him with an odd expression, as if trying to fathom what was behind the sudden change of tone within Wulfstan’s voice.
“If there was such a way, to cry out for help, it should be taken with, or without, counsel. There is no more time for talking. The hour is desperate. It is a time for action by any that could possibly change these events,” Sebright replied, in a slow, deliberate tone. His eyes then looked off, with a faraway gaze. “Yet I fear there is no ceorl that knows of anything that the ealdormen and counts have not thought or spoken of… but if there was one…”
Sebright drew into an extended silence, letting the thought trail off without a firm conclusion.
An idea had been building rapidly in Wulfstan’s mind. It was a notion strengthened by his strange dreams, by the tales that he had heard throughout his whole life, and most of all by the physical, undeniably real sight that he had beheld, on the return from Godric’s fortress, in the skies above Saxany.
He looked skyward again, his gaze drifting across the heavens. A tension formed in his gut, as expectation wrestled with skepticism. After a few moments, the former prevailed in the contest.
His eyes rested once again upon what looked to be a pure white patch, far above the first layers of clouds. He knew without reservation that it was the very same patch that he had seen during the recent journey back. There was no mistaking the vision that matched that of his dreams with perfection.
“Do you see that?” Wulfstan asked Sebright slowly, pointing upwards. “There, above the main clouds.”
Sebright looked up, squinting a little, as he stared. He was quiet in his intensity, as he scrutinized the sky. At last, he spoke, “You mean that big, whitened cloud? The one that looks to be way above the others?”
Wulfstan smiled as resolution filled him, from the innermost core of his being to the outer hairs on his skin. In that singular moment, the idea that had tugged at the edges of his mind crested into an impetus to act.
It was a most dangerous thought, a seemingly whimsical notion that might very well result in his personal death. Furthermore, he could not deny that his conception was perhaps something that was rooted in insanity. It was an amalgamation of hope, recklessness, courage, inspiration, and many other elements that were hard to grasp with absolute surety.
Yet if the bizarre idea succeeded, a new chance could be given life. A fresh hope, to bring outside help to the beleaguered Saxans, would be born.
Most importantly, if it did fail, it would only cost the Saxan cause the life of one lone ceorl. A single ceorl could not change the battle as it now stood, as Wulfstan had come to understand. That was one lesson of his inclusion in the party sent to scout Godric’s fortress, as each of those who had been sent out had been men who could be risked on such an uncertain venture. Yet if the slim chance that Wulfstan saw before him led to something more, then one ceorl could possibly change the parameters of the battle, and perhaps affect the very balance itself.
Wulfstan knew that nobody would take his initiative seriously, not even Sebright. But he was ready to move forward, and set his feet down upon a new, dangerous, and strangely inviting path. His heart felt harmonious with the impulse.
“I need to gain the use of one of the Himmerosen,” Wulfstan stated, matter-of-factly.
“What are you thinking?” Sebright replied, with an incredulous mien.
“If I told you, or anyone, all would surely think that I have been struck with madness. It may not be my status to make such a choice, but I have made it anyway,” Wulfstan answered resolutely.
“Is there a ceorl that knows of something that the ealdormen and counts have not tried?” Sebright then asked, in a very deliberate voice, looking hard into Wulfstan’s eyes.
“There may be, though I cannot prove it,” Wulfstan replied, as a slight grin bloomed on his lips. “So, do you have any thoughts on Himmerosen?”
Sebright looked off to the right. “There was some big attack by our forces early this morning. I do not know what happened, but I have noticed some steeds straggling in throughout the passing of the day.”
He gestured in the direction that he was staring. “They were taken off, somewhere that way. From what rumors I heard, the attack set off a big fear among the enemy, but it also caused a lot of damage to our sky riders.”
“They say they are like horses, in some ways,” Wulfstan replied, voicing the words similar to a question.
“That is what they say, but I would not know myself. I have little experience with horses, and none with the sky steeds,” Sebright replied. He then shrugged. “What villager gets to ride horses often, much less the noble sky steeds?”
Wulfstan grinned at Sebright again, feeling a firm sense of purpose, as he patted his new friend gently on the shoulder. He rose to his feet, and looked off in the direction where Sebright had indicated that the Himmerosen were being quartered.
He turned his head, and looked back down to Sebright. “Stay strong, and get yourself through all of these storms, Sebright. May we share some Northern Ale together, and maybe some of the southern wine from our resting friend’s lands, in a time of peace.”
“Good luck, Wulfstan. May the All-Father watch over you, and keep you in His care,” Sebright replied, as Wulfstan turned to walk away. He then added, from behind Wulfstan, in a low voice that the Saxan warrior could not hear, “You are a ceorl with as much nobility in you as any count or ealdorman of Saxany… that ever was, is, or will be, my friend.”
Wulfstan started off at a brisk stride, working his way through the masses of tents, carts, stores of materials, and other camp elements. He passed through a quarter where a small number of carpenters, leather workers, blacksmiths, and other artisans kept up a diligent labor in repairing weapons, horse harness, and other ongoing needs of the army. In the tense atmosphere, attending to their tasks during the ongoing battle, nobody paid Wulfstan much attention as he trekked by their temporary workshops.
Sebright proved to have been observant, as Wulfstan soon came upon the sight of a number of the winged beasts that he was searching out. All of them were tethered. A few were eating food, others were drinking water out of buckets, and still others were lying in repose on the ground.
Wulfstan had never approached a number of Himmerosen so closely before. He was struck by how much they resembled a pack of huge war dogs, in many ways. The contours of their bodies were more elongated than blocky, but the creatures still had a rugged appearance that began with their large heads, and broad, powerful jaws. A few of the creatures eyed him warily as he approached the cleared space that they were being kept in, and he could sense the innate intelligence within their alert gazes.
A small number of Saxan guards were watching over the Himmerosen, from the edges of the space. A few other men were amongst the creatures, seeing to the various needs of the beasts, whether brushing their coats, ferrying more water or food in, or resetting saddles and harnesses. Though the steeds were resting, it was clear that they were being kept in a state of readiness.
A diminutive man was coming up right behind Wulfstan, as he idly watched the scene before him, drawing his attention as he heard the man’s footsteps shuffling along the grass. The man bore a saddle along with him, and had the impassive look of a worker conducting routine chores.
“Can I ask you a question?” Wulfstan asked, as the man neared.
The man blinked at the unexpected interruption, and eyed him for a second, slowing down and drawing to a stop. “I suppose so… but be quick, as I have much to do here.”
Fidgety, and brimming with impatience, the man looked expectantly at Wulfstan through his small, deep-set eyes.
“Are there any really strong, rested steeds here?” Wulfstan finally asked, glancing towards the Himmerosen.
“A few reserve mounts. But most of the others have little energy, after the fighting this morning,” the man replied tersely. He then started to turn to go.
“Wait, just one thing more,” Wulfstan urged.
“Yes?” the man replied acerbically. “Be quick about it.”
“Do they really ride like horses?” Wulfstan asked. “I have always wanted to know that.”
“A strange time to be curious. As to your question, I just tend to them, I don’t ride them. Might ask that fellow there, he is about to go on patrol soon, “ the man said, indicating a lean man, of medium height, who was talking to a couple of the spear-bearing sentries nearby. The attendant then added, with an air of great impatience. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
Without another word, or waiting for Wulfstan’s reply, he scurried off, lugging his saddle along with him towards the gathering of Himmerosen.
Wulfstan’s attention was already focused on the other man, talking with the sentries. He eyed the sky rider for a few moments. The man was probably a little older than he was, perhaps by around five years. He was dressed in a dark tunic and light brown trousers, his legs wrapped snugly in bandelettes.
A segmented iron helm rested upon his head. The iron frame band crossing over the top of the helm featured a raised iron decoration, fashioned into the figure of a boar with bright tusks of copper.
The adornment had a thick line of true boar’s bristle mounted down the length of its back, accentuating its prominence atop the helm. The nasal guard in the front was inlaid with a Sacred Spear of pure silver, the point of it oriented upwards.
The crest ornament alone identified the man as a northerner like Wulfstan. The boar was one of the symbols long cherished by the old kingdom of the north, and even hailed from the times before the western faith had taken its first steps into their land.
The sky rider had a relaxed posture, with a narrow face, a small mouth bordered with full lips, and a short, rounded nose. He had a light brown moustache, and was otherwise devoid of facial hair, except for a stubble of growth that created a faded shadow across the surface of his face. His brown eyes were calmly oriented upon Wulfstan, as he approached him.
“Are you getting ready to go on patrol?” Wulfstan queried.
“Yes,” the sky rider replied. “Within this very hour. Is there something you need?”
Wulfstan nodded. “Yes, something very important. Can I speak with you for a moment.”
The two guards, both probably ceorls themselves, as they were clad in mail, helm, and had quality shields and weaponry, glanced between Wulfstan and the sky rider.
“I’ll be back in a moment, and I’ll finish my tale,” the sky rider remarked to them. They nodded back, as he walked a few paces away with Wulfstan, where they could speak with more privacy. Looking to Wulfstan, he asked, “And I must ask you first, by what name are you called?”
“I am Wulfstan, of Sussachia, a ceorl of the lands of Ealdorman Byrtnoth,” Wulfstan said, introducing himself.
“And I am Ulfcytel, from Wessachia, a thane of Ealdorman Morcar’s lands, not far at all from yours,” he replied in an amicable manner. Wulfstan found himself taking an instant liking to Ulfcytel.
“Wessachia is a long march from my home area,” Wulfstan remarked. “I have yet to visit your province.”
Ulfcytel grinned lightly. “It may be that distances seem shorter to a sky rider… you will have to forgive me for the manner in which I estimate such things.”
“I imagine so,” Wulfstan commented. He took a deep breath, and fixed the sky rider with a solemn look. “I know that you have little time. I also have little time, and an urgent task lies ahead of me. I am no sky rider, but time demands that I need a steed.”
The other man’s eyes widened considerably at the entreaty. It was clearly not the kind of request that he had been expecting. “You mean to ride a sky steed? And I sense that you have never ridden before?”
“Is it true that it is not unlike riding upon a horse, in some ways?” Wulfstan queried. His tone strongly conveyed that this was no jest, of any sort.
“In some ways, yes, but in others it is entirely different,” Ulfcytel said, regarding Wulfstan with an expression that displayed both caution and curiosity. “And no person can say how a man reacts when going up into the skies. I have seen many good warriors that wished to be sky riders, who were unable to master their fears when taken away from solid footing.”
“Then it is my risk to take,” Wulfstan replied, holding Ulfcytel’s gaze. “Can you tell me something of the use of the reins? In guiding the sky steeds?”
Ulfcytel shook his head. “Even if I did, you could not take one of the steeds out of here. I do not have such authority.”
Wulfstan could only speak the truth in response.
“This is a desperate time, Ulfcytel of Wessachia. You do not need me to tell you that… your own eyes tell you that truth. I was sent forth by Ealdorman Aelfric on a long journey last night, into land held by the enemy, and I have returned. I now have a task even more important, one that may bring hope to all of us. There is no time to seek out the greater thanes such as Aelfric, and I can only do this if I have a sky steed to ride. Know that this task will not take me into enemy lands, and I will return from it as well.”
“You cannot just take a sky steed, Wulfstan,” Ulfcytyel responded, in the kind of manner that displayed the sky rider’s disbelief that he even had to say the words aloud to Wulfstan.
“Do you not keep spare mounts?” Wulfstan pressed.
Ulfcytel grew silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice was laden with sorrow. “Great tragedy has befallen us this morning, and there are several more steeds than trained riders in this camp now.”
“I heard something of the fighting, after I had returned,” Wulfstan replied in a sympathetic voice. “Though I know little of what happened, I am very sorry to hear of any losses, as I have come to know loss well in the past couple of days.”
Ulfcytel gaze bored into Wulfstan, and his voice was suddenly tense. “And what is this matter that cannot wait?”
Wulfstan refused to give a falsehood to Ulfcytel, but he also did not choose to offer overly much in the way of explanation. He hoped that a vague answer would suffice, as full details would have the other thinking him to be lost in the grip of madness.
“I am going to try and summon some more help, from a source that none of our leaders has yet considered. I do not have time to try and convince them, nor would they give me the time, as they are now in the thick of the battle. That is why every moment counts, and why I am at your mercy, Ulfcytel,” Wulfstan said.
“Are you certain that the leaders of this army have not considered whatever it is that you wish to do?” Ulfcytel asked.
“Thanes… counts… ealdorman… none of them would try what I am to try, nor would they even think of what I wish to do. I have my reasons for keeping my own confidence on this. I am just one man, and would be asking you for just one steed, in order to gain a chance to bring great help to the Saxan defense,” Wulfstan said, his voice taking on a pleading tone.
“You appear convinced of this path that you wish to take, and I do not doubt your sincerity,” Ulfcytel stated, staring at Wulfstan intently, with a tense expression.
“It is a chance, nothing less, and nothing more. But it will not take a steed away from a rider, and will only risk the life of one man
… a man who is willing to risk it. And you and I both know that many more men fall with each minute that passes,” Wulfstan continued.
The answer must have seemed reasonable enough to Ulfcytel, or at least it had connected to something personal, deep within him. The sky rider did not refuse Wulfstan outright, as he seemed to become lost for a moment in his private thoughts.
There was probably not one Saxan anywhere on the Plains of Athelney that day who would not welcome a new influx of support, during such a desperate time. Ulfcytel was no exception.
“Wulfstan of Sussachia, do you speak the truth in this? Do you really seek a new source of help? One that will matter?” Ulfcytel questioned him, his rigid gaze locked onto Wulfstan’s eyes.
Wulfstan did not so much as blink.
“Help that would not come from any other place, currently in the minds of those in authority over us,” Wulfstan answered firmly. “And yes, one that would matter greatly, if this help can indeed be gained.”
“Have you ridden horses before?” Ulfcytyl asked.
Wulfstan inclined his head. “I have.”
Slowly, Ulfcytel’s head tilted up and down in a slow nod, as he emerged from the depths of his rumination. It was clear that strong misgivings still tugged at the mind of the Saxan sky rider.
“I will take you with me, when I go up for my patrol of the rear areas. Know that this choice of yours is likely folly, but I will not stand in the way, if you truly think that you can find us some significant help. We have lost enough already,” Ulfcytel said, the look in his eyes becoming momentarily downcast.
“I cannot say whether my task will come to any good, but it will do no harm, and will not burden our army any worse… thank you, Ulfcytel,” Wulfstan responded, feeling relieved.
“I will not be able to make you a skilled rider. I only can give you what you need to survive a flight. You will follow my instructions very carefully, every word,” Ulfcytel said, in a sharper tone.
Wulfstan nodded resolutely. “I will.”
“Then wait here, and I will call you when I am ready,” Ulfcytel said. He shook his head again, as if he could not believe what he had just acquiesced to. “You are fortunate that I am going alone on patrol, for even if one other was with me, I do not doubt that you would be denied… perhaps we should set to flight now, before good sense comes over me.”
Walking away, Ulfcytel went back over to the two sentries, where he talked with them for a short while longer. He then walked into the midst of the Himmerosen, striding towards one steed in particular. He rubbed the side of its neck, and looked the winged creature over, as if evaluating its condition.
Ulfcytel straightened up, glanced over towards Wulfstan, and summoned him over. He then called out for some of the camp attendants. When they had come over to him, he instructed them to saddle and prepare the harness on the mount that he had been inspecting, one whose name was Spirit Wing. He exhorted them to make haste, and the camp attendants nodded dutifully, hurrying off.
While he and Wulfstan were waiting, he talked with Wulfstan about the Himmerosen, their nature, and the means of riding upon one in the sky. Ulfcytel proceeded very carefully over the basic methods of getting the Himmerosen to rise, to drop, to speed up, to slow down, or to turn to the left and right.
With the exception of rising and lowering in elevation, the general techniques were not all that different from those used with horses. Those similar techniques would guide the steed when it walked upon land as well. The close relation of most of the techniques to riding a horse came as a very welcome relief to Wulfstan, and he realized that it was probably one of the major elements in Ulfcytel’s decision.
As Wulfstan harbored a little experience with riding horses, he was not worried about retaining a majority of the instructions. Only the unfamiliar, primary elements involved in guiding the steed higher or lower once airborne, and the impending sensation of flight, would be of any significant challenge.
Wulfstan then strolled along with Ulfcytel as the sky rider proceeded over to another Himmerosen, which enthusiastically greeted the sky rider with anxious whines and several licks upon his face. Ulfcytel pressed his head to the forehead of the steed, while rubbing both sides of its broad head with his hands, demonstrating genuine affection for creature. He then took up the steed’s reins and held them loosely, as it was already saddled and harnessed.
“This is my steed, Cloud Runner,” Ulfcytel said. “He and I have soared across Saxan skies far too many times to count, and he has always brought me back to Saxan ground safely.”
Wulfstan could hear the strong resonance of the rider’s great esteem for his steed through the words. It was plainly evident that a powerful bond existed between the two of them.
It was not much longer before the two camp attendants approached them, leading a fully harnessed, saddled Spirit Wing forward on tethers. They brought the Himmerosen up alongside Cloud Runner.
The two creatures looked rested and healthy enough, with a luxuriant sheen to their black and brown coats. A spry look was reflected in their eyes, and their postures were firm and proud. Wulfstan’s steed was just a little shorter, and slightly narrower of back, than Ulfcytyl’s, minor differences that could only be noted when the two creatures were standing side by side.
“I took the liberty of choosing for you a steed that has good speed, and most excellent endurance,” Ulfcytel commented. “The fastest of our steeds must remain with the trained warriors, but this one will allow you to travel as far as any of their kind could. As you heard, his name is Spirit Wing… not too different of a name from Prince Aidan’s own horse… but it is a proper name, as I believe this one could reach Palladium itself if it tried.”
Wulfstan worked to take the comments in stride, though the Saxan sky rider had unintentionally struck very close to the essence of his upcoming mission. Endurance was exactly what Wulfstan needed in a sky steed, and he could not help but think that the All-Father had just given him a bountiful grace with the particular steed that Ulfcytel had selected.
“I want you to know that I am not seeking to go quite that far. I do intend to stay in the world,” Wulfstan replied, in jest, with a light-hearted smile.
“I hope you do as well,” Ulfcytel responded, with an easygoing laugh.
At Ulfctyel’s encouragement, Wulfstan placed his left foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up into the saddle. It was a movement that was more awkward than mounting a horse, as the saddle itself sat a little forward of the creature’s great set of wings.
In a practical sense, it was like he was seated on a six-limbed creature, positioned where the saddle was arranged close to the front limbs, at the base of the Himmeros’s burly neck. The location of the saddle, and some marked differences in the design of the saddle as compared to those used on horses, required a little adjustment on Wulfstan’s part. Otherwise, the feeling of sitting upon the creature was relatively familiar, not all that far removed from the sensation of being astride a horse.
Turning his head, he looked down the length of the creature’s body, studying the broad wings that were now partially outstretched. He marveled at the sculpted, pronounced musculature attached to those wings.
The awareness of what he was about to attempt was beginning to fully dawn on him, accelerating rapidly as he looked at the wings. Wulfstan began to feel his heart rate rise, the beats quickening as a feeling of lightheadedness came over him.
In only a few moments he was going to be experiencing flight, for the first time in his life. Even more daunting, everything he sought to do depended upon his acclimating immediately to the act of flying.
He had no way of knowing how he would react, once in the sky. As Ulfcytel had said, some who were excellent, brave warriors while on the ground could not adjust to the vastly different environment of flight.
Wulfstan would not know the answers for himself until he was already in the air. He wrenched his thoughts away from the troubling uncertainty, knowing that worrying about it could profit him nothing.
Ulfcytel had mounted by then, and brought his steed around to face Wulfstan’s. Ulfcytl guided Wulfstan through the securing of the additional leather straps that would hold him in the saddle, in the instance that the steed had to make any sudden movements, or go upside down.
Wulfstan tightened the straps and buckled their ends, gaining a little more confidence from the feeling of being anchored into the saddle. Ulfcytel then questioned Wulfstan briefly on the various methods for guiding the steeds in the air. Wulfstan answered the veteran sky rider to the other’s satisfaction.
“Are you ready?” Ulfcytel asked him, at the end of the questioning.
Wulfstan nodded, taking a deep breath. It was much more a matter of necessity rather than readiness, but what had to be done, had to be done. “As ready as I am ever going to be, with the time we have available to us.”
“Then let us take to the skies,” Ulfcytel said, with a hint of exuberance.
Turning his steed, Ulfcytel guided it forward. Wulfstan followed, as they worked their way over to a long stretch of open ground. Following Ulfcytel’s instigation, Cloud Runner sprang forward, and then leaped up, towards the sky, pumping its wings furiously. The creature began to ascend slowly, with each flex of its wings.
Wulfstan took another deep breath, and uttered a silent prayer to the Almighty. Gripping the reins, he let out a long, extended breath. Then, he executed the motions to command the steed to take flight, as he had been instructed, and followed in the wake of the sky rider.
Wulfstan’s sky steed bounded forward and then leaped. A rush of adrenaline manifested with the explosion of movement, and escalated within Wulfstan, as the Himmeros’ wings clung to the air and lifted them off of the ground. His stomach felt queasy, and he had to close his eyes for a moment to avoid becoming too disoriented. He felt a strong, constant pull at his back, causing him to brace his feet in the stirrups and hold onto the reins firmly. The air beat incessantly against his face while the steed’s wings pumped vigorously, and he felt immensely glad for the securing straps as the Himmeros went into a steep incline.
Opening his eyes, he was relieved that all he could see ahead of him was Ulfcytel, and the cloud-draped skies above. He craned his neck back, and kept his eyes fixed forward. He knew the ground was falling away behind him, and he did everything that he could to resist the temptation to turn his head and look.
The steed climbed higher and higher. Wulfstan was not worried about determining where they were, as he placed his full trust in Ulfcytel. He tried to concentrate on the rhythmic, powerful beats of the Himmeros’ wings, feeling the exceptional power of the steed just underneath him.
Even though he had been airborne for only a handful of moments, he completely understood why the sky riders had always been said to be insatiably loyal, and virtually inseparable, from their steeds. Wulfstan’s life was now in a very fragile state, completely held in the dominion of his steed. If anything amiss happened to the steed, he would be rendered entirely helpless. He had never experienced such an extreme dependency before, save for his infancy in the hands of his parents.
Quickly, he repressed the daunting thoughts, and grasped anxiously at lighter things to occupy his mind. The effort was largely futile, as his rattled nerves forced any comforting notions to vanish. Though the final verdict was not yet determined on his own accord, he knew that he could never cast aspersions on anyone that found flight to be something to avoid.
The climbing sensation seemed to go on forever. The unsettled feeling in his stomach persisted, and a faint dizziness continued to shroud him.
Wulfstan had begun to wonder if it would ever end, when he finally noticed Ulfcytel’s steed level out, and break out of its sharp climb. Wulfstan clenched the reins and pressed his heels against the sides of his steed, as he closed in on the altitude that Ulfcytel was maintaining.
Using the instructions that Ulfcytel had given him, he successfully guided Spirit Wing into evening out its course of flight. The steed glided forward, drifting gracefully on the air currents, and the taut pressure eased from Wulfstan’s back as he was brought into a vertical, sitting position. Wary to keep his eyes away from the ground so far below, he riveted his gaze onto the back of Ulfcytel’s dark tunic.
After a moment, he closed his eyes, feeling the crisp winds flowing across his face. Eventually, he knew that he would have to face the stark realities of flight, as Ulfcytel would not be with him for his mission, or his eventual return. It was also ludicrous to think that he could find his way back to the Saxan encampment without looking out over the ground.
Slowly, calling upon his willpower, he forced his eyes to open, lowering his gaze slightly from Ulfcytel’s back. He turned his head so that the sky rider was no longer in his field of vision. The light of day flooded into his eyes, bringing along with it a host of new, amazing sights. It was a perspective like none other that he had ever experienced before.
It was like the entire world had opened up around him. He had never thought such a wondrous sight could be experienced, as he looked out over endless leagues of hills, forests, streams, and plains, spreading in all directions.
The view far transcended everything that he had ever seen before, even from the summit of the highest hill or mountain that he had climbed in the past. Almost forgetting to breathe, he chanced a glance directly downward.
His breath caught in his lungs. Everything below him was displayed in extreme miniature, even the large, forested hills that took so long to skirt when traveling on the ground. It was a stunning, wholly unprecedented way of looking upon the world, and Wulfstan felt a little envy underneath his fears. The sky riders were certainly afforded a tremendously astounding experience, each and every time that they took their steeds into the skies.
“To the right,” Ulfcytel shouted from up ahead of him, bringing Wulfstan’s attention back into focus.
Wulfstan guided Spirit Wing in a curving turn to the right, straightening out again just behind Ulfcytel. The sky rider gestured for Wulfstan to come up to him, and slowed his steed down long enough to let Wulfstan’s pull up alongside.
“Different from what you have been used to, is it not?” Ulfcytel inquired, in a raised voice that cut through the air blowing over his body.
“Incredible,” Wulfstan replied, his eyes wide with the thrill of it.
“Look down, to the right,” Ulfcytel suggested.
Wulfstan turned his head and looked. The battle was sprawled out across the land, in the distance. The two armies appeared like two vast shadows on the undulating plain.
“It looks like we have held!” exclaimed Ulfcytel, his words echoing with spirited fervor at the pronouncement.
Peering more attentively, Wulfstan could ascertain that the farther, and much larger, of the great shadows, which he knew at once was the invading army, was slowly crawling back, away from the other shadow. There was only one conclusion to draw from the sight.
The enemy was retreating from the battlefield, en masse. It meant that the day’s fighting was likely over, and it was apparent that the Saxan lines still held on the battlefield.
From the great heights he could see the locations of the enemy encampments off in the distance, a monstrosity of tents that was significantly larger than the square-shaped encampment on their own side.
“Whatever task you are on, do not stray too close to the enemy,” Ulfcytel admonished Wulfstan sternly “You would be no match for a Trogen warrior upon a Harrak, and there are a great number of both that way.”
“I will not be going that way, not at all,” Wulfstan replied.
A kind smile came to Ulfcytel’s face. “May your flight be true, Wulfstan, and may you find the help that you are looking for. We will have to part ways now, as I must keep some eyes on those dark storm clouds far below.”
Ulfcytel cast a glance downward, in the direction of the shadowy masses marking the position of the enemy invaders.
“Ulfcytel, thank you for trusting in me, a man that you have not known before,” Wulfstan said, in all sincerity and gratitude.
“I have been a good judge of men throughout my life, and I see no reason why my senses should begin failing me now,” Ulfcytel replied. His gaze then became a little narrower, as his voice evened out. “Do not disappoint me in this.”
“If this task comes to success, then know that you have been a great part of it,” Wulfstan stated. “Without you, I could not take this path.”
“It is simply good to see such courage in one man,” Ulfcytel said. “That I will not impede. Fly to success in your quest!”
Raising his right hand to bid him well, Ulfcytel guided his steed sharply off to the left, leaving Wulfstan by himself. After just a few moments, Wulfstan felt isolated. There was little else but the sounds of the steed’s flapping wings, and the winds whipping brusquely about his ears.
Banking his own steed off to the left, Wulfstan was careful to put some more distance between himself and the battlefield. His mission was reckless enough, and he did not need to endanger it further by being needlessly careless.
He took Ulfcytel’s words to heart regarding the dangers of encountering enemy sky riders. If he was caught out in the open sky by trained, veteran sky warriors, especially by the powerful brutes whose kind had nearly killed him in the attack on the Saxan encampment, then he was as good as dead.
Wulfstan craned his neck all around, scanning the upper skies for the unique, white patch he had sighted from the ground. He espied it rather quickly, set against the blue sky with nothing to obstruct his view of it. Fortuitously, he saw that it was located up and even farther to the left of him, situated well away from the battle lines. Seeing it from the higher altitude, the patch looked much larger in size.
Even so, he could tell that it was still a very long distance away. Steadying his nerves, and letting out another extended, relaxing exhalation, Wulfstan said one more silent prayer to the Almighty. He then guided Spirit Wing to the left, angling up into another steep incline. The heavy, pulling sensation returned to his back, and again he braced his feet more forcefully in the stirrups.
He kept his eyes fixed on the white patch as he soared into the upper skies on the back of the winged steed, wrestling with the numerous feelings sweeping through him. The enemy was now of little concern. Wulfstan’s assessment of the skies, and his own proximity to the battle lines prior to the ascension, had shown that the enemy forces were far away. Furthermore, they had probably suffered a high enough cost in the day’s fighting, such that they would not be inclined to follow a lone rider well behind the Saxan lines; and certainly not one who was recklessly striving for the uppermost heights.
The dizzying flight continued to pull him farther and farther away from the battlefield and encampments. His head was rigidly set forward, steadfastly refusing to look below, as he set all of his thoughts upon his intended destination. He was not about to turn back, and there was little sense in courting more fears that would only serve to distract or disrupt.
Wulfstan clenched the reins even tighter, as he decided to lean forward and tuck his head in closer to the neck of the beast. It was as if he subconsciously wanted to fuse himself into the creature, and acquire the inner security that would come with being a living part of a beast with wings. He was painfully conscious of the reality that his own natural form did not possess the necessary tools for flight.
A layer of clouds was drifting into sight, directly ahead of him, now crossing his path. From below, it looked to have a rather flat-bottomed underside, like a great, stretched cloak, bearing along with it some accumulations of a kind of puffy, light-gray effluvium. In some ways, it resembled the thick fogs that cloaked the hills and valleys of his homeland in the ambience of a cool, misty morning.
Wulfstan kept himself steeled, as the Himmeros continued to rapidly ascend, gaining increasing height until the misty wisps of the first cloud layer caressed and wrapped around both man and Himmeros alike. Wulfstan and Spirit Wing then plunged into the heart of the cool vapors. His world became an impenetrable mass of light gray, until he abruptly burst forth into the embrace of sunlight once again.
While looking very flat on the bottom, the cloud mass held a spectrum of varying contours on the other side. In many places, the formations stretched upward, towering above him like great hills, while other areas of the cloud mass were comprised of lower, undulating textures, such as the particular location where he had passed through the vaporous substance.
It was an amazing vista to behold, and his eyes were mesmerized for several moments as he looked out over the rolling, cloud-landscape. Obstructing his view of the land far below, the sight also brought a bit of comfort to his raw, rattled nerves.
Inspired by his passage above the first cloud layer, Wulfstan focused his resolve to an even greater degree, as he looked up towards the white patch beckoning to him from farther above. Eager to traverse the remaining distance to it, he spurred the Himmeros onward.
“Spirit Wing, reach that pure white cloud, the one you see far ahead,” Wulfstan urged the steed in a loud voice.
He knew that while the beast might not understand his words, it might sense his intentions in some subtle way, and perhaps derive some impetus from them. Animals often appeared to possess a sixth sense, and Wulfstan was not about to underestimate the perceptiveness of such an incredible creature as Spirit Wing.
It took a short while for them to reach the next level of clouds, and Wulfstan nearly avoided having to pass through them. They were prominent, puffy masses, scattered all about the high altitude, as if amorphous blotches of white had been woven randomly into an aqua tapestry. The bodies of the towering, vaporous formations were much more vertical than horizontal, and were separated by wide swathes of unsullied, blue-green sky.
Wulfstan saw the unique white patch marking his destination looming ever larger ahead of him, but his angle of approach ended up taking him through one of the dispersed, bulging masses of vapor. The passage through the towering expanse took a little longer than going through the lower mass had. Wulfstan and his steed broke out into the open again, just short of the uppermost reaches of the soaring cloud mass.
As they continued to climb upward, he began to notice some disturbing changes occurring within his immediate environment. The cooling of the air about him had not been bothersome before, but an icy, discomfiting chill had begun to take root.
They were approaching a broad, third layer of clouds. The layer ahead was already in a position to intersect with their path, as its vanguard blotted out Wulfstan’s view of his snow-white objective. During the same period, his breathing began to become much more labored, and his heart rate sharply increased.
Unease drifted to the forefront of his mind, and he refocused the force of his thoughts towards the oncoming layer of clouds. The third layer looked to be more of a long, linear array of billowing white clouds. As the clouds themselves were an incredible phenomenon to experience, and he needed something to concentrate on, Wulfstan determined to observe them a little closer, as he passed through their midst.
At the very least, the clouds could offer him some distractions from the mounting anxieties plaguing him from within. His diagonal ascent took him straight into the body of the clouds, and he felt the cool dampness engulf him.
When he had entered the third mass of clouds, the world again became an enveloping, unblemished sheet of gray, for several moments. In some ways, it was like existing within a realm of absolute, formless nothingness until he was freed back into the sunlight.
Looking down on the layer, it appeared to his eyes to be solid and dense, to the degree that it almost seemed strange that he had been able to pass through its midst at all. As before, he found that he was grateful for that density, as it completely blocked out the sight of the land far, far below.
Beyond the third cloud layer, there was nothing left before him but the growing, snow-white patch, and the blue-green, silken firmament beyond it. The biting cold continued to increase in its intensity, almost at the same rate as the air thinned. An urgency developed in Wulfstan, as he started to feel the efforts of the Himmeros underneath him noticeably become more strained.
Even more alarming, Wulfstan’s own vision was starting to distort, and a pervasive feeling of disorientation was spreading over his body. It was a very alarming development, adding briskly to his fears, as his steed struggled to continue onward. He wondered if he had been a total fool in trusting to his instincts, but he was not about to concede.
“Keep strong, keep strong!” he exhorted the increasingly beleaguered creature, injecting confidence into his tone, even though he was not at all certain about their fate.
He prayed silently to the All-Father, with great urgency in his heart, that both he and the steed could keep enough breath in their lungs to reach the gleaming white patch.
Ignoring his racing heartbeat, as his lungs strove futilely to draw adequate breath in the sparseness of the air, Wulfstan continued imploring the steed to keep pressing upward. For him, the white patch was now his entire universe, more valuable than the world below him, and even more important than his concern for his own well-being. Getting to that white mass was his consuming, irrevocable goal, for it was only through the attainment of that altitude that even the possibility of his hopes could begin to be realized. It was the only place where he could find out whether or not his instincts and dreams held any truth to them.
Higher and higher, Spirit Wing climbed bravely onward. Wulfstan had unwittingly passed through altitudes that no other Saxan had dared to travel. The dizzy sensations continued to rise inside of him, as the breathable air became ever more scarce. At times, it seemed like the white mass above him was dancing atop a blue-green surface. His mind vacillated between cognizance of what he was doing, and an empty blankness that seemed oddly inviting.
He shook his head vigorously, and fought with all the force of his will not to give into that nihilistic seduction. He clung onto consciousness with every bit of strength that he had left inside of him, knowing that it was the slim thread holding him to life.
With little warning, random patches of darkness started to pulse before his eyes, as a particularly light-headed feeling showered over him. His Himmeros began to snort and whine in the thin air, as its own breathing became laborious in its intensifying exertion.
The whiteness was closer than before, but still seemed to be at a dauntingly far distance. Wulfstan could only hope that his steed somehow understood the desperate nature of their ascent, and the tremendous need to reach that whiteness. In a fully lucid moment, Wulfstan greatly feared that the creature’s sense of self-preservation would probably cause it to turn away from their course.
Digging his heels in, and renewing his tight grip on the reins, Wulfstan did everything that he could to convey to the steed his feverish desire to reach that swathe of whiteness.
“Get there… Spirit Wing… reach for that place ahead with everything you have. You must reach… that… place… “ Wulfstan said, his voice starting to slur and trail off.
Wulfstan then felt himself spiraling into the abyssal depths of unconsciousness. He fought valiantly against the inner descent, resisting to the utmost limit of his remarkable willpower, before finally being forced to succumb to the overwhelming, unforgiving powers of nature.
He drifted faster, before plummeting helplessly into the blackness, oblivious to whether his steed was still striving forward, or had joined him in the dark embrace. His last thought was that he hoped that the Almighty would forgive his recklessness, and see that he had only been trying to find a way to help the people of his land.
*