Dream of Legends (84 page)

In the immediate aftermath of Gunnar’s speech, Deganawida could see the logic of the Midragardan’s words slowly seeping into the minds of the sachems. Gunnar had made a strong argument, and had taken care to present it in a way that showed his genuine respect for the tribes. It was the best advocacy that Deganawida could have hoped for, as he already agreed strongly with Gunnar’s position.

Even so, it was not up to Deganawida to decide. He merely presided over the Council. He did not command it.

Deganawida got back up to his feet, and walked forward.

“Gunnar has spoken. Now, we must hear from each and every sachem that wishes to speak,” Deganawida stated.

He took his place again at the edge of the circle among the other Onan sachems.

Wearing a buckskin cape, a Kanienke sachem named Sharenhowaneh, who was of the Wolf Clan, rose to be the first speaker upon Deganawida’s invitation. He placed his wampum belt on the pole where Gunnar’s medallion had been hung, retrieving it when he had finished speaking strongly in support of Gunnar’s advice, and offer of help.

Many more wampum belts were added to the pole before the deliberations were finished. The sachems tended to be thorough and verbose, as the issue being discussed was unprecedented. As such, the Grand Council extended long into the day, and gradually approached the edge of evening.

Deganawida had begun to get worried, knowing that the Council would traditionally cease before evening took hold. The night was the dominion of the Dark Brother. The powerful evil Wizard, in league with witches and warlocks, was believed to wield his greatest powers during the dark, and could easily affect something like a Grand Council. Therefore, as a precaution, Grand Councils that went late were suspended until daylight returned again.

Fortunately, as the shadows lengthened, it finally reached a point where no other sachems rose up to speak. Deganawida quietly breathed a sigh of relief, as he rose to his feet once again.

“All who have spoken have had their say. Now, we must see what each sachem says in regards to this matter. Where do each of you stand, regarding moving the tribal people to the longships of our Midragardan allies, so that we can seek safer haven for a time?” Deganawida asked them.

A little anxiousness flitted within Deganawida. There could not be one objection if the tribes were to accept Gunnar’s argument, and act upon it as one body. All fifty would have to give their assent.

One by one, the Grand Council sachems began to give their audible testaments regarding their inclinations. Deganawida’s hopes rose by the time that half of the sachems had spoken their inclinations, seeing that the arguments from Gunnar were well on the way to being overwhelmingly supported.

Nevertheless, the procession of voiced agreements was not given with any semblance of enthusiasm. For many, there were a number of reservations and misgivings. Had a few of them not seen the first several sachems speak out in support, Deganawida had no doubt that they would have voiced opposition instead.

By the end, while admittedly on fragile ground, there was nonetheless a complete consensus. All fifty sachems of the Grand Council had committed to pursuing Gunnar’s stated aims.

They were willing to depart their ancestral tribal lands in order to salvage the people from almost certain destruction. In his heart, Deganawida knew that they really had no other choice.

“None have voiced objection. The Five Tribes are in full agreement on this matter. We must all begin preparations to take our people to the Shimmering River,” Deganawida stated after the last Grand Council sachem had spoken out.

While he was relieved that they had taken the wisest course of action in his view, it still gave him a heavy heart to actually speak the words aloud.

“But before we dismiss the members of the Grand Council, until night falls, let us use what time remains to discuss these preparations further,” Deganawida added.

There were no objections, and the Council met until the last rays of the setting sun had emptied out across Ave. Only when night was about to claim full dominion did they finally cease.

During the rest of the extended Grand Council, a great heaviness lingered in the air, casting a somber pall over all the proceedings. Several of the sachems discussed in turn the necessary preparations to enact, so that the retreat could be maneuvered effectively towards the Shimmering River.

Deganawida did not have to read their thoughts to know that there was not one among them who was not hoping that they would soon wake up from it all, and find everything to be just a very bad dream.

A tremendous exodus lay ahead, something that no other generation among the Five Tribes had ever experienced before. It was wholly unprecedented, and there was nothing to draw from, or relate to, in all of the tribes’ history.

A great and terrible burden lay upon all the sachems, as they would be leading their people into a future that was thickly laden with an impenetrable mist. The first step had been taken into that gray and shrouding uncertainty, and Deganawida knew that there would be many more to come.

SECTION VI

*

Wulfstan

*

Wulfstan gripped the leather hilt of his sword tightly, fingering the solid iron ring attached to the lobed pommel. He slowly traced the outline of the ring with his last finger, over and over again. The repetitive gesture reflected the nervous tension coursing throughout him, as he hungered for any shred of reassurance that things would somehow take a turn for the better.

Right next to Wulfstan, Cenwald stood with a taut grip of his own, applied midway along the shaft of his spear. His flesh seemed to bind with the scuffed, nicked wood. Cenwald’s eyes were closed, as his mouth uttered silent prayers of supplication, beads of anxiety-ridden perspiration standing out upon the weathered skin of his broad forehead.

Wulfstan had been so relieved to see Cenwald after the swiftly alternating bouts of near victory and near destruction, finally culminating favorably when the formidable Andamooran flank had been decisively driven back. Cenwald was covered with scratches, bruises, and a modest gash, but nothing that left him with permanent injury, or likely threatened to fester with disease.

The battered Andamooran ranks had pulled back almost fully in the aftermath of the fierce fighting. A contingent of horse archers, and a few substantial formations of other cavalry, roamed the areas out in front of the Saxan right flank, if only to retain some residual honor while keeping an honest presence arrayed before their Saxan enemy.

The grassland before Wulfstan was now filled with the bodies of men and horses. A good number of them, man and beast alike, twisted and rolled in the agony of grievous injuries and open wounds. Far too many lay rigidly still. The ground beneath continued to slake its impassive, prodigious thirst on the innumerable small wellsprings of blood.

The mood of nearly all of the men gathered around Wulfstan was somber and drained. Far removed from the quiet fields and abundant forests of Sussachia, now perched on the western edge of their kingdom, an inevitable darkness was looming before them all.

As Wulfstan saw it, tasting the realization as a nauseous bile, the great armies of the Unifier were now settling into a war of attrition, one that they would eventually win. Until that happened, though, Wulfstan wanted only to be standing on his two feet, back at the very front edge of the fighting. At the very least, even his lone sword could help to slow that attrition and delay the inevitable; if only for a single moment longer.

Until further commands arrived, his desires would be restrained, as he was now forced into a bitter and chafing idleness.

A good number of men had been assembled and regrouped into a sizeable force behind the main shield wall. Many, like him, were from the heart of Sussachia, where Ealdorman Byrtnoth served as King Alcuin’s highest authority. Others were from Ealdorman Oslac’s lands in the Mittevald.

Ealdorman Aelfric was mustering all of them for some unspoken purpose, which Wulfstan believed would have to be revealed very soon, as the day was steadily growing older. It would not be much longer before night fell across the battlefield, and the fighting would most likely cease completely until the next dawn; unless a sudden breakthrough occurred.

Though it was a calm in the storm, the idleness was in itself a torment to Wulfstan’s mind and constitution. He tried to occupy himself by looking over to where a force of light cavalry from Annenheim was in the process of mustering. The horse riders were gathering just a short distance beyond Wulfstan’s contingent of northern Saxans under Ealdorman Aelfric’s authority. Wulfstan wondered as to what the lightly armored, lance and shield bearing horse riders’ purpose would be, in such late stages of the day’s fighting.

An uproar of excited voices erupted suddenly around him, forcibly gripping his attention. Most of the men immediately around Wulfstan were looking and gesturing skyward, with eyes and expressions widened with a combination of sheer amazement and gaping fear. Following their riveted gazes, he watched the ominous approach of two enormous creatures, incredibly long of body, each supported by a pair of unbelievably vast wings.

“Darroks! Darroks!” a thane exclaimed loudly, as the two flying monstrosities drifted closer to the Saxan lines.

“May the All-Father be with us,” Cenwald mumbled aloud at Wulfstan’s side, his face a caricature of alarm and fear.

The two flying juggernauts cast massive shadows, which flowed smoothly across the ground under the creatures as they passed over the assemblage around Wulfstan. As he was engulfed in the darkness of their immense shadow, he looked up and marveled at the beasts passing right above him. It was hard to even imagine that something so huge could fly through the air.

His brow then furrowed as he watched them closely. He could tell that the creatures were lowering in altitude, noticeably heading from the upper sky towards the ground. They were soon well beyond the reserve muster of northern Saxans and light cavalry. A few moments later, Wulfstan judged that the Darroks had passed over the main Saxan encampment, and were now far behind the Saxan lines.

The giant flying beasts disappeared from his line of sight, and he could only wonder as to where they had made their final descent. Wulfstan knew that it could not have been very far beyond the encampment, and also recognized that the two creatures were now far removed from the Unifier’s forces.

Yet they had not landed under duress, either. Their descent was done with pure intent. Whatever their purpose was, he knew that it did not bode well for the Saxans.

“I do not like this,” Cenwald remarked after a long passage of uneasy silence, echoing the thoughts bandying about in Wulfstan’s own mind.

“Nor I,” Wulfstan replied in a low tone, his jaw clenching in the tension enveloping him.

He could hear the rising murmurs among the northern Saxans, as the others wrestled with the strange, unexpected sight. It was not much longer before the first signs of an answer to the strange mystery became manifest.

Several men came running into sight, streaking towards Wulfstan’s throng from the direction of the main encampment. A few of them tripped over their own legs in their frantic haste, scrambling desperately back to their feet, and continuing forward with pressing urgency.

“The enemy comes! The enemy comes!” they yelled at the top of their lungs, eyes wide with panic.

Wulfstan’s heart leapt up into his throat. He realized in that moment just what the huge flying creatures had been used for.

He knew that the encampment behind them held wounded warriors that had been dragged out of the battle. It also held a great number of non-combatants, gathered to aid the stricken fighters, and to attend to the needs of horses and warriors. The encampment contained the primary stores of foodstuffs, barrels of ale and water, additional weaponry, draft animals, and other elements so vital to a large force.

There was little doubt that Saxan scouts were all over the area behind the main battle lines, watching for any approaches by the enemy on horse or on foot. In both instances, whether a threat of enemy cavalry manifested, or a hard-pressed march of enemy foot soldiers, there would have been plenty of advance warning to muster a defense.

As it was, the enemy had landed a force by air, in an unprecedented manner, well within the far-flung ring of scouts. The enemy was positioned where there was little to nothing set between the landing monstrosities and the Saxan encampment. Well-guarded against ground based threats, the encampment was highly vulnerable to the daring maneuver.

“To the encampment! All Saxans, to the encampment, now! With all speed!” cried out a well-armed, mounted rider, waving his sword high in the air, as he urgently rallied the men around him.

Wulfstan recognized the stocky, bearded man as Ealdorman Oslac, having seen him several times moving among the Saxan men during the days leading up to the battle. Ealdorman Oslac had a reputation as a just, strong-hearted man among the people of the Mittevald, and that reputation spurred a vigorous response.

Wulfstan could tell which men hailed from the Mittevald in the surging response to his cries. Those from the Ealdorman’s lands took up their arms with a zeal that testified to the motivation that Oslac’s presence inspired within them.

Gripping their weapons, and faces determined, the mass of warriors around Wulfstan bounded forth, running in a loose, disorderly throng towards the encampment. Adrenaline sped through Wulfstan’s veins, as they quickly crossed the last expanse of ground leading up to the outer ditch ringing the camp’s perimeter.

Those in the lead of the body of warriors sprinted through the open gate set within the western section of the outer palisade. Wulfstan was among their number, having always been exceedingly swift of foot. Shield clenched securely on his left, and sword on his right, he pumped his arms vigorously, charging forward with urgency-fueled abandon.

A hissing sound cut the air, and a curt cry of pain emitted from one of the warriors running near to Wulfstan, as an arrow shaft embedded deep into his chest. The man pitched over to the ground, hitting it hard, and skidding a few feet to a halt where he lay still. Other sounds of agony burst out from others around Wulfstan, as deadly arrows fell in a tempestuous hail all about them.

“Shield yourselves!” Wulfstan cried out furiously, to any man that would listen. As he looked around, he saw that Cenwald was coming up just behind him.

He hurriedly shifted his sword into his shield hand, struggling with a makeshift grip as he slowed down a few steps, and allowed his comrade to catch up to him. He reached out and grabbed Cenwald by the upper arm, just as his friend drew up next to him. Wulfstan pulled Cenwald forward with him, nearly lifting the other man off of his feet.

Wulfstan’s eyes could not lie as he took in the sight of the predicament facing the incoming Saxans; the situation they faced was daunting.

When the arrows had started to strike, the Saxans with Ealdorman Oslac had not yet proceeded far into the camp. There were only a few rows of tents left between the attacking enemy warriors and the greatest numbers of the wounded, most of whom were entirely helpless in their dire conditions. The rest, including the unarmed men and women serving as camp attendants, had little better prospects in the face of the determined enemy attack about to swallow them up.

Wulfstan moved quickly with Cenwald to take cover behind a large, four-wheeled wagon. He slammed forcefully against its stout wooden side, dragging Cenwald behind him. Cautiously, he peered out around the edge of the wagon, even as he winced in pain from the force of the impact against the rough, unforgiving wood. His shoulder throbbed as he reached over and took the hilt of his sword back into the familiar clutch of his right hand.

The shadowy forms of numerous enemy interlopers had drawn much closer, following the deadly barrage of missiles loosed by their brethren. A few of them broke into sight at last, brandishing broad, wicked-looking blades, and great wooden shields. The sight of the attackers came close to stilling Wulfstan’s rapidly beating heart.

He saw at once that they were not human.

They were all much taller, and broader of build, than an average man. They were powerful, brutish creatures, with fierce countenances, as if feral dogs of war had been endowed with the bodies of very muscular men of considerable height.

There was only one creature, in all the lore and tales of the world that Wulfstan had ever heard, that held such a description. He was certain that they were the legendary Trogens, from their own faraway homelands across an ocean to the east.

A feverish clash of steel erupted, and soared in ferocity as the Trogens poured through the tents and fell with fury upon the arriving defenders. One Trogen warrior suddenly moved past the corner where Wulfstan was crouched. The Trogen paused for a moment, momentarily unaware of Wulfstan and Cenwald’s position by the large wheel of the wagon.

Without a moment’s pause, Wulfstan stepped out behind the unsuspecting Trogen. He brought his sword up into an arc that crashed down into the exposed neck of the huge Trogen warrior. Wulfstan had to wrench the blade free with a hard yank, where it had embedded itself deep in the Trogen’s flesh, as the body of the enemy warrior pitched over heavily to the ground.

An enraged roar from behind gave Wulfstan just enough warning to spin around and deflect a descending Trogen blade. The force of the fearsome blow was jarring, causing his knees to buckle. The creature rapidly leveled another heavy blow, which Wulfstan caught on his raised round shield. Wooden chunks and shards flew outward where the heavy blade cleaved into it.

The shield suddenly felt very heavy, as the blade had caught on the edge, if only for an instant. Yet it was enough time to give Wulfstan the opening that he badly needed.

He kicked up into the area of the creature’s groin, connecting solidly. In the ensuing moment, when a flash of blinding pain gripped the Trogen, and held it within an instant of inaction, Wulfstan whipped his sword about and slashed at the side of the creature’s head. His accuracy was deadly, connecting just beneath the iron half-helm that the beast-man wore.

Quickly, Wulfstan reached up to the edge of the empty wagon. He cast his sword and shield into the bed of the wagon, and jumped, hastily pulling himself up and over the edge.

“Cenwald, up here!” Wulfstan cried out, turning back towards his friend.

Thrusting his arm out, he grabbed Cenwald’s forearm, and put all his effort into hoisting his comrade up. Cenwald needed little additional encouragement, frantically scrambling and gaining a foothold on the protruding end of the wheel’s axle. He pushed upward, and flopped awkwardly over the top, tumbling down into the open bedding of the wagon.

Remaining low, Wulfstan achieved a better view of the chaotic battle swirling all around him. More and more of the towering Trogens were streaming into the area. Wulfstan cursed the ease with which such a strong force had gotten behind their lines, carried directly over the main Saxan force and dropped right behind the largely defenseless encampment.