Dream of Legends (94 page)

Back on the offensive, the knight pressed forward with three more rapid strikes. The last was a blurring-fast thrust that scraped along the edges of Aelfric’s mail shirt, on his right side, grazing the iron links just under his arm pit. The strike had gotten past Aelfric’s sword and shield, but a slight twist of his body had both saved him, and given him an opening to capitalize on.

Aelfric immediately moved his body forward, and a little to the left, bringing his raised iron shield boss into the fight as an offensive weapon. He drove it up vigorously, shoving the iron piece towards the knight’s head, putting his full weight behind it. The stout shield boss smashed into the right side of the knight’s face, just behind his visor, crashing into chain mail links and staggering him.

Aelfric whipped his sword down low, bringing the heavier, wider blade underneath the knight’s shield, and into his mail-shrouded leg. As the heavy Saxan blades were adapted more for impact than for slicing, the robust blow delivered a serious injury, causing the knight to drop instantly to the ground with a loud outcry.

It took only a couple of moments longer to finish the grisly task, though Aelfric had to bring his defenses up fast, as an enraged squire, hate boiling on his face, struck down at him from his mount. The long, thin spear tip, prime for piercing chain mail armor, narrowly missed Aelfric’s body.

War was war, and without a good position to cut at the squire, Aelfric brought an arcing blow up from below, into the neck of the squire’s steed. Aelfric jumped backwards as the steed toppled to the ground with a mortal wound, trapping the squire’s leg underneath, as the man’s face turned swiftly from hate to unbridled terror. Aelfric did not let the man suffer much longer in such a state, bringing an end to the squire’s life with one more deadly blow.

By the time that the call came to return to their own lines, Aelfric’s shield was jagged at several places along its outer rim, his sword was generously nicked and bloodstained, and a part of his mail shirt had suffered many broken links. He trudged back wearily, with the consoling knowledge that the damage done to his equipment had been far less than what he had inflicted upon the enemy.

At least two men that he was sure were knights had fallen under his blade, in addition to four lesser fighters who were likely a mix of squires and sergeants. Several others had been either wounded, or had been caught up in the surges of the fighting and taken away from the reach of his blade.

Those of his household guard around him had hewn a plentiful harvest while amongst the forest of Avanorans. Their axes were blood-soaked, and only a few of them had been killed, or taken injury in return. Most had remained close to Aelfric throughout the fighting, circling around him tightly as the calls rang out to pull back to the shield wall.

The Avanorans were now retreating themselves, in an orderly, controlled fashion that demonstrated their great discipline. Well-coordinated units were fighting together in rear-guard type actions, while the ranks behind them hurried to retreat.

Aelfric plodded on leaden legs across the last stretch of ground to the shield wall. He was out of breath, shoulders and arms aching from all the exertion, and the impacts of absorbed blows, but his mood was very much uplifted.

He stopped for a moment, to aid a wounded household guard struggling along to his right side. Aelfric allowed the man to put his left arm around the ealdorman’s shoulder, hastening to slide his own sword back into his scabbard, so that he could concentrate on supporting the injured warrior. The man had taken a gash to his thigh, and was weakening fast, but had not suffered a mortal wound. The household guard would likely be fine with some further rest and attention.

Aelfric would still say a few prayers for the Saxan warrior. Any kind of wound suffered in battle was still a threat to survival, with the festering, corrupting possibilities that time often brought to an injured warrior in a battle’s wake.

Entering through the parted shields, he called out loudly for some of the men in the deeper ranks to assist the wounded household guard back to the main camp. There, at the least, monks, nuns, and priests more skilled in the treatment of wounds could help the man. He imparted a few words of encouragement to the veteran warrior, as two wide-eyed levy men bore up the injured man’s weight on either side, carefully starting back towards the encampment.

Turning around, Aelfric looked off across the wide battlefield, gazing over the fully reconstituted Saxan shield wall. The Avanorans were continuing their fallback, and their cavalry were now shielded behind a solid wall of infantry, archers, and crossbowmen. Aelfric could not help but give another nod of respect to their coordinated retreat, positioning themselves in such a cohesive order, after suffering a fair number of losses.

Nothing of further concern had occurred on either the left or right flanks. The Andamoorans had remained in place. The Ehrengardians had not remained entirely inert, but had made no significant moves.

As he looked on, he witnessed a small cluster of mounted knights returning from an unsuccessful sortie against the Saxans. The knights of Ehrengard were now moving toward the far right end of the Ehrengardian flank, hurrying to gain the protection of the Halmlander pikemen.

There was no question that the action in the center was by far the most important on the battlefield. Perhaps the strongest element of the invader’s army had been engaged and repelled. In many ways it was a tremendous achievement, testifying to both Saxan wits and temerity.

Aelfric took several deep breaths, as sweat streamed down his face, hunching over in his fatigue and letting his shield rest on the ground. His chest heaved as he labored to get air into his lungs.

“Did you approve of my surprise?” inquired an exuberant voice.

Though he remained stooped over, Aelfric brought his eyes up to see Count Gerard, mounted on horseback before him. The burly, bearded man’s face, with his prominent, aquiline nose, echoed the visage of his war steed, an ironic sight that almost caused Aelfric to laugh. As things stood, he was highly elated over Count Gerard’s initiative, and battened down his momentary amusement.

He knew that the Avanorans would have been able to jostle holes in the shield wall had those brawny destriers been able to put their full force behind the knights’ extended lances, and push forward. Having been so close to the Avanoran stallions, Gerard’s own impressive steed clearly appeared lesser by comparison.

The destriers carried a foreboding appearance with their ferocious demeanor, and sharp, wickedly powerful hooves. With noticeably long manes, substantially heavy fore and hindquarters, and an ample span of strong, muscled back stretched between their saddle’s pommels and cantles, the heavy war horses of the Avanorans were like big barbarians amongst the race of equines. They were exceptional steeds, bred for the art of war, well-suited to the stout flow of martial blood running steadily through the veins of their Avanoran masters.

Having those brutes resisted by men holding shields was not something that Aelfric had ever wanted to test. It was an even more dour thought to imagine those stallions thundering down upon mere peasant levies, behind breaches in the shield wall.

“Approve?” Aelfric finally replied, with a grin. “Thrilled, and greatly relieved, I would say, Gerard.”

Count Gerard smiled. “That should take a little fight out of them for the day, but they will not fall for that twice.”

“No they won’t,” Aelfric agreed, slowly straightening up, as his breath returned to him. “But they should be stymied for a short while. Go and get your men and mounts some rest, and a little to eat and drink, while you can.”

The enemy tide had ebbed into the oceanic mass of invaders, but it would soon return. In what form, Aelfric had no way of knowing, but the fact that they had withstood a major attack by the Avanorans boded well for their chances of surviving one more day.

*

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.