Authors: Stephen Zimmer
Saxans who knew of the Avanoran methods of war, and had knowledge of the accounts of their battles, knew the grave danger inherent in those upright lances when in the hands of such skilled warriors. Leveled, with shaft gripped just under the arm’s pit, and carried forward at a force ranging from a brisk canter to full charge, there was little to nothing that could withstand such an assault, if ever the Saxan shield wall was broken.
Some of the knights held authority over strong counties, others presided over a single castle, and many served in simplicity as household knights for their lords, but all were of a storied, proud brotherhood of arms. A great many were knights that had honed and exhibited their skills at the great tournament melees held within Gallea, many gaining considerable fame for their proficiency at arms. Most were knights who had already seen, and excelled in, the face of war, and had thoroughly bloodied both sword and lance.
All of the knights, whether a higher lord or household knight, whether possessing fame garnered from war or tournaments, or just newly ordained into knighthood on the eve of battle, were Avanoran. The legacy of that mythic heritage flowed amongst, around, and before them onto any battlefield, Athelney being no exception.
It was an energy and sense of threat that was felt by friend and foe alike, from the Ehrengardians to their right, to the Andamooran’s on their left, and to the Saxan lines that they were marching towards.
*
Wulfstan
*
Wulftsan stood in position towards the front of the shield wall, able to gain a clear sight of the colossal storm approaching. The thunder of drums boomed, as he felt the ground rattling beneath the leather soles of his shoes. He looked to his left and right, and could see the trepidation displayed on the faces all around him.
Just ahead of him, Saxan thanes, ceorls, and other strong warriors held their shields firmly in place. Despite their stoic, hardened postures, Wulfstan knew that they struggled with their nerves at the terrible sight of immense forces pouring over the horizon and shaking the ground, surging towards them with murderous intent.
“We are the wall! If they do not break this wall, all of that means nothing! Keep your hearts strong!” Wulfstan cried out to the men around him, most of whom were from the villages and burhs of his home territory. He could have identified nearly every one of them. “Cenwald, you hold strong, too!”
Standing close to him, and clearly looking frightened, Cenwald glanced quickly towards Wulfstan and nodded.
“All of you, if the enemy has come with an intent from hell, then give them a taste of the hell that drives them!” Wulfstan called out to his comrades.
His bold words caused a large number of men around him to erupt with raucous cries, even as the ground continued to vibrate from the tread of the oncoming forces.
Wulfstan gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his old sword tightly, and raised his round shield up a little higher. He clenched the narrow iron bar that spanned the inside of the raised shield boss.
Turning his head, and looking back, he saw that Father Dunstan was standing with the levy men towards the rear of the ranks, even though he did not bear a weapon himself. The mere sight of the loyal priest slowed Wulfstan’s anxious heart down a couple of beats. The old priest was making the spear-shaped gesture over the men around him, and would continue to give out his blessing when enemy arrows began to fall amongst them; and Wulfstan knew even that would not stop the old priest.
Such a perilous moment, of sharp iron rain, would not be long in coming. The enemy battle ranks were drawing ever nearer, such that Wulfstan could vividly see the lines of shrouded heads behind the strange, tall shields that the enemy fighters bore along with them. The resonance of the pounding war drums engulfed the Saxans, the booming, pulsating beats eliciting further nervousness from many within the Saxan ranks.
Behind the approaching line of shields, it looked like an ocean of men was flowing in their wake. Were it not for the circumstances, Wulfstan might even have found something aesthetic about the sights arrayed upon the plains before him. There were great numbers of colorful, bright battle flags and banners held aloft within the enemy ranks.
He halfway imagined that if he could get up into the sky, perhaps on one of the Saxan sky steeds, a sight echoing one from the natural world would greet him. The grand effect of the massive enemy army would probably have looked like a menacing storm, sweeping across open plains, blotting out a clear sky.
The only difference would be that he would look down upon it, rather than up at it.
The sky steeds were said to feel like horses in some ways. Wulfstan believed that he could remain strong during the sensation of flight. A tinge of regret cut through his adrenalized nerves; if only there was the time to explore his strange, repeating dream.
A bitter chuckle threatened to break his expression, as at the brink of an immense battle his thoughts of recurring dreams were still at the very forefront of his mind.
Girding himself, he fixed his stare on the foremost enemy ranks, right as they drew to a halt just a short distance before the Saxan lines.
*
Framorg
*
The air was crackling with martial energy, and a soaring euphoria erupted within Framorg as he lifted his great longblade high above him. The weapon’s newly-honed edge gleamed in the bright light of the new day, as yet unstained by the blood of enemies.
A deafening roar broke out from the assembled Trogen ranks before him, mounted proudly upon their well-rested, saddled sky steeds. Their eyes burned with the fires surging within each of them, and every single warrior looked ready to take the measure of himself in the ages-old test of combat.
“The hour is now! We fight this day to free our lands! We do this for all of our Clans! We do this for all time!” Framorg thundered, feeling the swell of anticipation emitting from the Trogen warriors. They could be held back no longer. The time for battle was upon them all. “My brothers, take to the skies!”
With a flurry of spreading wings, the massive force of riders surged forward upon their Harraks. The front ranks bounded ahead, and lifted off the ground, followed a few moments later by the second line, and then the next. One rank after another, the Trogens flowed in an orderly manner off the open grounds leading away from the eastern edge of the encampment, where they had concentrated earlier that morning.
It was as if a broad, elongated cloud was wafting up from the ground, as never before had so many Trogen sky riders set off in one, extended formation, into the skies. Framorg felt fires racing through his blood, as Argazen soared rapidly upward, flying at the tip of the vast, ascending throng. The battlefield spread out before his eyes, expanding in its scope as they reached higher and higher.
Initially, the Trogen war chieftain felt a shadow of disappointment as he peered forward, as there was absolutely no sign of the enemy’s sky warriors. A few minor skirmishes in the days leading up to the titanic clash had shown the skill of the Saxan sky warriors, and their Himmerosen steeds had proven to be a very capable breed of Skiantha. Framorg greatly anticipated engaging a large mass of them head to head, all across the skies.
He had to remind himself that they would likely come soon enough, probably in direct response to the Trogens now marshaling in the skies over the battlefield. For the time being, he turned his attentions towards studying the battle spread out upon the ground, if only to occupy his thoughts until the enemy sent something up to challenge the Trogens.
What he saw before him was beyond colossal in scale. He knew that few, if any, Trogen war chieftains or human kings in all of history had ever had the privilege of looking upon such an incredible vision of war. The battle that was unfolding was like nothing that he had ever witnessed or, for that matter, even imagined. While he had been amazed at the sheer size of the encampments on both sides as the conflict approached, nothing could have prepared him for the spectacular array of martial force now unfurled upon the plains.
Winds of war rippled through the standards and banners of both sides, undulating and defiant where they rose above their respective throngs of warriors. Resonant drums and horns heralded the movements of the dense ranks of the invasion forces, mounted and on foot, as the open ground between the two sides diminished.
From his lofty perch, Framorg could see the three main divisions of the invading forces distinctly. Ahead of them was the long, unbroken line of the defenders, which was like a living wall that stubbornly blocked the path into Saxany. If that wall could be breached, and broken into rubble, then all of Saxany would fall quickly enough.
Sprouting abundantly, like a colorful foliage of greens, reds, and other hues, the banners marking the Andamoorans constituting the left division of the invaders glided along within the massive square formation that they had assumed. The giant square had drawn to a halt not far from the Saxan line, though some shifts and flows were still occurring within it, as the teeming masses of warriors settled into place.
The tiny forms of Andamooran horsemen could already be seen racing down the front of the Saxan wall of warriors. The last few of the mounted contingent were still sallying forth from behind a protective line of shields.
The Trogen chieftain saw that the Saxan line facing them remained rigidly in place, and no horsemen of their own emerged to engage the harassing Andamooran riders. The Saxans were already exhibiting considerable discipline, not falling for the bait being set tantalizingly before them, a ruse designed to open early rifts in their cohesive ranks.
To his right, Framorg saw that the ranks of Ehrengard were moving forward in another condensed mass. For the most part, heavy cavalry were moving up behind an extensive screen of infantry. The ranks of infantry were numerous, and Framorg espied large groups of archers and crossbowmen within their ranks.
Located on the farthest right of Ehrengard’s formation, a core of mounted warriors was conspicuously moving up behind an impenetrable hedge of long pikes, carried forth by warriors on foot. They were heavily armored knights, with great helms encasing their heads, covered head to foot in mail, and even provided with additional protection for their thighs and knees. The comprehensive armor was not wasted upon those who wore it, as Framorg knew that the knights of Ehrengard were brave warriors given to individual feats of valor. Of all the human factions that he had been exposed to during his time on the campaign, he had come to increasingly like the Ehrengardians the more that he was around them.
Their horses were very well-protected, many in extensive trappers, and some in bards crafted entirely of chain mail. The uniformity in the colors and patterns on the trappers, shields, lance pennons, and surcoats of a given knight made for quite a mosaic behind the thick, dark hedge of pikemen.
Opposite them, right behind the Saxan’s living wall, another great mass of mounted fighters had gathered. Though not as heavily armored as the Ehrengardian knights, the Saxan riders looked prepared for any attempt by the invaders to skirt their left flank.
Framorg’s gaze then drifted left down the Saxan shield wall, funneling towards a sizeable assemblage of Saxan fighters set a short distance in back of their line’s center. They were gathered around a single, large standard, a windsock as opposed to the usual type of banners and pennons. Billowing in a steady breeze, it was fashioned into the form of some kind of winged animal figure.
As the Avanoran leadership was concentrated in an equivalent formation within the invading force, Framorg strongly suspected that the Saxan of greatest rank was located somewhere close to the animal-shaped standard. Much in the developing battle would depend upon the kind of mettle, savvy, and discipline contained within that particular Saxan leader. Framorg doubted that any Saxan within the opposing ranks had ever been measured against a threat as monstrous as the one below. The Saxan leader was about to be given a tremendous, unprecedented test, and was certainly not going to receive any graces or conciliation from Avanor’s commanders.
War was a ruthless, cold judge, and nothing about its evaluations was based upon a sense of fairness. War was ultimately quite simple and direct, in one way of looking at it. The Saxan leader would either prevail, or he would not, no matter what advantages or disadvantages were present.
Still, even if the Saxans were overwhelmed, the Saxan leader could yet acquit himself honorably in defeat. It would not be much of a consolation in the tattered aftermath of a battlefield defeat, but it was one that the Trogens had to embrace often within their own hard-pressed lands.
Framorg could respect and sympathize with that melancholy reality. All too often, Trogens had incurred the loss of many noble, heroic warriors, who had been caught within an overpowering Elven swarm, and had still fought on despite the absence of hope. In soaking an Elven victory in their own blood, such Trogen warriors had become far greater inspirations than those who had triumphed in much more balanced situations. In such a way, the Saxan leader could become a similar figure for the people of Saxany in years to come.
Framorg then looked down upon the Avanoran formation. Pennons of blue and gold flew in great numbers within the strong reserve below, as the leaders within it carefully watched the battle developing before them. Spread out immediately before the Avanoran reserve was the great might of the central division.
A thick screening line of infantry had been deployed before a large number of archers with longbows, as well as crossbowmen. The infantry and missile troops together constituted a mobile shield for the most valuable element of the Avanoran ranks.
Stretched into a compacted line were the knights of Avanor. Bristling with weapons and armor, the knights were bringing their powerful warhorses forward at a slow walk in the wake of the advancing lines on foot. There was a great cohesiveness in the knights’ postures, as well as in the carrying of their lances, hinting at shared training, and a close familiarity with each other.