Authors: Stephen Zimmer
Cenferth cast Aethelstan a grin, and led the stunned rider off down the line towards the area where the people of Oak’s Crossing were located. Aethelstan watched the rider go onward to his fellow men, willing to stand with them immediately after having endured a dangerous, hard-pressed ride alone through enemy-riddled land. As quickly as life could be cut short, Aethelstan could brook no delays in recognizing the worthiness of the brave Saxan. He deeply hoped that Ceolfrid survived to realize the reward.
Turning, Aethelstan walked away a few steps to where he stood by himself, and looked down at the parchment. The wax seal of Saxany and of Arubandel, a confirmation of the genuine nature of the message within, bound the parchment.
The nearest burh to the ridge, about ten leagues away to the south, Arubandel was one of several places to which Aethelstan had dispatched riders in a desperate need to scrape up as many additional men as could be found in the area.
Aethelstan paused a little longer, looking down at the reddish wax seals with trepidation, before delicately breaking them with his fingers and spreading the document out.
It was a direct message, reading;
‘Aethelstan, Thane of Bergton, serving Ealdorman Morcar of Wessachia, in loyal service of King Alcuin of Saxany:
On behalf of my lord, Thane Hathufrith of Arubandel, in loyal service to Ealdorman Byrtnoth of Sussachia, loyal servant of King Alcuin of Saxany, I regret that I cannot send you good tidings. All of our males, and even some of our women who could walk the distance, have gone to the great muster to the west. We have only the youngest of boys and the oldest of men, and can barely lock our gates or keep a watch on our ramparts. We regrettably have nothing to send to you in the way of more people for your levy. It is not our choice. All who could carry any weapons have already left in the great levy and afterwards. We are truly sorry.
-your brother in the Almighty,
Father Stigand
The message, one of several such correspondences that had returned over the past couple of days, caused Aethelstan’s heart to drop immeasurably, though he kept his face resolute. He knew that many other eyes were watching his reaction to the apparent message, many of them knowing that he had sent out calls for more help.
He was not surprised in the least by Father Stigand’s answer, having fathomed what the answer was before he even cracked the wax sealing the parchment. Even so, it did not make reading the heavy words any easier. Every rejection dampened his hopes further, the frustration mounting while standing on a battle position that he could not abandon.
Aethelstan turned and strode swiftly back towards the ridge. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he whispered a silent prayer to the Almighty to provide him with strength. He uttered a petition that he could somehow be a source of inspiration to his warriors in the hours that they would need him most.
As he contemplated the words, the prayer filled him with a calmness that took the frayed edge from his nerves. When his eyelids finally parted, any man that looked into his face would see a composed, focused individual. He knew that they must not become aware of the despondence growing deep inside him, as he struggled with the daunting realities.
If any man among the Saxans looked a little closer, however, not every sign of his inner worries was so well-masked. The parchment in his right hand was clenched tightly, to the extent that the eyes of any that bothered to look could have easily perceived the whiteness of his knuckles.
SECTION V
*
Dragol
*
Dragol pressed onward through the eerily silent forest, still laden with the disconcerting feeling that other eyes were upon him. His body, underneath his hide cuirass, was now caked with sweat, which ran in thin rivulets down from his perspiring brow, trickling around his short muzzle. Dragol’s robust muscles were finally drained of their normally prodigious reserves of strength.
Even if he were a typical Trogen warrior, such an exhausted state would have required considerable amounts of exertion to reach. As one of the more exceptional specimens of his race, it testified to the fact that Dragol had undergone a most arduous struggle.
The gloaming of the settling dusk had begun to permeate the forest around him, overtaking the dappled light from the late afternoon’s sun. The shadows were filling in and deepening among the trees all around, the overall ambience progressively dimming.
For quite some time, his throat had been parched for drink, and his body ached for more solid sustenance. Yet Dragol was not about to worry about issues such as those. Every stride that he could take, and every league that he could traverse, would place him farther and farther beyond the swirling chaos in the region being pierced by the invasion.
A couple of ascensions to the top of aged, soaring oak trees had given him a propitious view of the situation above the forest’s ceiling. The skies were largely calm, and he could see no signs of either friend or foe, whether Darroks, Trogens, or enemy Midragardans.
His own Harrak was not yet faring badly, although the stalwart steed was clearly beginning to show fatigue. Rodor was a hardy animal, to an exceptional degree, but Dragol would worry about its needs well before taking care of his own.
Just over a gentle rise, they came within sight of a woodland brook that was flowing with crisp, translucent waters. The sight was virtually irresistible, prompting Dragol to trudge slowly forward, heading down the embankment.
He removed his helm as he neared the water’s edge, feeling the rush of cool air engulf his heated, sweat-matted head. Sheathing his longblade, and setting his shield down on the bank next to him, he sank to his knees by the water’s edge.
Both Trogen and Harrak were shortly drinking in ample gulps of the welcome, invigorating liquid. The cool water washed down Dragol’s dry throat, beginning to quench his deep thirst and renew his depleted body. Though tired, and with a seemingly bottomless desire for the water, he maintained enough presence of mind to keep his consumption controlled, maintaining his awareness for any signs of threats.
With one cupped hand, he scooped up some of the water and splashed it on his broad forehead. A few more douses with the water were sufficient to remove the stickiness caused by the sweat and dirt that had caked upon his face.
He breathed a deep sigh of relief, as the water dripped off of his protruding face, allowing himself a brief moment of enjoyment in the midst of the struggles that had enveloped his existence. As he allowed his body its first moments of rest in some time, the fatigue building inside finally began to catch up fully with him. A less rational part of him felt like collapsing in a heap on the bank, and going to sleep for awhile.
Ordering his swiftly tightening leg muscles to stand again, he slowly walked over to a tree just beyond the bank of the brook. Leaning his shield against it, Dragol slumped down wearily against the base of the trunk. He felt his eyelids growing very heavy while he watched his steed finish satiating its thirst.
The gloom in the woods had deepened considerably, growing significantly murkier as day edged upon the brink of night. Nothing stirred within the woods, and Dragol could not deny that a short rest would certainly do his body well. The prospect of rest was so powerfully inviting, so seductive that he almost pushed his cares aside and gave in to the inclination.
Cursing sharply at himself for entertaining such weakness, he roused himself back up, stretching his muscles and taking in several deep breaths to stave off the laborious fatigue. His Harrak had just finished drinking, and looked as if it was about to settle down along the embankment.
The distinctive feeling of being watched still hung ominously in the air. He had almost fallen asleep out in the open, without regard for shelter or his steed, he angrily realized. If something with harmful intent had been watching, then it would have had plenty of opportunity to launch a surprise attack.
Carefully, he panned his eyes around the forest, with a focus so intent and penetrating that his gaze threatened to see through solid objects. His search was left unsatisfied, at least in finding a physical cause for the bothersome feelings. Shaking his head, he turned to relieve himself near one of the adjacent trees, his bladder already filled, and now being added to with the weight of the water that he had just imbibed from the brook.
As he was finishing, a few flickers of movement off to his right suddenly caught his eye. As he snapped to attention, turning to focus in that direction, there were some other flickers of motion just off to his left, this time accompanied with some faint rustlings in the underbrush. Keeping his head rigid and his eyes still, he reached out with his left arm and picked his shield back up, settling his grip around the straight iron bar midway up the back.
Swiftly, he withdrew his longblade, quietly stepping forward and standing alongside his Harrak. A surge of adrenaline pushed back a good portion of his weariness, enabling a keener wariness to come forth in its wake.
As some other shadows moved off to the right, emitting the sounds of more rustlings and scrapes, the Harrak tucked its wings close and squared its body towards the movements. Rodor’s large ears twitched and shifted, as they diligently tracked the sounds.
The steed’s eyes and nostrils flared, as it picked up the scent of whatever was moving among the trees. A low growl emanated deep from within the sky steed’s throat, as its clawed feet shuffled and scratched the ground. It bared its sharp teeth menacingly, clenched firmly within its extremely powerful jaws.
Seeing the Harrak’s agitation, Dragol knew that there were serious threats fanning out in the woods around them. His fears were further confirmed just a few moments later, as forms moved in a swift blur to the left and right of his periphery, a little closer than before.
The worst aspect of it was that he had no idea what the gathering threat was, though he surmised from the sounds and rapid bursts of movement that it was some kind of wild animal. The movements were far too quick to have been executed by any human, or even one of the rat-men from Yanith.
“Guard,” Dragol whispered forcibly to his Harrak, a command that set the sky steed into a trained combat mode, ready to slash and bite should anything of a foreign nature come upon them.
He slowly retreated backwards a couple more steps towards the side of his Harrak, feeling its body pressed against his back. Quickly, he spared a glance upward, to see what desperate options might lay above.
There was no clearing big enough to afford them an easy escape, even if he had wished to try to break through in an outright emergency and risk injury to Rodor. The old trees had grown a sprawling web of thick, strong branches over the years, interlaced and spread out all over, forming a continuous, dense cover. The matter of whether or not Dragol was willing to risk the Harrak’s injury was entirely inconsequential, as the forest canopy was completely impassable, blocking his steed from the safer haven of the sky.
The forest grew deadly silent, as Dragol steeled his resolve for the coming attack. As if a shadow was coming to life, one of the entities openly walked out of the brush off to the right. It was about the size of a normal wolf, although Dragol could tell right away that there were many differences.
The creature’s head was flatter and longer than that of a wolf, with eyes set low in its skull. The animal’s open jaws exhibited a set of elongated, thin canines, as it snarled and growled at the Trogen and Harrak.
The beast had a heavily built, muscular body, walking on shorter, thick limbs that ended in large feet. Dragol could see no claws at the ends of its feet, and it appeared to walk with a more upright, flatter step than other forest hunters, such as wolves.
Not showing any fear of Dragol or the Harrak, the creature took a few more steps forward, fixing them with its feral gaze. Three other similar forms then issued forth from the surrounding trees, another to his right, one to his left, and one a little behind him.
There was little use for any further pretenses. A fight for life was about to begin.
The Harrak had turned toward the two approaching predators off to the right, hissing and growling defiantly towards them. Dragol rotated a little so that he could keep a full eye upon both of the others, as they stepped closer and closer.
Dragol waved his sword and roared a battle cry at them. Subtleties were forgotten, and would only become a concern again if he survived the impending fight.
The creatures rushed in from all sides, as Dragol braced himself for the impact. He angled his shield towards the one that had been closing from behind while he prepared to strike at the other with the longblade.
He heard the raucous cry of his Harrak, just as the two creatures on his side finally reached him. With another loud cry, Dragol brought the longblade chopping down in an incredibly forceful blow, timing the strike perfectly.
The blade cleaved deep into the creature, burying itself far into the base of its skull. The creature’s momentum carried it a little further, but it flopped down heavily on the ground, killed instantly by the robust blow.
The creature that he was shielding against thudded heavily into the wooden barrier, its dense body and speed knocking Dragol backwards. He had just a split second between the time that he had lodged his longblade in the flesh and bone of the other creature and the impact of the second. The great force of the collision caused him to lose his grip on the hilt of the longblade, as he tumbled back.
With a quick glance, he saw that he had almost been knocked into the maelstrom behind him, as the Harrak’s arsenal of teeth and claws were pitted against the snapping, shearing jaws of the two beasts besetting it.
Just a few feet to his left, the creature that had hit his shield had scrambled back to its feet, and was in the motion of charging in again. Dragol had no weapon in his hand to strike it with, and instead braced his legs, readying to thrust the shield outward.
As the creature came within a couple feet of him, he put his body behind a strong shove, and smashed the creature in the end of its long snout with the rigid wood of the shield. Rapid yelps and cries of pain erupted from the creature as it stumbled aside, its snout bloodied from the vigorous strike.
Dragol kept to his feet, and saw that the beast had lost much of its boldness, as it whined and snarled in a mixture of anger and pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the hilt of his longblade was sticking up just a few feet to his right.
Keeping his eyes largely riveted upon the wounded creature before him, and casting quick glances behind him, just in case one of the other beasts had broken free of the ongoing tumult, he edged over to the body of the fallen beast. Gripping the hilt of the longblade, he placed his right boot on the dead animal’s head, wrenching the longblade free with a forceful yank.
Now one against one, he squared his shield towards the surviving beast, and stomped forward with his blade raised in his right hand. The creature snarled and backpedaled at his aggressive advance.
Dragol bellowed another war cry at it, as he surged forward behind the shield and brought his longblade up for a sweeping attack. The beast had evidently had enough of the struggle and Dragol’s surge of aggression, as it whirled, leaped, and bounded off into the depths of the forest.
Hot with rage, Dragol cursed the fleeing beast and turned around to go to the aid of his Harrak.
The steed was still fending off the other two remaining predators. Its neck, sides, and flanks had been raked by the attacker’s slashing, snapping teeth, its body rife with seeping wounds, but it had inflicted several gashes of its own upon its two muscular tormenters.
One creature was positioned in front of the Harrak, and one was edging behind, as the battle had drawn to a temporary stalemate. There was plenty of fight left in the Harrak, as it snapped viciously in the direction of the creature in front of it.
The Harraks had extraordinary jaw strength, possessing bone-crunching power. The reflexes of the two predators must have been very capable to avoid being caught in the Harrak’s devastating bite.
Dragol took off at a charge towards his steed, but everything developed at a dizzyingly fast pace. The two beasts moved in near unison upon his steed, to resume their attack.
The Harrak cried out as the creature behind it clamped its jaws down upon one of its hind legs, tearing at the muscle and flesh. Given a slight opening as the Harrak lurched up in pain, the creature in front of it lunged forward, bringing its jaws down upon one of the Harrak’s forelegs. The two predators intended to cripple the much larger Harrak, and then wear it down in a struggle of attrition.
Dragol did not hesitate as he neared the engaged predators and his wounded steed. With a raging outcry at the point of attack, Dragol caught the beast at the front of his steed completely by surprise. He slashed down vigorously, empowered with unrelenting fury as the blade met the exposed back of the creature. It would not aggrieve his steed any further, as the blade cleaved right through its spine.
Not pausing to evaluate the damage, Dragol unceremoniously ripped the blade free, shifted his grip, and brought it down with all the force that he could muster. The strike impaled the stricken creature, finishing off whatever scant shreds of life that may have lingered within it.
Once again, Dragol had driven the blade deep, and had to take a couple of moments to free the longblade, stepping on the carcass of the predator. Rearing up, and with the longblade readied again, he turned immediately to see what had become of the last remaining predator.