Authors: Stephen Zimmer
“I made it back, Wulfstan … don’t know how, but I got back here,” Cenwald said, when they had disengaged.
Wulfstan did not dwell upon thoughts of the many from his homeland that had already fallen that day. He knew that the coming hours and days would bring awful tidings of men that he had known for years. The losses would continue to mount, and there were no guarantees that Wulfstan and Cenwald would avoid similar fates.
For the moment, Wulfstan chose to savor the radiant uplift of a sudden reunion with a friend who had survived. Discovering that Cenwald had made it through the fighting so far transported Wulfstan’s spirits far away from the battlefield surrounding him. There were no immediate threats to the Saxan right flank, with the Andamooran ranks decimated, and driven back. The din of continued fighting in the center and on the Saxan left flank seemed far off. The precious few moments of relief from the terrors and sorrows of the ongoing battle were a blessing from the highest levels of Palladium.
“Cenwald, never have I deemed your face a thing of beauty, but you are a sight to behold, on this day,” Wulfstan jested, as a slight grin escaped his leaden countenance.
“And you still have the looks that the village maidens find favorable,” Cenwald replied, with a laugh that beamed through the gloomy pallor of his dirty, blood-streaked face.
Wulfstan glanced towards the back of the shield wall. “Until the enemy withdraws fully, we should not stray too far, but we need to find you more than a broken shield and a short blade.”
Cenwald nodded grimly. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Cenwald bent over and picked up his seaxe, returning it to the horizontal sheath at his waist. He left the badly-gouged shield where it lay.
Wulfstan looked over to where several bodies lay on the ground, with arrows protruding from them. Abandoned weapons, and more than a few shields, littered the ground around the fallen Saxans.
“We won’t have far to look,” Wulfstan commented ruefully, recognizing the body of a young man.
He was a ceorl like himself, from a village called Whispering Fork, which was located near the confluence of a stream that joined the river that Wulfstan’s own village rested by.
Wulfstan was pierced by sorrow as he looked upon the lifeless body of the young man, who had been at the onset of his prime years. Wulfstan closed his eyes for a moment, girding himself for what was about to unfold. The tragic tidings of death, coming from the witness of his eyes, to the word of his fellow Saxans, had only just begun.
*
Framorg
*
The day had grown much older, but the main battle lines had not shifted. Framorg, sitting high in the saddle of his Harrak mount, had watched the battle from the onset.
It was a maddening feeling, being situated so close to such a massive battle and having to idly watch it transpire. Framorg often found himself cursing his fortunes, as the Saxan sky riders refused to manifest in the skies.
For the most part, the Trogens had remained out of the battle, except for the occasional messenger dispatched to the Avanoran leadership, which was positioned with the reserve contingent a short distance back from the direct center of the battle lines. Framorg allowed the Trogens to vent some of their frustrations by loosing arrows from the heights towards the massed Saxan ranks. For his own part, he steeled his mind towards a keen observation of the movements within the battlefield. At the least, he hoped that he could gain some further insights into the conduct of war on such an incredible scale.
He could see the three main attacking formations demarcated clearly enough; Ehrengard on the right, Avanor in the center, and Andamoor on the left. The left flank of the invasion forces, and then the right, had already probed the corresponding Saxan flanks.
The rhythmic booming of Andamooran drums, as hosts of warriors surged forward, had sounded like thunder coming up from the ground. The dense masses of Andamoorans looked like human waves, rolling towards a Saxan shore.
A short time later, the chorus of horns blaring from Ehrengard’s hosts on the right sent a tingle down Framorg’s spine. The long, unified blasts shook the air, as if echoing the thunder of the Andamooran drums far down the line.
The roar of the fighting itself carried up into the heavens, as the two sides clashed furiously, on either end of the immense battle line. The swelling tides of sound, coalescing into an incessant roaring, encompassed the Trogen sky riders.
Framorg felt the energy crackling through the chorus of battle, yet he and his riders were still left alone, and idle, in uneventful skies. The invigorating sensations brought on by watching and hearing the titanic battle unfolding beneath them only served to increase the Trogen leader’s agitation.
From the initial stages of the battle, Framorg saw quickly that it would not be an easy fight. The Saxans had drawn masses of cavalry up on the left and right flanks of a long, dense shield wall. They were well positioned to counter any attempts to circle around the edges of their extended line. In the center, positioned a little further back from the ranks of the shield wall, a large reserve force had mustered, presumably the Saxan Prince Aidan and the royal household guard that the Avanoran leaders had oft spoken of.
As utterly massive as the attacking force was, and despite the great strength that Andamoor and Ehrengard had hurled forth, the living wall of Saxans had not yet given way. The main Avanoran force in the center, upon the failures of the left and right flanks to make any kind of headway against the Saxan defenders, had yet to fully engage in combat.
Framorg could not help but respect the valor of the Saxans. Their stalwart courage made him look forward even more to engaging them in the skies. He just wondered how he could get them to come up to fight.
After about another hour had passed, with nothing stirring within the clear skies, Framorg had to grudgingly call for a rotation. As exceptional in endurance as Harraks were, the steeds were not inexhaustible in their energy. The last thing that he wanted to see happen was for fresh Saxan sky warriors to assail his Trogens, right when their Harrak steeds were too depleted to execute the directives of their riders.
At a signal from Framorg, a Trogen to the left, and another to the right, brought up horns and blasted out summons for the sky riders to return back to the encampment. Turning Argazen about, Framorg spurred his steed back over the teeming ranks of the Avanoran force. With a tight clutch upon the reins, he guided the creature sharply downward, heading towards the open space in the midst of the Trogen encampment.
The miniscule figures scurrying about rapidly grew larger as the ground swiftly approached. He pulled up on the reins towards the end, bringing the Harrak to alight upon the ground smoothly, with only a little jarring to his own body.
A Trogen ran up and held the reins for Framorg, keeping his steed steady, as he unfastened the buckles on the straps securing him to the saddle. Bringing his leg around, Framorg dismounted and strode off towards his command tent.
With his feet touching the ground, he could feel the powerful vibrations resonating along the surface from the battle lines just to the east. The feeling fired his blood, as well as his regrets.
He cast his gaze out towards the eastern horizon, watching as a new mass of Trogen warriors ascended the skies upon fresh steeds. Most were arrayed in a compact formation, with a string of stragglers bringing up the rear. The sky riders almost looked like a cloud drifting across the skies, with a few tendrils of vapor trailing behind.
The return of Framorg’s warriors elicited an eruption of activity within the camp, as a great number of Trogens raced to attend to the tired steeds. The animals were led off on their tethers to be fed and cared for without delay, while their riders sought a little food and rest.
A few Andamooran healers, who the Avanoran leadership had insisted were unparalleled in their arts, came forth with the Trogens. With no combat in the sky, no injuries had yet been suffered by the sky riders, and the healers were quickly, and a little abrasively, dismissed.
Framorg was still suspicious of the bearded men in their long, flowing clothes, but he was not about to ignore any possible benefits for his warriors. The Andamooran healers were reputed to be amongst the best healers in the world, filled with knowledge regarding the treatment of wounds and the prevention of them festering into something worse.
The forces from Ehrengard and Avanor, for the most part, shunned the Andamoorans because of the stark religious divides between their lands and Andamoor. With the great importance of his sky warriors, and the fact that the Andamoorans were not welcome in the other camps, Framorg had not hesitated to accept the Andamooran healers’ services when they had been offered.
Framorg could not afford to partake in any rest himself, as the first day of the great battle approached the middle of the day. He had nothing to show for the Trogens’ presence, either in aiding the ground assault, or defending the skies against the still-absent Saxan sky warriors.
Yet he knew that the enemy sky steeds were out there somewhere, and he had to figure out what they were plotting. The full strength of the Saxan Kingdom looked to be arrayed along the opposing battle lines, a notion underscored more than once during his observations hovering far above the rolling plains.
Accompanied by an entourage of ardent Trogen chieftains, who streamed in from the open landing space, Framorg made his way toward his spacious tent. A few others who had been idly waiting joined their number at the sight of Framorg’s return, falling into line behind him.
Framorg’s huge Mountain Bear was not there to greet him this time, having been sequestered farther away on his order. With the unpredictable nature of war, Framorg did not want any mishaps to occur with his precious bear. Under Trogen watch, and removed to an area not trafficked by humans, Barondas would be safeguarded from encounters with Avanorans not aware of the creature’s presence, or association with Framorg.
The brown hide flaps covering the opening were watched over by two very muscular Trogens bearing extensive lances. There was little worry of enemy infiltration, but Framorg wanted no one to disturb his quarters while he was away.
The two guards pulled back the flaps, clearing the opening for him as he approached. Inside the tent, a large brazier in the center had been kept burning, its twisting columns of smoke stretching up and out of the hole in the center of the tent. Other than the light cast around the brazier, the interior was very dim, contrasting sharply with the bright day outside.
The Trogen chieftains ushered in close behind him, as Framorg adjusted his eyes to the relative gloom. He took his place on the other side of the long plank trestle table set near the center. He waited patiently, gazing upon each Trogen that filed into the space, as they took their own places around the table.
Framorg wasted little time in getting started with his address. “The battle proceeds, as you have seen. The skies are ours. They go unchallenged by the Saxans. But we have not made ourselves felt in this battle. We know the enemy sky riders are out there, but no word comes from any of the scouts we have sent. I ask those of you that were not up in the skies just now … has there been any new word?”
A Trogen who had not been among those returning with Framorg answered, “There is still no sight or word of the enemy sky riders.”
“No signs of where they might be?” Framorg asked, his voice carrying a faint edge of exasperation.
“None, yet,” the Trogen replied somberly.
An immediate tension welled up in the room. The continued absence of the enemy sky forces was troubling enough, but to not have even one hint as to their location was unnerving. Framorg glared around at the chieftains, letting them know his extreme displeasure.
“Then there are two tasks at hand. We must find out what has become of them, and we must make our presence felt on this battlefield,” Framorg stated unequivocally.
The front flap of his tent then opened, and a lone figure walked through. Outlined by the light from outside, Framorg could see at once that the figure was not a Trogen. Lean of build, the individual was just barely six feet tall. Irritation surged within Framorg at the unannounced intrusion by a human, though he restrained himself from an open outburst.
As the flap closed, and his eyes readjusted, Framorg identified the human as Renaud de Bracy, a baron of Avanor. The brother of Avanor’s Seneschal Guerin de Bracy, the baron held considerable authority. While not a Lord General of Avalos, Renaud possessed a wide swathe of land within the Querrelan region in the eastern part of Avanor. Several manor estates, a couple of small towns, and a few strategic castles were directly under his control.
His dark locks had a wavy texture to them, cropped neatly where they fell to an even line just above his shoulders. His brow was trimmed into bangs, forming a tight frame around his sharp, thin face, which was adorned with a substantial nose. Renaud had a wide mouth and thin lips that were currently pressed together in anger, as his protruding eyes fixed on Framorg.
The huge Trogen took further umbrage at the brazen attitude of the human, but the man’s stature held back his burning urge to berate the man for his insolent entrance. It was yet another price to pay for the eventual help of the Unifier in the liberation of Trogen lands.
“All are engaged in battle, but what will the Trogens do to break the enemy lines?” Renaud asked coolly.
Framorg bristled at the baron’s inference, as a hot bile bit at the back of his throat. His lips threatened to pull back in a snarl, but he concentrated until they merely twitched in his surging anger.
“The enemy has not yet challenged the skies,” Framorg replied in a steady, deliberate tone, showing his improved ability to speak the Avanoran’s tongue.
Only a few of the others in the room understood even a smattering of the baron’s words. It was probably for the best that they did not. The questioning of a Trogen’s courage was not something taken lightly, and Framorg could not have guaranteed that all in the room could have held themselves back as he had. Had all of them understood the baron, it was more than likely that the man’s head would have been separated from his shoulders with a longblade.