Dragol

The smaller, second invasion force, comprised mainly of Avanoran warriors, had finally reached the outskirts of the borders of the province of Wessachia, in the northwest of Saxany.

The long column had come to a halt near the headwaters of the substantial Grenzen River, which emerged into its fullness near to the base of the forested hills leading up to the northern Hymaht Mountains.

The Avanorans had distanced themselves many leagues from the massive army marching towards the Plains of Athelney, but their purpose was no less important. The region and the specific site that they approached had been skillfully chosen, and carefully deliberated. It was the northernmost area along the western borderlands of Saxany that they could seek to pierce without unduly exposing themselves to great vulnerability.

A corridor of sorts existed towards the east, ferreted out by diligent Avanoran scouts, through which they could launch a penetrating strike deeper into Saxan lands.

Tents were assembled in a broad encampment that was located close to that of the Trogen sky force and the Andamoorans. Commander, mess, and chapel tents were placed near to the center of the encampment, with the tents of the higher-ranking knights surrounding those, and the dwellings of the common soldiery and camp attendants radiating further outwards.

Banners signifying the various nobles and officers in charge of the army flew from high poles positioned near to the entrance flaps of their tents.

While the Avanorans were situating the encampment, a constant cover of sky patrols had been provided under the orders of the Trogen chieftain, Tragan. Regular waves of Trogens upon Harraks returned and departed from the smaller encampment, keeping a constant set of eyes high in the air to watch over the laboring Avanoran army.

With the exception of the religious volunteers, the Andamooran contingent in the smaller camp had been almost completely emptied out. The entire force of Andamooran light horsemen had been dispatched, to range towards the east and scout far beyond the two camps.

Their absence from the camp areas was probably for the better, Dragol felt. The fanatical, face-veiled horsemen held little affinity for the Avanorans that they regarded as infidels. The Avanoran warriors continuously eyed the Trogens with looks that did little to hide their distaste for the non-human race, considering the Trogens to be little more than barbarous dog-men.

More than one Avanoran knight of considerable rank and lineage, gripping a great lance with a billowing pennon, tensed at the sight of the few Trogen chieftains moving among them, on their way to coordinate their efforts with the newly arrived Avanoran lords.

The Trogen leaders, though restraining themselves from provoking a larger incident, glowered back defiantly at the knights and other human soldiers. Many of the knights would not have been disappointed had the Trogens given in to their urges. More than one knight’s hand clenched the hilt of his sword, with a steely look in his eyes.

It was fortunate that the overwhelming majority of the Trogens was in the sky, or set apart in their own camp. Only the strictest orders by the Avanoran leaders, and the severe admonishments of Tragan, could hope to keep the peace among the two races.

The small numbers of Andamooran religious volunteers laboring among the Trogens and their steeds were perhaps the most unfortunate of all. They tried in vain to keep their distance from both groups during the ensuing hours, though not always successfully. Ill-trained and poorly equipped, they tended to the more menial tasks within the Trogen sky steed camp, and were not about to willfully aggravate either the fierce, heavily armored warriors of Avanor, or the massive, aggressive Trogens. The Andamoorans hated and resented all the others, Trogen and Avanoran alike, but were judicious concerning their fate should they provoke either one of the groups.

There was little doubt that tensions would rise between the incoming Avanorans and the Andamoorans, tensions that could well escalate beyond the state of unease with the Trogens. The Avanorans made no secret that they regarded the Andamoorans as heathens and apostates, the followers of a false prophet. As with the Trogens, only the harsh, disciplined command of the Avanoran lords and officers kept a general order.

Nonetheless, when the Andamoorans gathered to say their ritualized prayers at sunset that evening, they grouped together on the farthest side of the combined Trogen and Andamooran camp. Their anxiety having considerably risen, they strove to stay far away from any potential Avanoran derision or incitement.

At the very least, the Trogens left the Andamoorans alone to practice their own beliefs without undue harassment. Dragol had to concede that he respected the ardent zeal of the Andamooran volunteers. He did not believe in their strange deity that supposedly had spoken through some northern prophet, yet he had little doubt that if such a deity existed, that divinity would be quite pleased with such dedicated and loyal followers.

During the onset of the lavender-hued firmament’s settling, the gloaming period bridging dusk to night, Dragol and Goras found themselves among the few Trogens that were currently being allowed a short respite from the extensive duties of sky patrols. The two leaders had already incurred a very strenuous day, and even their robust, well-trained muscles ached for some needed relief.

They sat together under the shelter of Dragol’s tent, secured safely away from the last, direct rays of the dying sun. Their skin was finally cooling off, their upper bodies now finally freed from the hot, encompassing leather cuirasses that had been worn for so many hours on end.

The two commanders had undergone a vigorous litany of activities since the Avanoran army had arrived at the borders of the Saxan province of Wessachia. Their sky steeds were in little better shape, even though they had each made a change to fresh mounts towards the end of the day.

“It will not be long before battle is enjoined,” Goras remarked, watching Dragol slowly massage his tired left shoulder with his broad right hand.

“Not long? At this time, another day is too long,” Dragol grumbled, his short muzzle pulled back into an annoyed sneer. “I am tired of floating around in the sky. Skirmishing with overmatched quarry that we stumble across, or being bled by hidden adversaries that we are not allowed to pursue. We must fight a true battle soon. I hunger to get revenge on those creatures that slew my warriors, and to measure myself on a true day of battle.”

“You are not wrong to feel such a way, Dragol. There is nothing for us here, but to watch over haughty Avanorans,” Goras replied through clenched teeth, reflecting his overall disappointment with their circumstances. The arrogance of the Avanorans only drove the resentments in the likes of Dragol and the others higher. “And there is little sign of the sky warriors of these Saxans. I would feel less angered were it otherwise. At least there would be a hope to look to.”

Dragol felt the sympathy that any Trogen would have for another who had long been denied honorable combat. The chance to measure themselves in courage, in strength, and in resolve was held back with each day that passed where there was no true battle.

The Trogens had heard much of the Saxan sky warriors, who flew upon a breed of Skiantha called Himmerosen. Yet they had not seen any significant sign of them in the region, with the exception of some distant elements that could just as well have been larger wildlife, or mirages created by wishful anticipation.

Dragol then replied in a voice that was nearly a growl of frustration. He clenched his great left hand into a balled fist, his arm muscles bulging. “It is not the way of a Trogen, the way that we are used here. The way that we are held back. But we will not wait much longer. I promise you! And when we …”

“Dragol! Look!” Goras said, sharply interrupting Dragol, as his eyes immediately riveted skyward. A couple of gigantic forms crossed over their tent, far above the two Trogens, blanketing the camp in immense, sprawling shadows.

Looking up into the dimming sky, Dragol was awestruck as he watched the two tremendous shapes that were passing through the sky above them. The bulky, winged behemoths were far from an ordinary sight, even compared to some of the incredible denizens of Dragol’s own homeland.

If the Trogens had not been told otherwise, the abrupt sight high above would have been great cause for alarm. As it was, Tragan had already informed Dragol and the other Trogen chieftains that the Unifier had prepared new weapons, which had never been used in battle within the world before.

They had been told to look for, and soon expect, the arrival of sky creatures of unimaginable size. Even with the foreknowledge, the imminent, startling sight of the creatures was breathtaking to behold.

“The Darroks! Before our eyes!” Dragol exclaimed with excitement. He rose up swiftly from where he had been sitting and moved out from the tent, turning around and looking to the south and west.

Goras came to stand at Dragol’s right side, in rapt attention as they watched the juggernauts flying onward.

Despite their enormous presence, the huge beasts were very capable fliers. They had a narrow body in relation to their seemingly measureless wingspan. The Darroks glided quite gracefully through the air, buoyed periodically by relaxed beats of their expansive wings.

The darkening, velvety sky of the twilight directly over them masked much of the detail of their features, but there was enough visibility to see that the creatures might once have been close kin to dragons.

Dragol studied their lengthy profile, from their great heads, elongated necks, down to their whip-like, tapering tails. Their sinewy, slender legs ended in horrific claws, all tucked up snugly against their undersides during flight.

The silhouettes of some type of carriage could be seen affixed from the middle of their backs to the base of their necks.

The sun was falling below the skyline, and the distant horizon was cast with a rosy hue. It created a majestic ambience that served as a lustrous backdrop for Dragol’s first sights of the mysterious, unusual creatures.

“Those two are heading towards the main invasion force,” Goras commented in a low voice.

Indeed, the two giant Darroks were heading away from the borders of Saxany, flying resolutely towards the southwest. The Plains of Athelney were directly in their skyward path.

A number of other Trogens and Andamoorans had emerged in the interim, many standing around Dragol and Goras with open looks of sheer wonder and astonishment, as they marveled at the passage of the two mammoth, flying beasts.

Over in the Avanoran camp, a similar, awed standstill had come over its inhabitants, from the greatest knight to the lowest of the paid foot soldiers. An extraordinary, hushed silence had fallen over both camps. All tensions and rivalries had evaporated for the moment, as the collective attention and thoughts of both encampments were consumed with the shared, awe-inspiring experience.

Though flying at an altitude rarely reached by a Harrak, the forms of the Darroks remained large to the eye. The ultimate size of the creatures was almost impossible for Dragol to even comprehend. He could not believe that something so vast could take flight.

“But only two?” questioned Goras, his eyes remaining upon the Darrok forms gradually diminishing on the horizon.

Dragol shook his head slowly. “I do not think that those two are all the Darroks that were sent by the Unifier.”

They continued watching silently, until the Darroks were just distant specks on the farthest edge of their vision, at the juncture where earth met sky. The bloated, reddish orb of the descending sun’s top crest was still visible, outlining the dark, winged shapes.

As Dragol turned, he caught Goras’ eyes, and saw the wonderment and fear mixed in the other’s look. “Even two, Goras. Think of two of those, serving the Trogen army against the Northern Elves,” he mused aloud.

“A great hope, but for another time,” Goras said with a more firm voice, turning to go back to their tent.

Dragol stared off a few more moments in the wake of the Darroks, finally turning away as the sun disappeared completely. Somewhat reluctantly, he oriented his thoughts towards the tasks at hand.

There was still much to be done. Night patrols and sentry posts had to be set, equipment prepared and evaluated for the next day, and orders to be reviewed. He was determined to occupy his mind with immediate labors. He knew that he could not think of the struggle against the Northern Elves, at least until the battles in Saxany were won.

His only relief came from the knowledge that the fight for Saxany had almost arrived, and that the long-awaited, great fight for his own kind lay just beyond that horizon.

Aethelstan

Aethelstan and the companions with him had traveled on for several leagues underneath the obscuring coverage of the thick woodlands around them. The going had been much slower than they would have liked, but at least they had been somewhat protected from open exposure to the Harrak patrols that occasionally passed through the skies overhead.

They had made considerable use of the few trails that crossed through the western hills bordering Count Einhard’s land, Annenheim. As they were so rarely used, it took some skill to follow the pathways where the forest growth had begun to reclaim them.

There was an overriding tension gripping the contingent, with the constant danger of enemy patrols both in the air and upon the ground. On more than one occasion, Aethelstan had feared that they had been discovered.

The farther and deeper that they pushed onward, the more all of them felt an increasingly sinking feeling within their guts. The stillness in the trees, air, and on the ground gave off a foreboding sense that all was not well within the western woodlands lying between the Saxan provinces of Wessachia and Annenheim. There was nary a sound from animal, bird, or insect, as if the denizens of the forest had chosen to vacate the woodlands or go into deep hiding.

The nervousness within the Saxans welled up to the point that several of them flinched at the slightest rustling of wind-blown leaves, or snap of a twig. Even the sound of their own horses clopping on the trail unnerved them. The sense of edginess among the Saxans was such that even Aethelstan began to feel its hindering weight.

The horses themselves seemed to feel the brooding atmosphere around them. They kept silent as they traveled in the thin column being led by Aethelstan.

Aethelstan turned towards Cenferth, one of his most loyal and dedicated household warriors, who was riding close behind the great thane. Aethelstan addressed the warrior in a whisper. “What do you make of this oppressive silence, Cenferth? It is too heavy for my liking.”

The other shook his head, a wary look in his eye. “I do not know, Aethelstan. It could be the quieting of the wilderness lands … as they feel the manifesting of the Unifier’s power … or it may be the presence of the army that you suspect.”

“I think that it is the army of our enemies, Cenferth. The patrols have not crossed overhead so many times without reason,” Aethelstan stated.

The layout of the landscape, and the signs of any large Saxan force, would have been well-scouted by then. The sky patrols, Aethelstan feared, were keeping an eye over their own forces more than foraging about for Saxan patrols.

“Though I wish that it were otherwise, I believe that you are correct,” Cenferth replied.

“I only wish we were able to field our own scouts in the sky,” Aethelstan stated regretfully.

“We will have to be the scouts, even here on the ground,” Cenferth replied gravely. “There are no others, as you have said.”

“And find what we may. If we can find definite signs of the enemy army,” Aethelstan said.

The deep unease continued for about another hour, during the span of which not one word was uttered amongst the Saxans. As if on a collective conscience, they maneuvered their steeds ever deeper into the vulnerable region, riding towards the edge of the forest itself.

If the Unifier’s army were truly near, there would be the signs of scouts or encampments soon enough.

It was not much longer beyond that point when Aethelstan’s instincts screamed out to him, and implored him urgently to stop. Snapping up his right hand, the abrupt gesture was repeated quickly among the group as Aethelstan brought his force to a halt among the shadows of the looming trees.

He believed his inner sense. Dismounting carefully, he guided his steed over to a maple tree and tethered it. The others likewise dismounted with care, each stroking their steeds’ muzzles and speaking soothingly to the edgy horses. They silently awaited Aethelstan’s next instructions.

The stallions shuffled about nervously, ears twitching and nostrils flaring. Aethelstan noticed the breeze coming upon them from the west. His riders were downwind of whatever was agitating the steeds.

The horses continued to whinny and snort, and Aethelstan knew that they could not risk going any farther. Horses were not foolish, and their horses were clearly apprehensive about something troubling that they sensed in the vicinity. A large party could not risk proceeding far beyond their position either. From that point onward, stealth and a limiting of risks was of the greatest priority.

As even the best of the others in the column could only equal Aethelstan and Cenferth in their woodland skills, he deemed it both sensible and honorable that he and his most dedicated warrior should be the ones to explore for nearby signs of the enemy.

Aethelstan stepped without a sound to where the other Saxans were gathered, all of them looking to him expectantly.

“We cannot go farther. Cenferth and I will go forth from here, and be as light of presence and silent as we can,” Aethelstan informed them in a low voice. “Remain here with the steeds, and keep them as quiet as you can. If you are attacked, do not be foolish and forget why we have come here. Seek to get to our forces to warn them. They will need to know what we face. The fate of our army on the Plains of Athelney, and our home villages and burhs, depend on it.”

Aethelstan let his stare weigh heavy on the others, to reinforce the solemnity of his words. He knew that he was asking a very difficult thing of the warriors, who would not hesitate to fight to the last around their beloved leader. Even so, notions of a warrior’s personal honor had to be subordinate to the greater task for which they had all come.

Aethelstan lifted his leather shield strap over his head, grabbing the long, triangular shield and leaning it up against the same tree that his horse was tethered to. Removing his mail shirt to a cascade of light, metallic clinks, he rolled it up slowly, and placed it near the back of his horse’s saddle. He also removed his iron helm, affixing it temporarily by the chinstrap off of the pommel.

The countless hours, days, and years that he had spent traveling and hunting amid the woodlands would now govern the best protection that he could have.

With the others standing guard around the horses, Aethelstan and Cenferth stepped lightly off into the forest. Having hunted often together in the forests of Wessachia, Ealdorman Morcar’s lands, they were very adept at moving without giving off sound. They knew each other’s tendencies well, and could easily convey plans or wishes with a simple glance or gesture.

With nimble footing and close attention to their surroundings, they made excellent progress, until the sporadic sounds of some foliage rustling and the crunching of dry leaves and twigs on the ground reached their ears.

Upon the very first hint of the intrusive sounds that broke the stillness of the forest, Aethelstan was already moving to the side of a particularly large elm tree, and lowering himself down into a crouch. Looking to the side, he saw that Cenferth had done likewise, and they held themselves as still as the high trees around them. Aethelstan gestured just ahead of their position, a little to the left, as Cenferth nodded his agreement with the thane’s assessment.

The noises indicated that something was just about to break into view, just a short distance away from them. The two men watched carefully, their eyes fixed upon the trees and ground before them. Aethelstan drew upon his hunting skills, attenuating himself to a fixed, forward stare that took in the full range of his peripheral vision.

The first signs of movement riveted his focus fully upon the disturbance.

A few great black shapes padded across the ground, less than a hundred feet ahead of where he and Cenferth were hiding. The feline creatures moved effortlessly, bounding lithely over any fallen trees with nary a sound. With each burst of motion, they landed in perfect balance upon their wide paws.

The sounds of rustling leaves and scraping brush came from the movements of their handlers, who walked a short distance behind the massive cat-like beasts. They held onto long tethers, gripping them tightly in the elongated, slender fingers of their left hands. In their right hands, they grasped the hilts of long, tapering daggers, with no crossguards.

Aethelstan and Cenferth looked in wonder at the non-human handlers and the powerful creatures that they tended.

The heads of the bestial handlers were like that of some huge rat, with beady, dark eyes and long, tapering snouts. They had long tails, with arms and legs that were skinny in proportion to their bodies. Wherever their dark, waist-length tunics did not cover them, thick, coarse black fur could be seen.

The large cat-like beasts at the end of the tethers moved without any hindrance from their great body mass. With broad chests, stout legs, and massive heads carried high, the latter prominently displaying wicked-looking canines protruding several inches downward, the creatures exhibited a slight slope from their head to their hindquarters. Their stout bodies seemed to be made of solid muscle, as evidenced by the rippling, pulsing bulges just underneath their lustrous coats of dark fur.

There was a pattern to their movements. After a number of steps, the handlers would come to a sudden halt. Both the rat-men and the beasts would sniff at the air, and look all around them. Aethelstan uttered a silent prayer of thanks that they were downwind of the creatures, for he had little doubt that they would have easily picked up the scent of the two humans had it been otherwise.

Aethelstan and Cenferth dared not let even the sound of a breath escape them, as the terrifying creatures passed disconcertingly close by. Each moment seemed to take an eternity as they were condemned to endure a nerve-fraying state of mind.

The first of the cat-beasts showed no hesitation as they walked right in front of the tree that Aethelstan was hiding behind. As the creature passed, Aethelstan hoped desperately that there were no changes in the wind.

The extended canines descending from their upper jaws were veritable sabers, and the glint off of their powerful, horrifically sharp claws gave more than a hint as to what the monstrous cats were capable of.

Just one of the formidable creatures would be more than a match for both Aethelstan and Cenferth, even with coats of mail on their bodies and shields in hand. No less than four of the beasts passed by slowly, within only a few scant feet of the Saxans. Remaining rigid and frozen, they anxiously suffered their unwanted vigil as the creatures moved beyond them.

The light that reached the forest floor through the small breaks in the tree canopy overhead flickered rapidly, as patches of darkness flitted briskly across the forest floor. Aethelstan looked up slowly, bringing his gaze about just in time to see the signs of a large Harrak-mounted patrol as it passed overhead.

The sky patrol’s presence did not worry him. Underneath the trees, pressed close to the trunks, there was little chance of Aethelstan and Cenferth being seen from above.

It still did not lessen the heightened tension that both of them were feeling, with impending threats of discovery both in the air and upon the ground. Aethelstan chanced a glance toward Cenferth, and could see the fear shining in the other’s eyes. Discovery at the moment meant assured death.

There was little that the two Saxans could do, other than to endure. Aethelstan took long, slow breaths to offset the constriction he felt, as he watched the rat-men guide the cat-like beasts onward, until they finally disappeared among the trees towards the south. Cenferth and Aethelstan sustained their composure and posture, despite the visual absence of their enemies. The thane was simply glad that the rapid beating of their hearts could not disrupt the deathly silence all around them.

At the same time, Aethelstan knew that they had made their own confirmation. The foreign creatures moving about the woods in a patrol-like formation, shadowed by the sky patrol above, left no doubts in Aethelstan’s mind regarding Saxany’s enemy.

After several more nerve-wracking minutes, Aethelstan finally gave Cenferth the signal to begin their retreat. He knew that they would need to move very cautiously away from their hiding spots, while keeping their attention focused on the areas where the enemy creatures had been sighted.

They had to be ready to fall to the ground at the slightest hint of motion or rustling of the underbrush. The scouts and cat-beasts could double back, without giving any significant warning, and could well catch the two Saxans stranded out in the open.

Aethelstan nodded towards Cenferth, and both men slowly began to rise up from their low crouches. Suddenly, Aethelstan froze, as he heard a light disturbance off to their right.

Something else was heading their way.

His hopes plunged.

Cenferth’s eyes were looking off to the left, where the prior group of enemy scouts had just gone. It was fortunate, as he was looking right in the direction of Aethelstan when the thane abruptly held up his hand, and signaled forcefully towards Cenferth to get back down and take cover immediately.

The two men hastily sank back into low crouches, their forms once again masked by the large tree trunks.

Aethelstan’s ears had not tricked him. Barely a moment later, two more of the rat-men accompanied by cat-beasts emerged into view from the right. If he had not heard the faint sounds of their movements, he and Cenferth would have been caught in the open, as the oncoming pairs walked with even softer steps than had the preceding group of scouts.

The thane’s keen instincts had proven true once again. Cenferth had lowered himself just in time, and had adjusted his position wisely, as the path being taken by the scouts brought them a little closer to the tree where he was hiding. Had he not been in his full crouch, the approaching creatures would have easily noticed him.

No commotion or outcry arose, much to their relief, and they waited silently until the two enemy scouts were past them. The scouts did not pause, continuing steadily forward in the same general path that their brethren had taken. The two men lingered for several long and agonizing moments, with nothing but the lonely stillness of the forest surrounding them.

Aethelstan finally decided to risk movement once again. Signaling to Cenferth, he slowly backed away from the tree, while keeping his eyes looking both left and right. His ears strained to hear the slightest crack of a twig, or singular crunch of a leaf, his muscles poised to react swiftly.

With methodical, cautious steps, they painstakingly moved away from their hiding spots. After covering a short distance, they turned fully, and continued more rapidly on their way back to the rest of their group. They kept their silence assiduously, and were extremely deliberate in their footing until they were far away from where they had encountered the rat-men and the cat-beasts.

Though desiring to break out into a loping run, Aethelstan maintained the orderly pace. It required tremendous discipline, as eager as he was to gain distance and bring the valuable word of the enemy back. Reason prevailed, as there was no way of telling how many scouts there were in the vicinity, or even if the few that they had sighted might be part of a larger war-band.

After what seemed like an eon had passed, they reached the location where their horses were tethered. Their arrival surprised their own men, who whirled about with swords in hand.

“It is us, we have returned,” Aethelstan quickly said, as they came into sight. The anxiety-ridden faces of the men around them relaxed, relief flooding their countenances, as Aethelstan turned back to Cenferth.

“It is as we feared,” he continued, finally able to speak aloud to his companion. He raised his voice enough so that he could relate the essence of their discovery to the others who were gathering around, pressing in close. “There can be little doubt that the enemy army will come right through this area. They are scouting and patrolling our borders. That is the act of a significant force. Some may say that it was foolhardy to take the risk that we did, yet I am glad that we did so. But I do not know what kind of creatures those were, back there. Our enemy is full of surprises indeed.”

Looks of puzzlement arose upon the others’ faces.

“Rat-men, handling great predatory cats, of a like that I have never before seen,” Aethelstan added gravely, as several eyes widened. “It is not just a human army that we will face. We must make sure that all are alerted, and prepared for this reality.”

Cenferth replied heavily, “Then we must return with haste.”

“Yes, we must,” Aethelstan agreed, though one last favor remained left for him to accomplish. It was a point of honor that he intended to fulfill by himself, now that their aims had been achieved. “But I must warn the Woodsman. This army will march right through these lands, and will find him … and I consider him a true friend. I cannot leave a friend so exposed.”

“My lord, forgive me, but should we not return to our forces?” Cenferth asked, plaintively. “We need you there.”

“Go and take most of the others with you, but I must now keep my word to a good man,” Aethelstan instructed Cenferth, while moving over to his horse. He began to unroll the mail shirt, donning it before retrieving his helm and shield. Putting on his helm, and slinging the shield across his back again, he remounted his steed. “Just remember this. If I did not keep my word, I would not be any kind of man that you would find need of.”

Cenferth’s morose expression showed that he did not fully agree with Aethelstan, but the warrior knew better than to question or argue with the man that he had pledged himself to.

Aethelstan gripped the reins of Wind Runner. It felt reassuring to feel the saddle under him once again, even though he knew that the massive cats could easily run down a horse in the narrow confines of the thick woodlands.

All of his men volunteered to accompany him, but he was not about to take a large escort. He designated a very select few of his household guard to accompany him, bidding the others to go with Cenferth back to the Saxan camp.

The men assigned to go with Cenferth, having heard Aethelstan’s tidings, accepted their charge well enough and did not voice objection. The sooner that they returned, the sooner that their fellow Saxans could brace themselves, and prepare for what was to come.

Aethelstan gently patted the neck of the gray stallion, and said consolingly, “Wind Runner, it is not yet time for us to go back. We must keep a promise.”

As if understanding him, the horse started to trot back along the trail at the first nudge from Aethelstan. Its own unease spurred it forward more quickly than Aethelstan wanted, causing him to rein the steed in a little.

Aethelstan’s selected warriors fell in behind him on their mounts, as they settled into a steady pace. The light of day had already reached its apex, and the sun was now beginning its long and slow descent through the later afternoon towards night. Soon the growing shadows would begin to permeate the woods, lowering the already dim ambience under the trees even further.

Seeing what he had seen, Aethelstan wanted to be back in the camp when night settled in full. He doubted that any of his men thought any differently, even if they had not beheld the sharp, long daggers coming down from the upper jaws of the massive cats. The raw, frightening image was emblazoned upon his mind, and he did not think that it would fade anytime soon.

Aethelstan and his men rode in disciplined silence among the trees, proceeding towards the demesne of the reclusive woodsman Gunther. Left to his thoughts, the thane simply hoped that Cenferth and the others made it safely back to the main encampment. Both of their groups had important warnings that needed to be conveyed.

Janus

Janus sat idly, long after the mysterious youth had disappeared. The peaceful scene around him had continued unabated, with no sight or sound of anyone else.

Were it not for the great shadow that snapped his consciousness to a full, wary alertness, he might well have opted to fall asleep underneath the sparkling night sky. The vast form that crossed overhead was like a complete blotting out of the bright moonlight, thrusting Janus into the icy chill of a deep darkness that settled over his heart. He shivered as he stared up into the sky, the sense of serenity that he had been enjoying now shattered.

It looked as if a solid black cloud was spread wide above him, but then some light crept around the edges of the great shape. Outlined in moonlight, the form looked to be a winged body, with an elongated tail. It moved too swiftly in the light breeze of the night, and Janus knew without a doubt that what he gazed upon was no cloud.

He scrambled to his feet as his heart jumped and began to thunder within his chest. Every inch of his being screamed out a dire alarm. A second massive form followed the first, bearing the same ovular outline of a head, a lengthy body with unimaginably broad wings, and an extended tail trailing behind. His body constricting rapidly with fear, Janus recognized the presence above of two mammoth creatures, even as several frantic cries arose from the village warriors serving on the night’s watch.

He knew instinctively, to his great chagrin, that the giant forms boded tremendous horrors for the Onan village.

Janus started to run back towards the longhouse where his friends slept, crying out urgently himself. His voice added to the few desperate shouts of warning that were loosed just before the ground reverberated with a number of prominent thumps. The sickening sounds of wood smashing and splintering rose up all around him. Jerking his head skyward, he caught the dismaying sight of a host of large objects raining down from the sky.

Commanding his legs to move as fast as he possibly could, he raced desperately for the hide entry-flap of the longhouse where his companions were resting. He ran faster than he had ever run before in his life, bursting through the flap and nearly falling to the ground as he entered the longhouse.

Somehow keeping his feet under him, he burst through the storage vestibule and the next opening, streaking down the center of the chambers while shouting out hysterically. Many villagers leaped up from where they were sleeping, their eyes wide with fear, as they all felt the thunderous impact of the torrential assault underway outside.

“We are being attacked! Something is attacking the village, from the air!” Janus exclaimed, rousing his friends and the other occupants of the longhouse. “We need to get out of here, now! Everyone! Get away from the village! There’s no time! Get out, get away!”

“What is it?” Erika shouted to him as he entered their own quarters, her face reflecting the alarm and confusion gripping her.

The crashing sounds of destruction outside the longhouse were now mingled with cries of terror and pain, as the furious assault mounted with greater intensity.

“Huge creatures, in the sky. Get out, get out!” Janus yelled quickly, roughly grabbing at Antonio and Derek, who were closest to him, and shoving them along. “Get out now!”

As if to emphasize his frantic urgings, a large rock tore through the roof of their own chamber. Its impact cast a mess of shards and splinters all about where it smashed the sleeping platform where Logan had just been lying mere seconds before.

Another great stone crashed through the chamber next to them, and Janus looked in horror as it struck a village woman, killing her instantly in front of her husband and children. Yet another ripped through the roof and landed just beyond the entrance to the next chamber, throwing up a mass of dirt and debris.

“We can’t stay here!” Erika cried, pulling forcefully at Logan, who had frozen in indecision. “Come on! Out everyone!”

Following Erika and Janus, the group hurriedly made their way through the chambers to exit the longhouse. They had to hurdle over some debris, and Antonio tripped on a fallen boulder.

Janus doubled back as he heard Antonio cry out, gripping his hand and yanking him back to his feet in an adrenalized surge of effort, born from desperation. He nearly dragged Antonio through the last chambers as they made their way towards the exit of the stricken longhouse.

The other longhouse occupants had been alerted by Janus’ passage and the surging commotion. Foreigners and villagers alike shoved and jostled frantically to get to the outside.

A chaotic scene met their eyes as they ran out into the open ground. It was as if the most malevolent and enormous of hailstorms had been unleashed upon the village. Large boulders continued to rain down upon longhouses, crushing the edifices, as well as striking and killing many of the terrified, wide-eyed villagers running about. Some small fires had broken out where falling stones had strewn burning wood and sparks among the longhouse structures. Only the absence of stronger winds prevented the fires from quickly escalating into larger infernos.

Janus and the others did not hesitate for a moment, as they bolted for the main entryway to the village.

“Darroks!” Ayenwatha shouted out from nearby. He yelled to any that would hear him. “Go to the river! Go to the river!”

Heeding Ayenwatha’s call, Janus shouted out to his own group and any villagers nearby, “To the river! To the river!”

He saw Ayenwatha racing down amid rows of longhouses, accompanied by several Onan warriors. They were out of sight in just a few seconds.

Janus and the others did not stop to consider why Ayenwatha would race in towards the very center of the bombardment. Janus and his companions hurried across the open ground towards the front gateway in the outer palisade.

Rocks fell to their right, left, in front and in back of them. More cries filled the air, but fortune remained with the outsiders as none were stricken, though Antonio and Janus both came within just a couple paces of being pulverized by one large boulder. They finally won their way unscathed past the open gate of the village and started down the long hill slope.

In his panic, Kent lost his footing, tumbling down the slope. Derek caught up to him, and helped his friend up quickly. The others barely kept to their feet in their own frenzied haste, but all made it safely to the base of the large hill.

Janus, now trailing the others, took long, leaping strides as he covered the last part of the slope. The seven continued forward through the darkness, heading amongst the trees. Enough light filtered down from the clear night sky over them that they did not stumble about blindly, and were able to keep moving forward in a relatively orderly manner.

Though fading, the dismaying sounds of fear and wailing, mixed with the crackling and splintering of wood, followed them as they strove for the river’s edge. Above and behind them, a hellish glow now lit the summit of the hill from the fires burning within the doomed village.

From the base of the hill and on through the surrounding trees towards the edge of the river, there were no rocks or other debris falling from the sky. The stillness among the trees was a jarringly stark contrast to the unbridled assault being levied upon the village.

Out of immediate danger, calmer thought processes gradually returned to Janus. The group had slowed their pace to assess their situation, as they finally reached the water’s edge.

A number of terrified villagers were now gathering near to them, increasingly becoming a larger assemblage as other survivors streamed in from the beleaguered village.

Janus’ heart sank precipitously. The sight around him was anguishing. Mothers and fathers carried small, crying children. Those that had reached the water were frantically looking about for any sign of their family members and friends. Those finding the ones that they sought rushed to embrace their loved ones.

Some children looked around in grief and sheer bewilderment, with no sign of the parents that had urged them to run to safety. Older villagers collapsed to the ground, the surge of energy brought by desperation now betraying the frailty of their elderly bodies.

Janus and many of the others looked skyward nervously, searching for signs of the horrific beasts that had terrorized the village. The creatures were not hard to see, as they circled slowly around in the sky far above the hill, honing in again on the village at its summit.

The immense shapes filled the darkened sky, obscuring large expanses of stars behind them. They were monstrosities evoked from the abyss of nightmares, though what they were Janus could not say. Their wingspan was extraordinary, and it was hard to believe that such titans could remain airborne.

As he observed them, Janus’ eyes were gradually drawn towards a most surprising sight, one that was silhouetted against the relatively clear skies.

His eyes straining to make out further details, he could see a flurry of movement occurring along the top of the beasts’ long backs, as well as what looked to be some type of artificial structures astride the creatures. He surmised quickly that those concerted movements were the source of the torrent of destruction descending from the flying monsters.

With a sickening sense of absolute helplessness, he could see the shadowy shapes of numerous rocks plummeting down from the creatures towards the hapless village on the hill. As his eyes took in the deadly storm, his ears were filled with the sobs and cries of the adults and children huddled in small groups all around him.

He was only a guest, with little more in his possession than the clothes on his back. The villagers, on the other hand, were watching their homes, families, and friends being destroyed right before their eyes.

As the initial shock of it began to wear off, the terrible scene transpiring was overwhelming. Against the backdrop of the aggrieved litany, his eyes watered up with tears fueled by sorrow and pure, righteous anger.

He sank down to his knees, as his gaze scanned the debilitating sights of the shattered families gathered near to him. He witnessed expressions of tremendous sadness that he knew would stay ingrained forever in his memory.

He stared off as if to gaze beyond the tragic visions, seeking the numbness of emptiness. Yet he could not escape the sights, for there were far too many.

Janus felt a hollow sensation opening deep within him, as a strongly-built tribal warrior stumbled towards them out of the trees. He was straining with an elderly woman carried across his back and an unconscious child in his arms.

The elderly woman was alert, and had her thin arms and legs wrapped around the warrior as he bore her weight.

Janus then noticed the awkward angle of the child’s lower right leg, bent at a place where no natural joint existed. That the child was not awake was a great mercy. The warrior’s face held both exhaustion and a grim resolve, yet another vivid memory that would remain etched in Janus’ mind.

The renewed shock of the moment gradually wore off, though a feeling of grief subsequently magnified within him. The sight of the elderly woman reminded Janus of the old people in the village who could not have run out as he and his friends had.

He buried his face in his hands, his chest heaving with sobs, as he felt a wave of shame and guilt at having abandoned the village so hastily. He had acted without thinking, rushing out when he should have stayed and tried to help as the warrior had.

“But what could I have done?” he stammered in a low voice, aloud to himself, as an abyss of sadness tore at him. “I should have stayed and helped. I should have stayed …”

He then felt a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “You saved me.”

Looking up through the haze of his tear-fogged eyes, he saw Logan standing next to him, with a somber expression on his face. The sight of Logan made him think back to the sleeping platform, and where he had seen Logan get off of it at Janus’ frantic urging. He remembered the jagged mass of rock that had smashed the platform to shards moments later, exploding down through the bark-paneled roof. His return back into the longhouse had roused Logan just in time. If Janus had arrived even seconds later, Logan would have been killed.

“You came back in, when you could have run out, and you saved me, you saved the others, and you raised an alarm,” Logan said firmly. “There are many out here that may well have died if you had not run back.”

“But still, I should have stayed,” Janus replied, feeling horribly about the elderly villagers who had likely been trapped by nothing more than the weaknesses of their physical bodies.

“Who could possibly think up there?” Logan asked him, looking off towards the fire-encompassed hilltop. “The whole place was coming down. Smashed to bits, set on fire, people running everywhere. There was nothing that we really could do, but react.”

Logan sighed and shook his head. “I wish I was not so helpless, and could do something more. I wish I could, but we do not have magic abilities, Janus. We’re just human … and until I find a way to something more, I can’t expect to have more power than what we have in these limited bodies. …”

Logan deliberately turned his eyes skyward, but not before Janus caught a darker mood spreading across the other’s countenance. Janus quietly stared at Logan, wondering what kinds of thoughts were running through his mind.

Even from the side, Janus could see Logan’s eyes visibly narrowing, in sudden reflex to something he saw. Janus was drawn to follow Logan’s line of sight on up into the sky. Near to the huge flying beasts in the sky, a number of smaller forms could be seen darting amid the behemoth airborne masses.

It was in that moment that Janus suddenly came to realize where Ayenwatha had been headed to, when he had run off into the center of the maelstrom with the other warriors.

Ayenwatha

There was nothing else that the flying hulks could be other than Darroks. Gallean traders had spoken of tremendous monstrosities of the air, flying in the skies around Avalos to the west, which were being trained to serve some purpose of the Unifier’s. They had spoken with awe of the sheer vastness of the creatures. Some found them to be a simulacrum of dragons.

The incredible size being unquestionable, most were not altogether certain about the latter claim, as dragons had not been seen in the western lands for so many years. Yet Ayenwatha could not disagree that the beasts before him certainly evoked references to the winged legends.

Ayenwatha guided Arax upward resolutely, in the lead of the nearly thirty defenders that were streaking up from the village towards the bulky forms of the Darroks.

The warriors raced directly at the front of the Darroks, the beasts’ forms growing ever larger, with each passing second. Their hearts raced as they sped unhesitatingly towards a desperate battle.

There was no real hope of bringing the creatures down outright, which the warriors with Ayenwatha quickly discovered on their first approach. The thick, leathery hides of the Darroks could easily turn simple arrows aside, and their vulnerable spots, such as the eyes, were provided with armored protection.

The creatures were also not alone, nor were they following their own mind. A great carriage of timber planks and poles, forming a platform surface and railed sides, was lashed to each of the creatures, extending from the base of their necks down to the middle of their backs.

Crews of about twenty figures moved about on the surface of the carriages. Most were tending to the ongoing assault, while a couple of them were occupied in guiding the winged juggernauts via a special harnessing utilizing exceptionally long reins.

The enemy figures labored relentlessly upon the beasts’ backs, jettisoning a cascade of larger rocks off of the sides of the beasts, sending them hurling down towards the village far below. As the defenders neared the gigantic forms, Ayenwatha was caught by a sudden surprise.

He recognized that the many enemy fighters serving as the attendant crews were not human. Only a few of the village warriors would have recognized them as Trogens, and even then only from tales and stories. Ayenwatha was one of the few that had heard of the dog-men from the east, huge brutes that were implacable, ferocious warriors.

Muscled and dexterous, the Trogens cried out boldly to each other. Many shouted defiantly at the approaching defenders, as an alarm was raised amongst them. A kind of respite was gained for the village, as the Trogens turned their attentions towards preparing to meet the onrushing defenders.

Ayenwatha discovered that the great Darroks were able to breathe short jets of fire. The ability was unveiled to all of the defending tribal warriors, when one of them strayed too close towards the immediate front of one of the beasts, and barely avoided getting engulfed in the tight column of flame that blasted from the creature’s huge mouth.

The creature then swung its head about, trying to find the evasive warrior. The Trogens controlling the beast worked its reins aggressively, working to keep the suddenly-distracted creature moving steadily onward.

Ayenwatha recognized the great danger presented by the fire breath of the winged giants, and swiftly warned his warriors to keep clear of the beasts’ heads.

It was not a very hard challenge, as the slow moving beasts could not readily adapt to the sudden changes in direction that the substantially smaller Bregas were able to undertake. A loud outcry then rang out among the Trogens on the backs of the Darroks, a fierce roar erupting to meet the impact of the daring assault.

To Ayenwatha’s immense relief, there were no sky steeds, such as Harraks, escorting the Darroks. Yet their enemies were not devoid of a considerable means of defense.

Several Trogens hastily retrieved great bows, each more than the height of a man. They notched arrows fletched with long, black feathers, laboring diligently to train their sights upon the Onan warriors. At the moment, there were few archers fully ready to engage in the fray, as many of the Trogens among the Darroks were still hustling to snatch up weapons. Ayenwatha’s warriors would be allowed a small measure of time to try and disrupt or cripple the assaults on their village.

Ayenwatha espied one enemy archer, who had an arrow at the ready and was marking its mental target upon one of the tribal warriors. The Trogen was assiduously focusing its eyes upon the unaware warrior, who was about to fly alongside the Darrok just above the carriage level.

Quickly balancing himself, Ayenwatha set an arrow to his own bow and instantly let the arrow fly towards the Trogen archer.

The shot was loosed just in the right moment. Had he waited even a fraction of a moment later, it would have been too late.

As it was, the bestial archer suddenly jerked about as Ayenwatha’s deadly missile found its target. It twisted in the act of its own shot, the arrow going wildly astray of its intended target. Its bow fell from its hands, as it crumpled down to the surface of the carriage.

More shouts of alarm emerged from the felled Trogen’s nearby companions. All of the Trogens were readying their weapons, as they endeavored to repel the warriors with Ayenwatha.

The other Onan warriors then let their first volley of arrows streak towards the companions of the slain Trogen.

Several of the tribal warriors’ arrows burrowed into the flesh of their intended marks. In just one pass over the Trogens, a great majority of the enemy warriors on the first Darrok were casualties. They were either wounded too badly to continue fighting, or had been slain outright by deadly accurate shafts.

Only a few survived unharmed. The Onan warriors had effectively taken one beast out of the fight. Ayenwatha could see the one remaining Trogen with the reins working feverishly to steer the creature away. The winged behemoth now represented little threat to any village within the landscape below.

The Onan warriors’ rapid flight carried them far over and beyond the Darrok. Ayenwatha abruptly gripped the reins of his steed, and brought it sharply upwards. The loose formation of Bregas followed him, emulating his movements as he curled about in a wide arc for an attack upon the next Darrok.

The Darrok that they left behind seemed to recognize the damage done to the crew on its back, and loosed a spiteful, blistering breath of fire after them. The creature was far too slow, and its outburst well too short to be of any danger to Ayenwatha’s warriors.

Steadying their steeds in Ayenwatha’s wake, the tribal formation leveled itself out as it began to gain speed. At Ayenwatha’s lead, the warriors swiftly notched more arrows for a pass at one of the remaining Darroks. The one that Ayenwatha had selected lumbered through the air just a few hundred feet away, a full crew upon its back.

The Trogen warriors on the Darrok were much more prepared for the defenders’ approach. There was deadly exchange of arrow fire as the two groups closed within killing range of each other. Ayenwatha and the tribal warriors let loose their barrage, almost at the exact time that the Trogens let fly with their own.

The arrows of the tribal warriors raked the exposed surface of the timber carriage. Once again, the arrows of the warriors of the Five Realms found several targets, but the enemy missiles claimed their own number of victims among the sky riders and their steeds.

With wretched cries and shrieks, a few stricken Bregas plummeted down towards the ground, hundreds of feet below, carrying their ill-fated riders towards certain, gruesome deaths.

A couple of other warriors toppled over, slouching lifeless in the saddles or falling off. Riderless Bregas, left to their own discretion, flew away from the conflict, without any direction or authority to guide them.

Ayenwatha’s warriors had still reduced the number of fighters on the second Darrok by about a third, but had suffered their first blows, losing several of their own warriors. They had also suffered another casualty in that the advantage of surprise no longer belonged to them.

The main formation of Bregas with Ayenwatha continued on past the Darrok, and started to turn again in a wide arc so that they could circle back and make another pass. Ayenwatha knew that the Trogens would be braced again for them, but they had to carry the battle relentlessly to the enemy while the villagers on the ground struggled to escape the vicinity of the imperiled village.

As with the first Darrok that they had attacked, Ayenwatha noticed that no stones were falling. The Trogen crew was strictly readying for defense against the tribal warriors.

While he was relieved that they had severely impeded the assault, he also knew what it meant for his small band of warriors. There was little mistaking the situation facing them. With less than thirty warriors remaining, they would not be able to sustain many more passes. A battle of attrition would not be in their favor.

He kept his mind calm, as he thought rapidly of other courses of action. His mind raced through various possibilities as the formation completed its curve and came about to begin another sweep towards the Darrok.

He eyed the harnessing required to secure the high-sided, wooden platform for the occupants on the back of the Darroks. The Trogens were not tethered by any manner of ties or restraint to the platform itself.

If those manning the Darroks were cast overboard from their airborne vessel, there would be no possible rescue for them. Hundreds of feet of empty air and solid ground would seal their fates well enough.

“Stay clear. Shoot arrows at the beast ahead,” Ayenwatha cried out to the nearest of his warriors, gesturing forcefully as he spoke. “Keep your steeds to this side. Sky Arrow … follow me! Keep close!”

The warrior to his right nodded in understanding, and gripped the reins of his steed tightly as he watched for Ayenwatha to take the lead. Ayenwatha then guided Arax off sharply, heading downward to the left. With great skill, he guided the steed tightly as they looped back up towards the Darrok, coming about to fly directly underneath the immense creature.

His years of experience and relationship with Arax enabled the difficult maneuver with a smooth grace of form. Sky Arrow followed skillfully enough, keeping his steed close to the war sachem, as he also made it safely to the underbelly of the Darrok.

The Trogens scrambled frantically to fire more arrows at them as they executed the difficult maneuver. Ayenwatha heard the whizzing sound of an arrow as it passed within just a foot of his right ear. He kept his mind steeled, even as his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

Once underneath the creature, Ayenwatha and Sky Arrow were effectively sheltered from attack by the Trogen archers. Silently uttering a brief prayer of thanks to the One Spirit for the incredibly good fortune, Ayenwatha guided Arax down to the middle of the creature’s body. He brought Arax to match the speed of the large beast over them, as Ayenwatha looked upward to study the harnessing. His eyes followed the course of the great leather straps and cords that cross-crossed the creature’s body, soon identifying the more crucial concentrations and bindings.

“Sky Arrow, use your axe. Hack the ropes! The ones coming together at the center!” Ayenwatha yelled, making a chopping motion as he pointed out the network of strapping above.

He guided his Brega up closer, while withdrawing his short-hafted war axe from where it was tucked in his belt. Keeping his steed level was difficult enough, as the Darrok bobbed in the movements of its own flight, but he knew that there was a chance to get within close enough range to make his attempt.

It was not difficult for Arax to match the speed of the Darrok. The Brega was able to coast in a smooth glide for several moments, before beginning to lose speed and needing to spur itself forward again. As the stretches of gliding provided the most steadiness, Ayenwatha patiently awaited the beginning of one such span in order to attempt his idea. The Brega went through a couple more cycles, passing close to the desired target as Ayenwatha carefully gauged his range and aim.

After one such cycle, Arax flapped its wings strongly, and then evened out its flight into a glide that carried it right along the central underbelly of the Darrok. Ayenwatha saw his opportunity, as he came within striking range and was conveyed right along what he believed to be a critical juncture in the harness system of the Darrok.

Leaning back, he hacked powerfully at the thick cords and intertwined ropes that passed through one large, iron ring. Several more vigorous, steady blows began the arduous and dangerous task.

Sky Arrow, understanding Ayenwatha’s intent, set to work on another concentration of cording set a short distance behind.

The axes quickly cleaved through the taut cords and ropes. The work was disrupted somewhat as the bulk of the Darrok rocked up and down in flight, a few times coming precariously close to smacking into the Bregas and their riders.

Despite several pauses to regain position, and to duck some near impacts with the Darroks themselves, the two warriors were able to keep close and levy a number of solid, successful strikes upon the harness system.

The two warriors took great caution not to strike the Darrok directly, for the beast could easily send Arax and Sky Arrow’s steed spinning out of control with an intentional drop in altitude. Ayenwatha was not certain that the beast was incapable of maneuvering its massive, clawed legs to scrape at its underbelly. He could only hope that the creatures were not trained for sudden drops.

Progress continued, but at an uncomfortably slow pace. Ayenwatha nudged Arax whenever they started to fall back a little, and subtly reined the steed in when they were in danger of flying past his target area. Over time, the effort built into a somewhat steady rhythm.

It was a painstaking process for both Sky Arrow and for Ayenwatha, but they continued forward resolutely, maintaining their full focus. At long last, most of the thick, tight straps around the ring that Ayenwatha worked upon had been severed at their underside crossroads. A few robust strikes later, the last few snapped apart with a jolt, as their great tension was suddenly released.

The Darrok must have felt the effect, for the creature suddenly reached one of its deadly, enormous claws back towards Ayenwatha. The huge appendage moved straight towards Ayenwatha and the Brega, as if it was swatting at a mere insect.

In consistency with the creature’s lumbering movement, the mammoth claw approached slowly enough for Ayenwatha to react. Arax needed little prodding, having noticed the threatening movement as well, and the two of them banked downward in a near freefall.

The danger of the Darrok’s claw swipe was quickly past, but the distance that they had covered in the freefall had brought them within sight of the maddened Trogens on the Darrok’s back. The Trogens had also felt the jolt of the harness straps being cut. They knew their tremendous vulnerability, and fear clearly dwelled amongst them. Ayenwatha could hear it within their frantic shouts to each other, watching them clutch at the side rails as they tried to look over the sides.

When Ayenwatha was on the underside of the Darrok, they were impotent. Now that he was in plain view, they moved with alacrity.

A barrage of arrows was loosed towards Ayenwatha and the Brega, most going awry amid the Trogens’ hurried, frenzied rush to fire. A searing pain erupted suddenly in the back of his shoulder as one arrow lodged itself into muscle and struck bone.

Arax roared and jerked suddenly. Ayenwatha’s heart leaped in that perilous moment, as his life wholly depended on his steed’s ability to maintain flight. He had no way of telling where the arrow had struck his steed, and prayed desperately that it was not a fatal hit. He looked around wildly, before finally espying the arrow shaft sticking out of Arax’s rear haunch.

Though unsteady, the creature was well-trained and had a natural instinct for self-preservation. It regained control, securing a steady pattern of flight despite the fiery pain that undoubtedly raced through it.

The Trogens above were distracted from their attentions on him, as another outcry rose amongst them. Many fell over as another massive jolt occurred along the platform. Ayenwatha saw that Sky Arrow had succeeded at his end, and was just about to dive away from the Darrok.

Sky Arrow did not have the good fortune of Ayenwatha.

Ayenwatha cried out in helpless frustration as the huge claw of the Darrok swiped and batted Sky Arrow and his steed with full impact, casting them far away from the beast. Their shattered bodies tumbled lifelessly downward.

Ayenwatha cried out in anger, as he watched his friend’s body plummet towards the land below. Bitterly, with tears welling in his eyes, he guided Arax towards safety. The Brega was injured and unfit for any more fighting that night, no matter what Ayenwatha might have been willing to do.

He threw a quick glance over his right shoulder, wincing at the biting pain that throbbed within his left. The Darrok was unmistakably altering its course of flight. The Trogens were well aware of their own peril, and likely they were heading away to find some emergency expanse of ground where the Trogens could attend to the repair of the harnessing.

Each moment carried the Trogens within a delicate, precarious position. A little imbalance and the Trogens’ fate would be a long plunge through the sky. It was clear that they were not interested in such a foolhardy risk, and had chosen to fight another day.

Ayenwatha closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and uttering two silent prayers. From the wellspring of his gleaming eyes, a couple of tears streaked down his cheeks. He was not ashamed, as the tears were born of loyalty and friendship.

The first prayer was one of thanksgiving for the plan having worked to disrupt the Darrok’s attack. The other was for Sky Arrow and his spirit, that he would find his way to the realm of He Who Holds the Sky, the great One Spirit, a place of radiant skies and bounteous hunting.

He had led Sky Arrow forth, bringing the young warrior with him in the counterattack on the Darroks. In the thick of the battle, he had selected the Onan warrior for the dangerous strike at the Darrok’s harnessing. Never was there a greater weight of burden than when his leadership had directly resulted in the death of another. Ayenwatha hoped that Sky Arrow was even now being embraced by their ancestors, and that he was being welcomed into bountiful forests whose illumination required no sun.

“Till the day we hunt again,” Ayenwatha whispered, glancing towards the stars above.

Wiping his eyes, he looked around for the other Darroks, to see what had befallen the defenders and the attackers. There were three others moving away in a tight formation, following the Darrok that had suffered the heavy damage to its carriage harness.

Ayenwatha made the best appraisal that he could. The Trogens had taken many losses, had witnessed the vulnerabilities exploited by Ayenwatha and Sky Arrow, and were clearly not in a position to sustain the attack. Ayenwatha felt an instant sense of relief despite his personal sadness, knowing that the assault upon the village was over for the time being.

With a throbbing pain in his shoulder, and now feeling the warm blood trickling down his back, he guided his wounded sky steed back towards the village. It was distressing to take in the sight of all the wreckage as he flew in, but there were no good places to land in the immediate areas surrounding the village’s hill. Numbly, he eyed the scattered flames that still licked at the night, guiding Arax towards a patch of open ground. Shortly after Arax had alighted upon the ground, several other surviving warriors set down within the remains of the village, the fighting now over.

On foot, Ayenwatha guided Arax and the others through the village. He ignored the arrow protruding from his body, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, not wanting to look towards the broken bodies and shattered remains of the buildings riddling the village grounds. The fires still burning in different sections of the village were not a threat. They were already beginning to die down, having expended their fury as timber was turned to ash.

Once out of the front gate, they carefully started down the slope. Arax exhibited a slight limp, and the hardy sky steed whined with the biting pain that it felt from its wound, aggravated further while walking on the ground and supporting its body weight with its legs. Ayenwatha paused a couple of times and spoke soothingly to the beleaguered creature, the arrow shaft still embedded in its blood-matted haunches.

Nearing the base of the hill, a number of villagers came out from the trees and hastened towards the warriors. Their eyes were laden with sorrow and fear, the burden growing even heavier as they noticed the absence of many warriors who had not returned.

Villagers trained in healing arts, including those of the Healing Societies, were immediately summoned to help injured warriors and steeds alike. They guided those who had suffered significant wounds to open spaces amid the trees. Ayenwatha and Arax were helped over to a space in between the prominent roots of an ancient oak tree.

In moments, the arrows in Ayenwatha and Arax were taken out. Ayenwatha was dizzy with the intense flash of pain that he incurred, but he kept his body under control. His steed thrashed madly about, knocking over a couple of villagers that were laboring to restrain the beast. At a few soothing words from Ayenwatha, spoken through gritted teeth, Arax calmed down enough to be led away to where the rest of the sky steeds were being tended. The wounds were then dressed in a makeshift manner, as there was little access to either material or sacred healing herbs.

Litters were hastily fashioned for a couple of the warriors that were very badly injured. The two warriors would likely require the full rituals of the masked Healers, those of the Healing Societies who wore the sacred masks carved from living trees. Ayenwatha and the others were soon relieved to learn that most of the sacred masks in the village had been salvaged, and that most of the members of the Healing Society had survived.

Ayenwatha lay to one side, his wounded shoulder kept off of the ground. He quietly endured the moans of the injured warriors close by, wishing that he could not hear the sounds that brought him more pain than his physical wound.

It had been all that he could bear to suffer the horrid shriek emitted by Arax, when the beloved steed’s arrow had been pulled out. His ears now conveyed without mercy the incessant sounds of crying and lament pouring from his fellow villagers. His heart grew heavy, along with a deadening fatigue that slowly enveloped his body. It took all of his concentration just to confer with the warriors that began to visit him, or to bring him new information.

The word of the extent of the attack and subsequent battle in the sky slowly reached his ears, as he finally rolled over to lie upon his stomach.

Of over thirty courageous riders that had gone into the skies to the defense of the village, only eleven had returned. A couple of riderless Bregas had found their own way back, though the rest of the missing steeds were presumed dead or strayed. The Darroks had indeed been diverted and stymied, but it had been a very costly defense.

The village had taken incredible damage, with nearly every structure absorbing an irreparable amount of destruction. Longhouses had been smashed into so many bits of wood, far past any hope of repair.

The number of killed and wounded villagers, most stemming from the initial onslaught of the unexpected attack, was extensive. Not a single survivor had escaped the devastation without having lost a member of their family, a friend, or a child.

As the various dire tidings continued to stream in, Ayenwatha tried to make some sense of the dreary situation. His understanding of it brought to bear a sobering notion.

With the first shadow of the Darroks falling upon the village, and the first large stone to crash into the village’s midst, the people of the Five Realms found themselves in a full state of war with the Unifier. Ayenwatha could not deny that his first thoughts were melancholy, if not devoid of hope. He could not see how the tribes could defend their realm against a power that commanded such hellishly fearsome weapons of war.

The war would likely become one of attrition, a struggle that would be impossible to sustain for the tribes, which had never been great in numbers. The losses suffered in just one melee had been devastating to the village’s sky steeds and warriors.

Their losses could not be replaced, while the Unifier could draw upon the warriors of many rulers and lands.

It was inconceivable to think of rebuilding, as the villagers could not begin to think of any reconstruction when winged titans could manifest at any moment to reduce a village to splinters in such an incredibly short span of time. Nonetheless, the fight would have to be fought, come whatever may. It would be an existential battle, waged against annihilation or capitulation.

Ayenwatha clenched his teeth as a spasm of pain wracked him, prompting him to shift his body a little.

The handful of sky warriors had indeed been successful in driving off the attackers. They had also been able to limit the casualties to far below what they would have been had the enemy been allowed free reign in the skies above the village. Once the village had been destroyed, the enemy could well have searched out the villagers as they fled and tried to regroup away from the hill, levying even more carnage and death.

While it was true that a great number of the enemy Trogens had been slain, all of the huge flying beasts that they had arrived on would be returning to their camps alive. The Darroks would soon be outfitted with mended carriages, fresh supplies, and rested warriors to ride them. It was also likely that new precautions would be taken, bearing in mind the approach that Ayenwatha and Sky Arrow had used to render the one Darrok’s harnessing unstable.

What was certain was that the next time a force of Darroks came there would be little to nothing that could stop them from raining a torrent of destruction down upon all of the forest villages.

Ayenwatha had also not forgotten that just beyond the western borders of the Five Realms’ lands, large columns of enemy warriors had been arriving and assembling. His own war parties had shadowed such formations, and he knew that they were not just a demonstration of force meant to intimidate. The Unifier’s emissaries had been unequivocal when the Grand Council had rejected the demand to submit to Avanor’s insatiable ruler. The Five Realms were declared hostile enemies of the Unifier, and all those in His burgeoning alliance.

Ayenwatha was under no illusions. The forces massing on the western borders of the tribal lands would soon be invading the territory of the Five Realms, joining their strength to the attacks from the skies.

Ayenwatha knew that he would have to approach the village elders about the only option available to them: the evacuation of all of the villages, and a retreat into the eastern region of their lands.

The villages were very vulnerable to the horrifying new method unveiled by the Unifier. Situated on the cleared summits of hills, they were exposed. The unanticipated attack at night was coldly brilliant, as the enemy knew that the village population would be gathered almost entirely within the palisades. Fires within the village perimeter had probably been used as beacons for the enemy to hone in on the village from the air. There was little question that as long as the enemy had the use of the titanic Darroks, the villages were little more than death traps.

Though there was no denying the realities, it was a tremendously difficult burden to embrace. The land, for a member of one of the tribes, was an intimate part of who they were, interwoven with their very identity. It was what they had always known, an enduring gift of the One Spirit that had always bestowed the means of life to their people for so many generations. The notion of being uprooted in their own lands was unthinkable to any villager, much less a great war sachem.

Circumstances had become mercilessly cruel, and that which would have otherwise been thought unacceptable was now the only viable course of action. There was no other choice, Ayenwatha ruefully acknowledged. If they were to stay in their villages, they would be easy targets for an enemy that would inevitably gain mastery of undefended skies, while simultaneously assaulting the tribes with their many thousands upon the ground.

Ayenwatha had never felt more despondent in his life.

“Ayenwatha,” interrupted a low, steady voice.

Ayenwatha slowly looked up, to see the familiar and quite welcome form of Deganawida standing near to him. Ayenwatha gingerly rotated back to brace himself on his strong side, the effort tedious with the weariness that continued to sap his energy.

The village headman and Grand Council sachem looked a little older to Ayenwatha’s eyes, his luminous, dark eyes gazing down upon the injured war sachem. Behind the taut expression on the Deganawida’s face, Ayenwatha knew that the man was sharing his agony, undoubtedly to an even greater degree.

Despite the physical and mental pains that he was struggling with, a spark of joy nonetheless had leaped up within him at the recognition that Deganawida had survived the terrible raid. A soothing breeze of relief washed all over him, allowing Ayenwatha a brief respite from the withering heat of the inner and outer agonies that he was suffering.

“You fought well … so very well, against all odds and hope,” Deganawida continued after a moment, the unwavering tone of his voice hinting at the substantial inner strength present in the venerable sachem. “You fought so very bravely, for us all. Others have told me how you drove the great sky beasts off, and how you and Sky Arrow disabled one in the face of incredible risk.”

No small amount of pride effused the words of the great sachem, though Ayenwatha was not in a condition to take any joy from accolades. “It was what we had to do. But they will return, and we lost two of every three that went up to face them,” Ayenwatha replied, in a low, heavy voice, not wishing anyone else to hear the biting pessimism that was rife within him.

“And you must already know that none of the other villages are safe … and that no tribe is safe … and that no man, woman, or child can remain within a village site. You also know of the army that masses to enter our lands, which they certainly will, and very soon indeed,” Deganawida replied firmly, the look in his eye conveying that he understood Ayenwatha fully.

Ayenwatha nodded, not entirely surprised to hear such candid words from the old sachem. Deganawida had never been one to waste time trying to sweeten a bitter truth. Ayenwatha knew right then that the old sachem would agree with him about what had to be done.

“It must be done … the villages must be abandoned,” Deganawida stated, confirming Ayenwatha’s thoughts, as if he had spoken them aloud. Deganawida then spoke in a lowered, compassionate tone, like that of a father giving the wisdom of a hard lesson learned to a suffering son. “Remember … though it is a very cruel time, and though your heart may become all too heavy in the trial to come … it is the people that are the land, and the land that is in the people. That is the wisdom you must hold fast to within your mind, and in your heart. … The people are the land. They are the tribes. They are the Five Realms. Do not forget these truths. As long as you know this, you and yours will never be lost, even if we have to keeping moving as we seek new refuges within our own lands.”

The old sachem held Ayenwatha’s gaze, seeming to drive the sentiments deep into his being by the sheer force of his will. Deganawida’s face had softened into an affectionate smile, his eyes echoing the sadness that Ayenwatha was being tormented by.

The sounds of many hurried footsteps preceded the arrival of a couple of young tribal warriors, both of whom had a look of resolve ingrained on their faces.

They held some thin leather thongs, strung with shells, each thong itself tied to a rough, rectangular piece of wood. Coming to a full stop, they looked expectantly towards Deganawida, who eyed the combinations of shell-strung thongs with attached wood sticks with a look that brooked a hint of relief.

“We were able to enter your quarters from the side, great sachem. The entrances to your longhouse have been completely destroyed … but much of your chamber was left intact,” one of the warriors announced. “We found these with little trouble.”

“A small bit of good fortune in this darkness. Two notches on each … and make haste,” Deganawida then instructed them. “And tell the sachems of each village to move all their people out of their villages and into the forest immediately, without delay. That must be done now. Tell them everything of what has happened here. Spare no detail, no matter how terrible. They must understand what they face, and your account of it may mean all the difference in gaining their cooperation. They must gain the wisdom to empty their villages, before they make their way here two days from now.”

Ayenwatha knew that Deganawida’s words were no understatement. Unlike rulers in Gallea, Deganawida could not command others outright. He could only urge consensus, and employ persuasion to reach it.

The warriors nodded dutifully, before turning and breaking into a run. Their forms were quickly swallowed up in the darkness, leaving the other two alone again.

“Change has been forced upon us, and we cannot go back,” Ayenwatha reflected ruefully.

“Change to the world, perhaps … but not within us, Ayenwatha,” Deganawida corrected him, giving a small smile of encouragement to the vigorous warrior. “It is why we will bend no knee to this Unifier. It is why we will fight.”

“How can we hope to fight? I lost many of my best warriors this very night,” Ayenwatha lamented, concentrating hard not to let his voice choke with the emotion abruptly welling up in him.

His thoughts drifted back to Sky Arrow, and the others that he had seen falling to terrible deaths. As if accenting his feelings, his wounded shoulder continued to throb with a dull pain.

“Our people will find a way. The sons of the World Mother will continue their war, as they have through all time. What may come of their fight is not for us to say, though we know that the Dark Brother has his hand in this time of peril. Remember, the fire dragon helped the World Mother. Perhaps we will find our own fire dragon, in days to come,” Deganawida said.

The words brought Ayenwatha back to the many times he had heard the stories told regarding their treasured heritage when he was just a boy. They had impressed many things upon his young heart, not the least of which was that the path of good, honorable men and women often led through periods of great turmoil.

“Then we must not lose heart. There will be no fire dragon if we do,” he replied after a few moments, seeing the sliver of light that Deganawida was focused upon.

“That is what I am saying to you, Ayenwatha,” Deganawida confirmed gently.

The old man lowered himself down to one knee. For having lived so many years, the old man still exhibited supple movements. Deganawida raised his right hand, which Ayenwatha now noticed was balled into a tight fist. Slowly, he opened his fingers to reveal a dark patch of ash lying within his palm.

“You must keep your strength. Your mind. And your body,” Deganawida said softly, as he blew the ashes in his palm.

The small cloud of ash covered Ayenwatha’s face, and he reflexively flinched and shut his eyes.

It felt as if a blast of hot, searing wind coursed over his skin, as the ashes settled along his body. As he opened his eyes once again, he felt the tiredness seeping swiftly out of him. The throbbing pain in his shoulder rapidly ebbed, until the last dull aches were completely gone.

For a long moment Ayenwatha was silent, in a state of bewilderment at the sudden shifts in his body. Gingerly, and methodically, he moved his left arm, and felt no sign of discomfort from the shoulder area. It was as if he had never been injured. His whole body felt as if he was fully rested, abounding with energy. Ayenwatha drew himself up into a cross-legged, sitting position, and looked up in wonder at Deganawida.

“Did you think that you knew everything about me?” the old sachem said, smiling, in a brief moment of mirth. “When you are younger, you feel as if you have all answers. When older, you realize how few answers you do have. Maybe I still have a few surprises left, even for the likes of you, my bold young friend.”

Ayenwatha smiled warmly back at Deganawida, his spirits buoyed up by the radiant presence of the seemingly tireless old man.

The elder women of the village had selected Deganawida to be the village’s headman many years ago, at an age most uncommon for assuming the highest position of influence in the village.

Ayenwatha had known Deganawida as the village’s leader ever since he was a young boy. It was said that Deganawida had come to the village not long before Ayenwatha was born, having been discovered by a war party. He had been wandering about the woodlands in a disheveled state, without memory of where he had come from, or what had happened to him. The war party had brought Deganawida back to be adopted by the village.

Whatever his origins were, and whatever trauma he had been through, his wisdom was soon demonstrated to be far beyond his years. His kindness and generosity shined forth in the years that followed, and all within the village were bettered by his presence among them.

It was almost a foregone conclusion when he was appointed as the headman of the village. The wise clan matrons, who alone held the authority to remove a headman, had never once called his guidance of their village into question.

Wise in council, and unsurpassed in compassion, Deganawida’s reputation had spread quickly among the villages and tribes. Soon, a great number of village headmen and other sachems found themselves deferring to his sagacity, and he had risen to become the most influential and respected man among the Onan.

When the Onan sachem holding the most prominent seat on the Grand Council had gone from the world to the abode of the One Spirit and the heaven lands, the clan matrons, after having conducted all condolence rites, had appointed Deganawida to the exalted position.

His judicious nature and keen insight stood forth at the unified council that took in all five tribes. Known well among the Onan, he soon became beloved by the other tribal sachems. The ascension brought greater honor to Ayenwatha’s tribe. A generous spirit prevailed, as there was no envy or jealousy among the other sachems for the tremendous regard given to Deganawida.

Some even saw a great symbolic meaning in his unexpected discovery and eventual presence among the Onan, leading to his specific placement on the first seat of the Grand Council.

The Onan tribe occupied the central position among the five tribes, and the oral traditions spoke of how the Keepers of the Sacred Fire had been at the heart of the original formation of the Five Realms. To have a remarkably sagacious leader such as Deganawida emerge to assume the place established by the very individual that had brought the Great Law, and formed the first Grand Council, was seen by many as a clear sign of favor by the One Spirit. A strong sense of harmony and common purpose had permeated the five tribes with the guidance of Deganawida and other likeminded sachems.

Ayenwatha’s own ascent to become a war sachem of his village occurred within that shining period, something that never left his expressions of gratitude when honoring the One Spirit. Deganawida’s guidance and tutelage had contributed so very much to the person that Ayenwatha now was, the man that the village had embraced and trusted to be their most respected war sachem.

With Deganawida’s thoughtful guidance, trade had increased with Gallea, Midragard, and others. Even warfare diminished almost to a stop, as hostile tribes were driven back well beyond the northern region of the Five Realms’ forestlands. Other tribes that had formerly held enmity towards the Five Realms were embraced in a new spirit of friendship. Witches immersed in dark arts, and similarly evil shamans, had been uprooted.

The elimination of the poisons and threats to their people had allowed the five tribes to focus on cultivating the bounty of their life and culture. The harvests had gone well, hunting was more bountiful than ever, and fur pelts were taken in abundance. Prosperity had never been better among the woodland peoples, and for once they felt as if they had at least a little control over their destinies. A true golden age had emerged for their people, one that had been bought with much sacrifice, resolve, hard work, and wisdom.

Ayenwatha never would have thought that such a wondrous age could be brought to such a horrific end, in just one night. That very evening, everything had seemed to come crashing down, like the large, deadly stones that had ripped through their buildings and indiscriminately slain their people.

What had taken so long, and been so painstaking, to build, could crumble overnight, a sorrowful but undeniable lesson that Ayenwatha was only now learning.

It was then that he fully understood and appreciated what the elders meant when they spoke of life being so fragile and precious. Now, in the midst of the awful turn of events, Ayenwatha marveled at the great strength of demeanor exhibited in the old man before him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as he absorbed the bit of wisdom to his mind, promising himself to remember it always. He took a deep breath, and looked back up to Deganawida.

“I never said I have claimed to know everything,” Ayenwatha replied, allowing himself a small smile. “I am not surprised that there is more to know.”

“You have always been wise beyond your years,” Deganawida said fondly. “You will need every bit of that wisdom in the coming days. For now, we need to get as much as we can out of the village, and see that we find a good place for our people to establish an encampment.”

Ayenwatha rose up to his feet, feeling limber and strong. “Then I will get started now,” he replied resolutely.

He took a step by Deganawida, affectionately patting the great sachem upon his upper arm.

Aethelstan

The darkness of night had already lain across the land for several hours. The scant moonlight beneath the trees was scattered about by the foliage intertwined above the heads of the small group of companions astride their horses.

They had proceeded as swiftly as they could, their minds fixated on the recent revelations confirming the invaders’ imminent presence. Those developments occupied all of their thoughts, as it threatened everything that the Saxans held valuable.

Aethelstan and his few companions, in their haste to warn the woodsman, had nearly stumbled into the Jaghun-warded demesnes before they had announced themselves.

Had they blindly entered the demesnes, they would have risked death. Moving like fleeting shadows, the Jaghuns could be on top of the riders before they even were aware of their presence. In a burst of power, their hurtling forms could easily topple the riders, and bring their tremendous jaws to bear upon flesh and bone.

Aethelstan recognized the features in the terrain that Gunther had been so careful to point out to him just in time. Instinctively, he gripped the horn that hung at his side, but then loosened the grip, as he remembered the admonishment from Gunther earlier.

The admonishment had not been entirely necessary. Aethelstan knew that it would not be wise to use a horn signal. It would attract the attention of any enemy within hearing range, and put them in a state of full alertness. Aethelstan was not about to endanger the woodsman, especially when he had come to warn him.

Yet there was another way to signal, one not so obvious to enemy ears. Aethelstan recollected it quickly enough. He reined Wind Runner to a complete halt, and held up his right hand to his mouth. Hoping that he could still deliver the technique accurately, Aethelstan made a distinctive whistle-call, mimicking a bird cry. The melodious call was from a type of bird that lived in a foreign land, a creature that Aethelstan had never seen or heard himself.

Its distinctive cry could not be mistaken for any of the birds that dwelled within the forests of Saxany. Aethelstan sat back in the saddle and waited in the wake of the call, listening carefully. There was no immediate answer, and only the swishing of wind through leaves interrupted the encompassing silence.

After a moment, Aethelstan repeated the sounds again, feeling a little more confident in his delivery. The call raced forth through the sentinel trees, sharply breaking the stillness once again.

The great thane commanded the Saxan warrior to his right to hold his steed steady and calm, and try not to react to the creatures that Aethelstan knew would be arriving soon. In a low voice he turned to his other side, and repeated the message to the two that were on his left.

His heartbeat picked up, and he hoped that his signal had not erred due to lack of practice. He had little doubt that the strange creatures of Gunther would come, but his men’s survival depended on that heralding cry.

As the silence became brooding, a part of him worried that it had been foolish to even take the risk. Yet he had given his word to Gunther that he would try to warn him, if he could see a way to do so. He could not deny that he had such an opportunity, and he intended to see it through. Keeping one’s honor sometimes meant treading the ground of the foolhardy and reckless.

Aethelstan remained composed as best as he could, knowing full well that the woodsman’s lethal guardians would soon be drawing near. He gently repeated his instructions to his men again, if only to distract himself within the nerve-wracking moments.

The formidable creatures emerged shortly thereafter, their great, shadowy shapes seeming to take form right from the ebon shadows pooling amid the encompassing trees. Four of the intimidating beasts formed a perimeter around the horsemen, their intelligent eyes glinting in the moonlight as they regarded the riders closely.

The beasts’ presence, though expected, still rattled Aethelstan’s nerves. The horses nervously whinnied and stamped about, clearly aware of the dangerous nature of the four-legged creatures silently surrounding them.

“Do not worry, they will not strike,” Aethelstan softly stated.

His voice was loud enough for those around him to hear, as he sought to dispel the fears in his steed and the accompanying warriors. He gently stroked Wind Runner’s mane, uttering soothing words to calm the horse’s great agitation.

His attention was drawn towards the companion at his right side, an ardently loyal household warrior named Cerdic. The sight of the huge, predatory beasts had visibly unnerved the stout young man, who normally had a youthful bravado that bordered on recklessness.

Cerdic was a fierce-hearted warrior who had never shown fear of even the best of fighters in Wessachia, not backing down even when overmatched. Now, the pallor of his skin was ashen and there was a slight tremble to the man’s left hand, as he tightly gripped the reins of his steed.

His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, where it had quietly drifted in the interim. His knuckles were already whitening where they were visible underneath the tri-lobed pommel. The man’s eyes were fixated upon the beasts around them. Even as Aethelstan watched, the muscles of Cerdic’s hand flexed, tightening further around the hilt of the sword.

“The Woodsman has trained them quite well, I give you my word on that, Cerdic … do nothing to provoke the creatures, and you have nothing to fear,” Aethelstan told him.

While each passing, tense moment seemed to last an eternity, in truth the Saxans did not have to wait for long before a human figure finally emerged from the depths of the tree-cast shadows. The sight of the tall, broad-shouldered figure was an instant comfort to Aethelstan’s fraying nerves.

“Aethelstan, it is indeed fortunate that I have prepared my friends as well as I have,” the Woodsman remarked with a hint of humor to his voice, speaking in a casual manner. Though uttered in a decidedly more lighthearted and confident manner, the sentiments confirmed the Saxan thane’s assurances to his household warriors.

Gunther strode forward out of the darkness, his features becoming clearer in a swathe of moonlight pouring through a wider opening in the branches overhead.

The Jaghun nearest to the woodsman padded up from behind, and stood alongside of him, its eyes remaining honed upon the mounted warriors. Its tongue lolled about as it panted lightly, the array of shiny, sharp teeth within its broad jaws reflecting the moonlight.

“It is also good that you remember my instructions well, and that you have retained some skill in them,” Gunther stated approvingly. “You mimic the Emperor’s Songbird of Theonia more than adequately. Someday you should see and hear that magnificent little bird for yourself, and you will know that I speak truly. You are to be congratulated.”

Gunther looked about at the gathering of Jaghuns still surrounding the horsemen, and called out emphatically, “Friends!”

Immediately, the inhuman companions of Gunther relaxed their postures, two even going so far as to settle down upon the ground. Despite the loosened appearances, Aethelstan did not overlook the fact that they continued to keep a casual eye upon the Saxans, always remaining on some level of wariness on behalf their master and friend.

Gunther walked forward to stand before Aethelstan and his steed. The great stallion shifted about a little before settling down itself, not quite as assured as its own master with respect to the woodsman’s control over his beasts.

“What brings you here, at this later hour of the night?” His eyes darted among Aethelstan’s companions, before returning again to the Saxan thane. Even in the dimness, Aethelstan knew that the woodsman could not fail to see the signs of stress and fatigue chiseled into their faces. Gunther’s next words reflected that. “You look as if you have undertaken a hard ordeal. I would guess that you did not come here to bring me good tidings.”

Aethelstan nodded gravely, his face shrouded with a look of dire concern. “I regret that again I do not have good words to bring to you, but I desired to keep my promise to you. Even now, my warriors prepare for what is coming, but I have come to warn you. It may be the only warning that you will have. I soon may not be able to reach you, even if it was the only thing that I wished to do.

“An army of the Unifier’s is approaching through these woods, in great strength. Its passage will almost certainly bring them directly towards your own lands. … I see no other path that they might take … and I fear their intentions do not bode well for any that live within our lands.”

Gunther echoed Aethelstan’s look of concern, his expression darkening for several strained moments before a quite unexpected grin broke though. The response took Aethelstan by surprise, and the thane did not know what to make of it at first. Yet knowing the woodsman’s personality and disposition, Aethelstan came to recognize the sarcastic irony that was laced throughout Gunther’s expression.

“The Unifier’s army coming right through here, you say? Seems that I cannot keep to myself, no matter how hard I may try, or how far I run,” Gunther remarked, shaking his head ruefully.

“I have traveled through the world to find my own peace … and now they send an entire army to disturb it. … Nonetheless, they can get me only if they find me,” he then said with a wink upon his last words. His mouth then straightened, and his next words were spoken in full sincerity, “You have my true gratitude, Thane Aethelstan. I would not have thought ill of you, if you had chosen to remain with your men.

“It is not wise for you to risk yourself to warn me … though you chose to do so. The Saxans need your presence far more than one recluse in the woods. I only hope that I am someday able to justify such a risk, in a time and place that neither you nor I yet know about. You kept your word. It is the measure of a man, and I thank you for it. Such as this is what keeps me from surrender in this world.”

Aethelstan nodded, though taken somewhat aback at the outpouring of open sentiments from the usually fiery, and adamantly solitary, woodsman. “Indeed, you are welcome, Gunther. I would have it no other way. I wish with all my heart that I was coming here to simply share conversation, and perhaps a hunt with you. I hope that a day may come when we can do so without worry … if you would suffer a guest for more than a few hours.” He could not stifle a chuckle as he thought of the eremitic nature of the woodsman, and the momentous request that an extended visit would be.

“I should also like to try some of the mead from this area, from that village woman that you spoke of. I have no doubt that is one item that you trade for,” Aethelstan added, with another amiable chuckle. “For now, I must proceed onward, to begin to prepare the defenses against this imminent threat. I assure you that we will meet the enemy with force, though to what end I do not yet know.”

Gunther reached upward and clasped the other’s forearm firmly. “I would certainly interrupt my little hermitage for a few hours, nay for a few days, to share your company. May the All-Father keep you strong, Aethelstan.”

“What will be, will be, Woodsman. Though we can always choose to hold the path of honor. … That, at least, is given to our own power. May the All-Father in his mercy and grace give you strength, and protect you in the days to come,” Aethelstan replied, sharing the moment of mutual, sincere respect with the tall woodsman.

Though he knew little of the past of the mysterious denizen of the deep woods, Aethelstan knew in his heart that the woodsman was more than worth the risks that he had courted in having kept his word. Aethelstan’s warning might well help Gunther to survive for some greater purpose still yet to come. Father Wilfrid had always stated to Aethelstan that the All-Father’s ways were a mystery, and that the most unlikely of individuals were often called forth in dire times. Whether or not such a thing applied to Gunther, Aethelstan had no regrets that he had come.

Straightening up in his saddle, Aethelstan gestured to his companions, and nudged his horse to turn about. The horses continued to eye Gunther’s Jaghuns nervously, skittish in their mere presence, but the beasts made no move to impede their passage.

The one in their path immediately behind them stood up and loped quietly away, keeping a wide berth as it cleared the passage before the Saxans’ horses.

Gunther and the Jaghuns watched until Aethelstan was gone into the night, the soft clopping of the horses’ hooves finally fading out as they made their way back towards the Saxan encampment.

Aethelstan did not see the woodsman break out into a run, accompanied by his Jaghuns, as Gunther hurried in the direction of his dwelling.

Gunther

“Stay? With an army approaching here?” Ryan exclaimed in exasperation, shaken out of his drowsiness after listening to the first alarming words from Gunther upon the woodsman’s return.

No matter how intimidating or formidable Gunther might have appeared to them, Ryan had not hesitated in his blunt response. From what Gunther could tell in looking upon their faces, the youth had adequately expressed the sentiments of the entire group.

The other three had shuffled into the first floor room just behind Ryan, having also been roused abruptly from sleep. They had only recently gotten settled down to rest, probably with the hopes of finally getting a full night of undisturbed repose. Still half-asleep, they had trudged down the wooden stairs to the main room, gathering close around Gunther with inquisitive looks.

Those looks had swiftly become pensive, even a little fearful, as their heads cleared swiftly. It was evident that they perceived that something was very amiss. Gunther had then related to them the troubling news from Aethelstan. His mood was anything but pleasant as he conveyed the tidings.

So much was running through his head as he spoke. He was a formidable warrior in his own right. The recognition of that was not born of any hubris, but simply of honest assessment. His well-trained Jaghuns made him a capable entity within the woodlands, but definitely not for the likes of an entire army.

In the face of the looming threat, there was one option that seemed clear enough. It was the one choice that would allow him to remain close, without becoming embroiled in the futile affairs of humankind again. It was a spark of hope, even if the idea was rather unprecedented, and not altogether certain of success.

As that idea coalesced, he had announced that they were not leaving, drawing the incredulous response from Ryan. It was quickly followed.

“What kind of plan is that?” Lynn stammered, clearly sharing Ryan’s feelings. “They’ll just flush us out of this deathtrap, and put us all to death. Your creatures out there can’t stop an army. I know you can probably fight anyone out there … one on one … but I know you can’t fight an army off by yourself … not unless you are some kind of god we don’t know about. If you are, it would help if you would tell us.”

Gunther nodded, his face showing his increasing irritation at having been so abrasively interrupted by Ryan and challenged by Lynn. He worked to keep his voice controlled, having some sympathy for their exasperation. “I know that I cannot stop an army. I may be many things, but I am not unrealistic,” he stated slowly. “If you would let me finish, you would see that I am not planning to stay in this building. I am just planning to stay in these lands. We are far from being trapped. Have you forgotten the door so soon?”

He gestured sternly towards the large, wooden door at the rear of the room. All four pairs of eyes followed, and stared towards the iron-banded slab of wooden planks.

“It is time for you to find out about that door, and what lies beyond it, though I certainly had no idea that it would be under these circumstances,” Gunther added gruffly.

Erin asked tentatively. “You mean … the Unguhur?”

“Yes. An underground world, and one that even a small army would not wish to encounter,” Gunther retorted curtly, and confidently, the idea seeming better with every second. “The passage beyond that door goes into the depths of the world. You will be quite safe there.”

“Won’t the enemies just follow us down?” Lee asked.

“It would be a great and terrible mistake for them to do so,” Gunther stated firmly, with a dark expression spreading upon his face as he considered the consequences. “But we will go down there only if we truly must … when we truly must. Until then, we stay up here. Maybe there is a chance that this storm will pass us by, or dissipate before breaking upon this area.”

He quietly studied the faces of the four strangers.

They were taking the somber news with a dismayed silence. Their all-too-brief respite from the trials and travails of the new world was over, and Gunther could not fault them for feeling great frustration and resentments.

Gunther watched Lee look sadly over to his companions, from Ryan, to Erin, and then finally to Lynn. All of them had beaten, weary expressions, and the glances that they shared amongst each other confirmed his evaluation.

They were exhausted, and not just in a physical sense. There was little that Gunther could do for them except to steel them as much as possible for whatever might come.

“I am sorry … very sorry,” Gunther then said to them, in a low and gentle voice.

Logan

Walking slowly past the broken segments of palisade at the entrance, Logan, in a brooding silence, looked around at what remained of the village. He was not alone, as many had begun to return to The Place of Far Seeing to search through its ruins.

Others from villages in the near vicinity had begun to arrive. For the most part, they were fellow members of the Onan tribe, some of the men with blood ties that resided in other villages due to a marriage. Logan’s gut clenched as he saw the shocked, horrified looks sprout upon their faces, as the new arrivals set their eyes for the first time upon the interior of the village.

The morning’s light had arrived following the devastating events of the previous evening. Instead of bringing a sense of hope, it nakedly revealed the full extent of the monstrous horrors that had been mercifully hidden by the night’s shrouding darkness. The sources of countless miseries, shattered dreams, and heavy burdens were brought into the unyielding light of that pitiless dawn. The destruction was spread everywhere that anyone could possibly look.

The crushed, collapsed shambles of former longhouses now littered the village interior. Gaping holes had been ripped in the sides of short segments that were still erect, though much had been consumed by the sporadic fires that had been loosed by the sprawling violence.

Numerous bodies lay amid the wreckage, still awaiting removal. The rubble from the boulders that had been dropped down upon them in the night was strewn everywhere, from large, jagged chunks to smaller fragments, whose sharp edges made Logan careful about where he stepped.

The presence of the rocks caused Logan to reflexively wince nearly every time that he saw one of the badly misshapen corpses upon the ground. He knew full well the brutality with which the contorted, broken villagers had met their ends.

A deeply forlorn and sorrowful assemblage of sights surrounded him. His eyes hardened in anger and regret as he saw some of the village women cradling the crushed bodies of their children or husbands, shaking with sobs and piercing the air with their sporadic wails.

Some children were crying in agony amid the ruins of the village, several newly created orphans just realizing that their parents would never again be there to comfort them. An infant wailed from somewhere off to his left, drawing Logan’s attention. He saw that it was just now being pulled out from the lifeless arms of the mother who had used her own body to shield her baby, saving its life.

Young men were openly weeping over the lifeless, still bodies that once held the spirits of their life-mates. Logan tore his eyes away from the delirium of grief within one such young man’s face.

Near the shards and splinters of timber that once formed an outer entrance to a small longhouse, a little girl was sobbing with her face buried into the blood-matted fur of a dead dog.

The scenes were overpowering, rapidly draining Logan with each ensuing moment until he was absolutely devoid of feeling. A cold, empty numbness filled him, the depths of which seemed to be without limit, save for the volcanic anger welling up from deep within him. It brought a fierce storm in its wake, as a whirl of emotions surged back to the forefront of his mind.

Before many more minutes had passed, he had to sit down, hanging his head and forcibly averting his eyes from the unrelenting scenes of suffering taking place all about him. His thoughts, fueled by competing emotions of sorrow and rage, whirled about within the tempest of his mind, as if contesting for dominance.

He struggled to grasp anything by which he could begin to feel a shred of purpose or sense. None of the calamity suffered by the doomed village was deserved in any fashion. If anyone had tried to comment that misfortune befalls the just and unjust alike, somehow implying that this carnage was all just a part of some obscene order of life, he knew that he would have reacted violently, smashing his fist right into the face of the speaker with no compunction.

Any order that doled out such terrors to the innocent could be consigned to the fires of hell for all that he cared. The suffering around him was all too vividly real. No matter what sort of eternity lay in wait for those who had died, even if there was one to begin with, there was no justification for the horrid loss and pain.

He thought sardonically about the One Spirit that the villages had so lovingly and loyally spoken of, and wondered how their God could have possibly refused to intervene in something such as this tragedy.

Logan could accept an imperfect world. Mistakes, fallibility, and obstacles were necessary components for the true growth of a person. Even mortality, in its own way, could teach a lesson about the intrinsic value of life. They were things that he could accept, even if sometimes grudgingly or resentfully.

It was the extreme pain and devastating tragedies that he could not reconcile himself with. The more that he reflected on the hideous circumstances of the moment, the more that the totality of it all became a swirling mass of burning confusion in his mind.

For a brief second, Logan wished that he was the One Spirit that these villagers worshiped, just so that he could do some things differently. He knew in the core of his heart that he would have done something different in response, regardless. It was merely an acknowledgement of the true way that he felt.

He shook his head and let a bitter, rueful chuckle escape as he thought of what he would have done. Such was the hapless futility of wishing, without the power to follow it up with. Logan swore to himself that he would never have allowed the same things to happen to powerless, mortal people, knowingly putting them upon great danger’s cruel pathway. No child would lose its mother, nor young lady her dearest love, nor husband his cherished wife, if Logan would have been able to have any say in the matter.

In that moment, he came to the conviction that he truly could have done much better by the villagers than their One Spirit had, if he held even a fraction of a god’s power. The acrimonious feeling was so strong that if the One Spirit had suddenly manifested physically before him, he would have testified to that certitude with an unwavering intensity.

The same feelings, though they had welled up rather involuntarily in him at first, also made him feel somewhat guilty. His dispassionate intellect could recognize his sheer audacity and presumptiveness in the matter, for a Creator would undeniably hold supreme rights over the creation.

Whatever the case might truly be, Logan knew that all creation did inherently have an element of helplessness in it from the beginning, in that it was eminently subject to its Maker, the prime force that had brought life about. Even if one could not accept a sentient Maker, life was still subject to the primal processes. Yet despite it all, Logan knew that he could not bring himself to lie to himself, or gloss over the genuine feelings that he carried within. In the end, after all of the tumult of his frustrated wishes and rages, he simply felt powerless.

Nothing could be worse to a conscious being made to exist in such a maleficent world. He would have gladly embraced becoming powerful, if but for a short time. At least then he could demonstrate how things should be.

He could not control the things of life, but nor could he hide anything from himself. The feeling was almost like being caught in the undertow of a powerful current, one that he did not possess the strength to break free from.

Logan wished with all of his will that he could somehow, someday, elude the suffocating force of that current before he drowned.

Gradually, the conflicting emotions within him began to resolve. The sorrow within him slowly fused to the anger, as he immersed in the resentment of being powerless. The anguish served to empower the fury to greater potency, even while becoming subordinate to it. Logan’s fists clenched in rage as tears of barely restrained anger ran in rivulets down his cheeks, and he shook with deep tremors that reverberated throughout his body and spirit.

Those that saw the lone figure in the midst of the village gave him a wide berth, and none wished to gain his attention.

Erika

Erika and Antonio assisted with the carrying of bodies, as well as helping to remove debris from collapsed lodgings for the better part of the morning and early afternoon. The two of them labored unceasingly, until every muscle and sinew in Erika’s body cried out for rest.

It was not without some measure of reward, as they were able to free a couple of surviving villagers that had been trapped in the wreckage of the collapsed longhouses. One, an elderly man, had been pinned to the ground by the collective weight of broken planks and frame poles. The other, a boy of about three years of age, was not strong enough to work his way out of a small cubbyhole that had formed around him during another longhouse’s collapse. Both were terrified and shaken, though relatively unscathed, when they were finally freed.

Some villagers urged the two foreigners to take a rest, and Erika and Antonio finally agreed to put aside their labors for a few moments. Like everyone, the two of them were sapped to emotional exhaustion by the awful sights spread all around them.

Their minds, hearts, and bodies weary, they trudged slowly back down the hillside, continuing on to the banks of the wide stream that coursed near to the village. They flopped down heavily on the embankment, as if their own bodies were extra baggage.

The two were silent for many long minutes, their faces dispirited as they stared out towards the flowing waters of the stream. Erika found herself wishing that the waters could carry the terrible feelings permeating her away. Finally, Antonio broke the unpleasant stillness.

“Not a wonderland anymore, is it?” he muttered quietly.

Erika looked over to him, before leaning over and putting her right arm around his shoulders. She gave him a brief hug of support and encouragement.

“Was it ever? Not completely unlike where we came from, is it?” Erika replied in a soft voice. “We can change worlds, but can’t seem to shake what the worlds have in them. No, it’s not a wonderland, even if I hoped it could be so.”

Antonio slowly shook his head. “No, it’s not … all my life, I wanted to get away to somewhere else, and here I am. This is what we’ve gotten into. … And it’s really no better than before.”

Erika quietly regarded him for a moment. He was speaking more openly than she had heard him ever since they had met. The fatigue had likely worn away his inhibitions, and his dark eyes glistened with considerable sadness.

“A lot of what happened in our world, we only heard about … reports, and accounts,” Erika stated slowly, after a moment. “Now, we are eyewitnesses too, and we share a burden with a lot of people here, and a lot of people back in our own world. I’ve never had a feeling like this, and I know we have scars that will remain forever. I know that only comes from having gone through something like this.”

“Couldn’t have said it better, Erika,” Antonio returned ruefully, nodding slowly, before repeating his words. “Couldn’t have said it better. … What good is life anyway?” He abruptly turned his head away from her, and the oppressive silence returned.

“So what are you gonna do about it?” Erika sharply asked him, a spark of fire flaring within her. Something empty and resigned in his voice had touched a bare nerve within her.

She raised her head to look over at Antonio, and her gaze narrowed. Reaching out, she firmly prodded his chin back around so that his head was facing hers. She let her hand linger to force his attention in her direction. Her eyes commanded his to hold to her gaze.

“So what are you gonna do about it?” she challenged him again.

Antonio tried to avert his eyes from hers, but he soon was feeling the firmness of her grip increasing on his chin, and clearly sensed her inviolate will in that moment. He became fidgety at the boldness of the sudden question, and the strength displayed by the young woman.

“Look at me, and you answer me, Antonio,” Erika told him a little more forcibly.

With reluctance, he conceded the struggle as he brought his eyes up to meet hers.

“What are you gonna do about it?” she repeated again, for the third time, impatience imbuing her voice with an even sharper edge.

For a few moments, it seemed like the answer to her question would never leave Antonio’s lips. It was as if he was stunned, and it was all that he could do just to look into her fiery eyes.

“I cannot sit around and complain … or feel sorry for myself,” he began, in hesitant tones. He took a deep, sighing breath, before forcing more words out. They had an unmistakably resigned quality to them. “I don’t like the situation, but wishing it away isn’t going to make it go away. I have to deal with it. I know that. You and the others have my support. … I hope that you know that. I’m just so tired right now. But I’m not going to give up.”

Erika nodded, and let a soothing grin cross her face, to replace the stern visage of seconds before. She spoke with a sense of reassurance and gentleness. “We do know that, Antonio. Just keep the fight in you. We cannot surrender within ourselves, or give up in any way. We all are going to need you. Each and every one of us.”

“I’ll give you my best,” Antonio replied, appearing to muster a little more resolve within himself. He gave her a slight smile in return. “We’ll get through it.”

“We will,” Erika replied, confidently. “One way or another … we will.”

“Hey there, you two. … I’ve been looking for you,” interjected another familiar voice, echoing with sympathy.

Looking around, Erika saw Derek walking towards them. He was wearing only trousers, his upper body bared. His chiseled body glistened with sweat from the arduous work that he had been doing, sweat running down the contours of his well-defined musculature.

He wiped his brow as the corners of his mouth turned up into a gentle grin, though his eyes reflected no joy. A hollow, faraway look rested deeper within his gaze.

“Hey Derek,” Antonio said, looking momentarily boosted to see another member from their group of exiles.

Derek strode up to them, placing his hands upon his hips while working to catch his breath in deep gulps. His chest heaved and recessed as he took in substantial breaths of air, obviously fatigued. He wiped his brow again with the back of his hand. More sweat began to muster immediately in the wake of his effort.

“I’ve been on the other side of the village, and I brought some news with me,” he announced to the other two.

“What is it?” Erika inquired.

“Deganawida had some kind of emergency meeting with some elders of this village. It seems that they decided that even the area around the village isn’t safe to stay within,” Derek related to the two of them. “We are probably going to be evacuating the area pretty soon, to go deeper into the forest. Word has been sent to the other villages of the Onan, and other tribes of the Five Realms, to prepare them for the kind of assaults that hit this village last night. … It was evidently the first time that kind of attack has ever happened.”

“So we are going to be on the move again,” Erika remarked, a little regretfully.

Derek nodded grimly, clearly sharing her frustration. “It sure looks that way, but what can we do? With flying creatures like those used in that attack, no village is safe. Well, I’m going back. I just wanted you to know what had happened, so at least you have some idea about what’s coming. If you see Janus, let him know about it. I’ve already located Kent, Logan, and Mershad, though I’m not sure whether Logan even heard what I was saying to him.”

Erika nodded. “We’ll tell Janus, I promise.”

“Hang in there,” he said, giving them a brief smile, though Erika could not fail to miss the half-hearted nature of it.

After wiping his forehead clear again, he gave them a thumbs-up gesture as well, though his eyes betrayed the real truth. Erika knew that he was a very tough man, and also knew that his stoic demeanor was not just his own way of handling the tragedy, but was also intended for their own benefit. Casting a presence of strength, even if just a semblance of it, was a lifeline that they could all hold onto within the storm of misery. It was a foundation when everything else seemed so unstable.

“Hang in there, both of you. … It sounds crazy, but I know that it will get better. I know that it will,” Derek then added.

“It will, Derek,” Erika replied more firmly, giving him a warm smile in return, wanting him to feel a little of the confidence that he wanted to instill in the others.

He returned the grin, though it was laced with sadness. Derek then turned and set off with heavy steps to resume his efforts within the sea of tragedy.

Janus

It had taken no small effort to force himself to walk into the village on that unforgiving morning. He was not about to let the good people of the village and his friends work through the rubble alone. Heavy hearted, seeing the world shrouded in the coldest gray, Janus had forced his legs to take each step up the hillside and past the outer palisade, taking him into the interior of the destroyed village.

Though he had expected horrific sights to meet his eyes, the lack of surprise in finding them did not diminish the thunderous ache in his heart as his eyes swept across the inner grounds of the Onan village.

All of the calamities in view were more than burdensome to his already fragile psyche. One of them, though, had been nearly enough to shove him over the edge and into an internal abyss.

Though unbeknownst to Janus, it was the very same sight that had compelled Logan to sit down, broken and angry, amid the ruins of the village. It was the scene of the child sobbing into the fur of her dead dog, as she rocked back and forth on the ground, cradling the crushed body.

The image conjured up a thousand upon thousand demons within Janus’ delicate mind. The horror and sorrow etched upon the little girl’s face, as her tears wetted the fur on the still body in which she had probably once found comfort and a sense of freedom, were far too much for Janus to be able to handle.

Instantly, he connected intimately with the great pain that was embroiling the little girl. The thunder of the agony he felt for her, and felt from the wounds newly ripped open within himself, caused a river of tears to break through and flow outward.

He slowly walked over to the little girl, squatted down, and hugged her tightly, sobbing himself.

Her dog, a large, stout, grey-furred breed, was clenched tightly in her arms. Its head was caked in blood and misshapen, where one of the cruel rocks from the sky had struck it during the dreadful night.

Janus memory invoked a contrasting image, one that made the current scene all the more acrid. He could imagine the little girl, just a day earlier, running through the village, squealing with joy as the dog bounded along playfully at her heels. He could still see the two wrestling and frolicking around, the dog licking her face, barking excitedly, and wagging its tail vigorously, as she threw her arms around it and hugged her furry friend close. The daunting veil of mortality now irrevocably separated the two companions, who had been happily playing together without a care in the world just the previous day.

However the roads arrived at it, this was the ugly culmination at the end of all lives. Through violence, age, or disease, and whether sinner or saint, all paths led to the awful conclusion that extinguished the wonder of a unique, irreplaceable life. That, in its naked reality, was the true face of death.

Death held the countenance of an unbowed conqueror. As always, the only death that Janus desired with all of his soul was the death of death itself.

The little girl continued to cry into the fur of the dog, but after some time curiosity must have moved her to look up to see just who was hugging her. Janus spoke no words, just trying to comfort and console her by his close presence. He understood her pain implicitly, but knew that there was nothing that he could really say.

He wished that he could somehow take the pain away from her, even if it meant that he added it to his own sustained, and continuously worsening, perdition. He hugged her to him even tighter, wishing that he could somehow squeeze the sorrow out of her, and let it seep into his own world-weary body.

Janus silently held the little girl close and snug, for what seemed like an eternity. He did not mind it in the least, knowing that it gave the poor child a slim anchorage to something that transcended the hideousness of the world.

Eventually, he felt a gentle hand lay down upon his shoulder.

Slowly looking up, he beheld a young village woman, whose face was stained with tears. New ones were welling up and moistening her reddened eyes, before beginning their downward trek. She was a very attractive young woman, but a great abyss of sorrow had left her looking haggard and drawn.

“Thank you … for being here, with my daughter … man from afar,” she said with great effort, in a voice hollow and exhausted. She tried to force a smile, clearly moved at the compassion that the foreigner had shown to her daughter, a child that he did not know.

Janus nodded quietly to her, knowing what she would ask, as he slowly released his embrace of the girl, and methodically got up to his feet. No words needed to be said that the girl’s mother needed to take his place as the comforter. The anchorage that he had instilled in the child, diminutive as it was, would be strengthened tenfold by the presence of her own mother. Many children in the village were now bereft of such a grace, a thought not lost on Janus as he watched the mother’s emotion pour forth at the reunion.

The mother instantly dropped to her knees and hugged the little girl tightly, letting the tears flow swiftly again down her angular cheeks. Wordlessly, Janus shuffled away from the scene, feeling numb in his heart, though his chest seemed to throb with the emotional pain that he held within. His legs were weak, barely able to support his weight.

Two times, he tripped on debris and fell to the ground. Each time that he fell, he dragged himself back up and continued onward, heading towards the village’s entryway. Janus wanted simply to head away from the village and its immense sorrows. He knew that he needed to get away from everything before he lost control of his tenuous hold on sanity, or could at least deceive himself that he could get away from the pain for a few moments. In truth, one could never escape such an experience, as it left a very unique kind of wound. The bleeding could possibly be stemmed, but the scar would never fade, as Janus knew well enough.

He fell one more time on the downward slope of the hill outside of the village, tumbling down haphazardly several feet before coming to a merciful stop. He ignored the scuffs and burning scrapes that he had incurred in the fall, as he dully got up to his feet and continued downward.

Finally, he reached the bottom, and started forward into the woods. His legs now felt as if they were made of the heaviest stone, though he forcibly picked up his pace and subsequently broke into an unsteady jog. A few times he wavered, and had to slow down to a stop, to find his balance with the help of a tree.

Eventually, he was deep into the forest, and far away from the village. Ultimately, when his willpower could no longer force his legs to carry him any farther, he collapsed onto the ground. Pulling himself towards the base of a towering oak tree, he curled up into a fetal position and wept bitterly.

At long last, the fatigue of an emotionally drained soul and a physically depleted body overcame his consciousness, and brought him into the merciful arms of a deep sleep.

The Unifier

Everything was so abundantly clear, no depths hidden from the eyes watching the winged form descending from the skies.

The messenger’s heart was palpitating rapidly when he landed his Harrak deep within the bailey of the second level of The Unifier’s soaring citadel in Avalos. His thoughts were so very exposed, revealed in an instant of transcendent perception by the One watching him.

The Avanoran sky rider had been expecting to be greeted by one of the Unifier’s Sorcerers, the ones who attended Him most closely. They often sat within the gable-ended Great Hall that loomed far to his left, diligently conducting the Unifier’s affairs.

The Sorcerers of Avalos were quite unnerving in their own regard, though nothing like the Master that they served. Unlike the Unifier, the guardsman could still endure their presence while keeping his wits and composure. He had envisioned that once they had met his arrival, that they would conduct him deeper into the great fortress, or perhaps lead him on up to one of the higher levels of the citadel that the Unifier normally occupied.

The walk would have given him the precious gift of a little time, as he had hoped for a few undisturbed moments to steel his anxieties. The hopes had been brutally dashed when he saw that the Unifier Himself was awaiting him in person within the bailey. To the guardsman’s great dismay, he also saw that they were alone, anyone else evidently having been dismissed, as the grounds never went unoccupied by the forms of servants, artisans, or guards.

The eerie silence reigning in the bailey was intimidating enough, unnatural as the winds whistled among the series of buildings all around. A dizzying, icy chill of fear seized upon him with the realization of the Unifier’s imminent presence, imbuing his movements with awkwardness. Hurriedly, he got down out of the saddle, his knees nearly buckling as his feet set down on the ground.

The messenger bowed his head immediately, instantly dropping to one knee before the tall, immaculate presence standing before him. He fumbled about as he nervously unlaced and removed his conical iron helm, revealing the short-cropped hair covering his head from his ears forward.

The back half was shaved smooth, as was his face. It was a manner of style that hailed from an earlier age, now embraced by the warriors of the Unifier’s Avanoran garrison within the great citadel. Stoic, determined, and well-trained, the warriors that exhibited the strange, half-shaven style were normally to be respected and feared, at least by the populace of Avanor. The Unifier had no respect for the warrior, and was well aware of the man’s great fear.

As one of the elite garrison force, the man had been privy to many things that few others knew about the powerful being looming before him. Only the Sorcerers knew the Unifier more intimately.

He had no difficulty keeping confidence concerning certain aspects regarding the true nature of the Unifier, as he had openly witnessed what could happen if he ever failed to do so. Bold, even arrogant, in his dealings others in the realm, he was frightened to the point of paralysis just from being in the immediate company of the Unifier.

The moments spent directly before the Unifier were those that he dreaded the most. Being alone with the Unifier, in the middle of an empty bailey, was staggering to his inner composure. It was all that he could do to function within the oppressive climate.

“What is the report?” the Unifier calmly demanded, ignoring the tremendous fear swarming within the guard, and well aware of everything that the man was thinking and feeling.

The messenger kept his eyes averted from the powerful, penetrating gaze of the Unifier. “The Darroks destroyed a large village, and caused much damage to one of the tribes.”

“A village? One village? Did I not make myself clear that five villages were to be destroyed, in the first use of the Darroks?” The Unifier replied in an even tone, intertwined with tendrils of anger. “How was this not clear?”

The guard’s heartbeat was now racing precipitously, as he mustered up every ounce of his will to answer. “Your will was clear, my Lord. … They could not continue their attack. … They were challenged by tribal defenders, upon sky steeds. They were able to destroy the village, before losses to the Trogens, and threats to the Darroks, forced them to retreat. The losses to the tribesmen were great. Two of every three warriors that came up on sky steeds were slain.”

“And it was said that we would command their skies. That there was no way that the tribes would be able to contend with the Darroks. What can I believe now?” the Unifier stated darkly.

His eyes took on a blazing, reddish hue, with pulsing, swirling movements just beneath the surface of the baleful orbs. Anger rose up within Him at the news that the great Darroks had somehow been forced to suspend their assault, after leveling just one paltry village.

“And of the Darroks?” He inquired in a near hiss.

“They are all healthy,” the messenger replied quickly. “All of the losses were to the Trogens upon the carriages. Be assured that there was no harm to any of the Darroks.”

The Unifier narrowed His eyes as He focused upon the soldier. He could easily sense the increasing trepidation in the human at having to deliver the less than spectacular tidings.

“There is a threat … yes? Speak now, and openly,” the Unifier commanded in a low, threatening voice.

The sky warrior nodded, sweat beading all over his forehead. “Yes, my Lord. … A couple of tribesmen were able to cut a harness free on one Darrok. They flew on its underside, and cut the bindings. The carriage was near to sliding off of its back. The Trogens had to abandon the area, or lose the carriage and themselves.”

“How could that be? How could they even reach My Darroks to do such a thing?” the Unifier questioned with clear disgust. The feeble tribesmen had exposed a weakness in Avanor’s mighty new weapon, on just the very first use of it. “Why were those savages able to even come near to My Darroks? How did they pass through the Trogen sky warriors?”

A sickening dread gripped the messenger, as he knew that he could not lie, nor could he sweeten his words. There was no use even trying, and a part of him felt that he should simply run for the steps to the circuit wall on the terrace, mount them, and fling himself quickly from the wall.

“They … were not … sent in the carriages. The Trogens were sent without steeds. It was deemed that all room should be used for the stone missiles. The Darroks were loaded with as much stone as they could bear, with enough of a crew to handle it,” the messenger responded, the cold sweat surging all over his body. A breeze engulfed him, as it channeled through the rectangular buildings nearby, causing him to shiver.

“It was thought that the tribesmen could do nothing,” the guardsman continued. “That their steeds would not be expended on trying to attack the Darroks. That the Trogens would be able to fend any tribesmen off with just bows, if they did emerge to resist. Only a very small number of the tribesmen’s sky riders have even been seen in recent weeks … and none in force near this village. Their numbers were underestimated. It is said that they attacked together … concentrating in a group on one Darrok after another, felling as many Trogens as they could.”

Had the soldier looked up, he would have noticed no change in expression on the Unifier’s face. There was no outward sign of the instantaneous rage that was now churning violently within the tall, dark-haired being. It would not have been unusual, for whether fire or ice surged within Him, His countenance could remain uncannily placid.

The Unifier did not have to ask which magnate or leader had made the errant decision. It would not have been the Trogen leaders, a race of beings that rarely underestimated an opponent. The Trogen warriors had likely had great resentment for the order to go unescorted to begin with. They never would have gone unescorted under their own full command. If anything, the clannish Trogens would probably respect the tribal humans too much. The Trogens that had survived the fight would surely bring word of the debacle back to their own leaders, straining an already tenuous alliance.

The messenger would have been horrified to learn of the torments that the Unifier considered giving to the one responsible for the decision to leave sky steeds off of the Darroks.

The fact that the guard did not know his Master’s thoughts also mercifully spared him the brief moment when the Unifier contemplated immolating the guard, simply for having brought word of vulnerabilities that could have been so easily avoided.

The Unifier did not reply to the guard, instead calmly walking past the messenger and on towards the steps leading up to the wall walk. The Unifier’s long, rapid stride carried Him there in moments. The guard remained on his knee behind, not about to follow the Lord of Avanor.

The Unifier simmered, yet what was done, had been done. Another measure would have to be considered in regard to the Five Realms. The ongoing defiance of the tribesmen, like a wind fanning a fire through parched woodlands, had spread growing flames of hatred within Him. The news of their partial success against the Darroks made His spirit boil.

For just a moment, He contemplated the ironies inherent in the moment, as poor tribesmen continued to resist and reject what rich and powerful Kings, Sultans, and Emperors readily embraced.

Once at the wall’s crenellated edge, the Unifier swept His gaze across Avalos. He could see the spires of the great Cathedral of Avalos far below, a place nearing completion after many long years of construction. Being constructed with the latest techniques of architecture in the western lands, with towering spires, flying buttresses, and intricate vaults, it would bring a stream of visitors into the city. Though it appeared tiny from His vantage point, the huge edifice served as the most elite church in all of Avanor, the seat of the powerful Archbishop Regnier himself.

The thought of the Cathedral never ceased to amuse the Unifier, especially how it looked so small and insignificant before His towering, mighty citadel. The Cathedral was where many of the wealthiest nobles believed that they offered worship to the Accursed One. While their utterances may have been addressed to the God of the Western Church, an irritant enough, the Unifier was consoled by the reality that their hearts and deeds had long ago fallen to the service of Another.

Other nobles and authorities made their appearances within the Cathedral, but unlike the other nobles, they knew very well to Whom they belonged. The greatest of these was the Archbishop Regnier himself, who was not alone among the bishops and abbots who had been turned to Another’s service. Except for the aging Vicar of the Western Church, Celestine IX, and a handful of recalcitrant fools clinging to the old, fading order, the Unifier now held a grip upon a majority of the influential high clergy.

The nobles and ecclesiastical powers of Avalos were just the surface of a broader transformation of loyalties occurring swiftly within many lands and kingdoms.

A large majority of the most formidable and learned that humankind had to offer had readily chosen allegiance to Him, and by extension the One that the Unifier served. A number of them constituted many of the very individuals that ruled sprawling kingdoms and expansive empires.

The Unifier had not needed to engage in arguments with many of the Kings and Emperors, much less coerce them. For the most part, away from the eyes of the slumbering masses, they had come to submit swiftly, and enthusiastically.

That the men of power and wealth could so willingly bring their rich and strong lands into His service, and that a smaller rabble of wood-dwelling primitives could so vehemently continue to oppose Him, raised His ire and indignation to a white-hot level. That they had exposed a foolish commander in His own ranks, and likely caused severe damage to the Unifier’s relations with the valuable Trogen clans, was just one more reason why the Unifier hungered ravenously for immediate vengeance.

It was no time for coercion or even subjugation. It was time for absolute destruction.

Annihilation was the only recourse that would quench the fires burning within the Unifier. The Five Realms had to be cast into a hurricane of retribution, one so powerful that they would not emerge to see any future, even one in willful submission to the Unifier.

Whether they surrendered and bowed to Him or not was no longer of any concern whatsoever. Furthermore, the extinction of the five tribes would be an unforgettable lesson to any who remotely harbored any thoughts of resistance.

The thought brought a brief surge of fiery red into His eyes, as He turned away from the sight of Avalos and slowly strode back down the steps into the bailey. When He reached the messenger, who had not moved at all in the interim, His eyes had returned back to their fathomless blue once again. “See to it that the Darroks are immediately outfitted by our craftsmen with new carriages, ones that cannot be so easily threatened by two tribesman with axes,” the Unifier stated bluntly.

“Send word to Viscount Adhemar that the Trogens must be given more authority in matters involving their own kind. I do not think that they will neglect to have Harrak-mounted warriors riding in the carriages. That will answer the presence of any defenders that the failed scouts overlooked,” the Unifier commanded in a forceful tone. A slight hint of a grin played about the Unifier’s face. “And tell the Viscount that he is then to report directly to Me, in person, and without delay.”

The Unifier grew quiet for a moment as He sifted through a few options in His mind. He settled upon a quite intriguing one.

“We will now see if the eastern Galleans can adhere to My desires better than a viscount from Avanor,” the Unifier said, articulating the words slow and purposefully. “See that the full authority of command is given over to Count Garnier IV. We will see if commands rendered in the articulations of the Langeoc will be more understandable than those given through the Langeal.”

His last words referred to the two versions of the Gallean tongue, the former spoken in the eastern provinces of Gallea, and the latter spoken in the western ones, including Avanor itself. The great Count of Talasae, Garnier IV, was one of those who spoke the eastern version, and he ruled the Gallean lands adjacent to the Five Realms. Talasae was a bountiful province, containing the powerful walled cities of Carcasse and Talasae. It was also home to some heretical religious movements that had deeply aggrieved the Western Church, as well as being a core of the region that had given rise to a newer tradition of epic poets. As if that was not enough, the area had helped give birth to a code of knightly behavior that had been closely embraced by great numbers of the elite warriors of Gallea. Count Garnier would now have a chance to become a subject of one of those epic poems.

“Make sure that it is very clear that Count Garnier unleash destruction upon all of the tribal villages, wherever they are found. Give them no mercy. Accept no surrender. No submission. Have Garnier break the chains on the army massed on the border of the tribal lands. Unleash those forces, and commence with the ground invasion. It is no longer there to influence any thoughts that the primitives might have had at submission. The sun has set upon their land and people. A new sun rises. Begin the invasion. Now go!”

The messenger bowed his head low in deference, and then placed his helm back on his head. His fingers were shaking as he adjusted the leather chinstrap, and it took him another moment to secure it. He rose to his feet, though he kept his gaze fixed to the ground as he turned and hustled back to his Harrak.

Mounting the winged steed swiftly, the guardsman wasted no time in his departure. He spurred the Harrak to lope forward and leap upward, snapping its wings down as it left the ground and began its climb back up into the skies.

The Unifier watched the messenger pass on over the outer walls of the terrace, streaking out towards the horizon as he continued to ascend higher. There was no question that the soldier would gladly hasten to his delegated task, even if predominantly motivated by the desire to flee the presence of the Unifier.

Though the day was bright and the sun unfettered, His face darkened, as if a cloud bank had swept in and cast Avanor’s great Lord into a deep shade.

The Five Realms.

Saxany.

Midragard.

One would be destroyed soon. One was facing its final test. One would be dealt with in the near future. Very little remained to stand in His way, and perhaps all three of the last significant obstacles would find their fate to be total destruction before His work was fulfilled.

The new age was coming to the world. An old order would be overthrown, even as a new one ascended, one that would give rise to a new god taking dominion over all creation. The Great War would be finally brought to its end, and Another would come to bathe the world in fire, and recreate it in His image.

The Unifier was that Power’s herald and greatest prophet, preparing His Father’s coming and unlocking the timeless gates between dimensions. He would be first before all within the new Kingdom, placed even over the greatest of the antediluvian, immensely powerful brethren that had long served that Power. With the fall of the old order would also come the fall of His Father’s great Adversary, as well as the Unifier’s hated Counterpart.

The scent of the coming victory was exhilarating to every ounce of His being, the culmination of vast ages, meticulous patience, and tremendous sacrifices and suffering. It was all within sight and grasp, a reality both tantalizing and torturous.

His eyes had now become windows upon a raging furnace, glowing hotly with an inner fire of a substance not of Ave. It was an inferno that was borne of His vision of the world to come; a world that would be immersed in oceans of fire before rising anew.

In coming days and months, the Great Prophecies would be crafted to the Unifier’s will, brought to fulfillment, and then He would be crowned as the new Son of Man. The thought made Him smile, though there was no benevolence whatsoever in His cold expression.

Janus

The deep sleep transformed into a rare and special kind of dream, of the sort where Janus was unaware that he was even in the midst of a dream to begin with.

Everything had the essence of stark reality, utterly lucid and full of conscious awareness. All that he sensed was incredibly vivid, his eyes taking in the richest of colors, his ears attuned to every nuance of sound, and his other perceptions similarly enhanced.

Fear gripped him tightly at first, as he wondered whether another transition had taken place like the mist that had taken him unwittingly out of his own world. He took a long, slow look around him, cautiously eyeing his new surroundings.

He found himself entirely alone, somewhere deep among the shadows of an old forest. He recognized immediately that it was a forest far unlike the rolling woodlands around the tribal village. Gigantic trees soared far towards the sky above him, majestic sentinels breathtaking in their lofty reach. The great circumferences of their trunks were a spectacle to behold, a vision of strength and enduring vitality.

Even so, there was a heavy, foreboding stillness to the air. It was an unsettling disquiet that permeated the area, and the only noticeable movements were the rapid beatings of Janus’ own heart. His breath tightened within his chest, constricting the coils around his rattled nerves.

Hurried motion off to the right edge of his peripheral vision suddenly grabbed his attention. His eyes widened as he beheld grotesque, shadowy forms that floated through the midst of the air. They moved in and out among the enormous trees, at one moment formless, and at another vaguely humanoid. They were gliding far off the ground, wending their way gradually towards the area where Janus stood.

Looking back to the left, and upward, he saw a couple more of the sable, flowing apparitions converging inward. It seemed as if the shadowy multitude was drifting closer and closer around him, with quite purposeful intent.

At the faint edges of his awareness, Janus began to sense a malevolence effusing from them. His blood chilled as he stared up at the sentient swathes of darkness.

Suddenly, the forms began drifting downwards, drawing closer. An icy chill crept along the tingling surface of his skin. He was riveted in place, as if his very willpower had been chained to a course of unalterable inaction.

To his growing dismay, he saw that the shadow-beings were not alone. With a sinking feeling taking hold in his gut, he realized that the murky entities were actually being hurried and herded along, driven forth by four huge shadows that came into view just a moment later. The larger shadows were gathered lower towards the leaf-strewn ground, but were clearly affecting the movements of the other shifting entities.

The forest area around him then began to darken, as if time was moving so rapidly that he could actually perceive the dimming of dusk into the fullness of night.

The shadowy creatures, both the ones above and those near the ground, pressed in even closer, as the chill saturated deeper into his being. His heartbeat accelerated with the rising fear, driving the panic to a nearly insufferable degree. He could not move a limb, finding himself trapped inside of his own body.

Then, without warning, a new and different creature thrust itself into the midst of the malevolent gathering. Its long, low body shape was supported on four, shadowy legs. It was particularly massive, substantially larger than any dog or wolf. The creature’s presence was like a blade of light cutting through dark mists.

It had not come alone either, as a second creature, very similar in form to the first, then manifested into view, just to Janus’ left.

A third creature bounded in from just ahead, though this one was notably different in form than the other two. It moved with a feline grace, and had the size of a great tiger. Janus could make out the triangular ears atop its broad head. Its forward-set eyes shined with a pure, radiant white light, as it leaped aggressively into the midst of the shadow-entities.

The abrupt emergence of the three creatures created a frantic scurrying, among both the large and smaller shadow-forms that had been pressing towards Janus.

The two long-snouted newcomers moved with blurring speed, setting immediately upon the shadow creatures with a vengeance. Their mouths opened expansively, lined on the top and bottom with enormous, serrated teeth.

Jaws snapping, they set about consuming the smaller shadow creatures, able to take in an entire entity with only one bite.

Likewise, the monstrous, feline entity assaulted the shadow creatures. It brought its broad paws to bear as it raked shadow creatures down from the air, and then engulfed them in its gaping maw.

The shadow creatures made no sound, though their distress was obvious as they tried to evade the attackers in sheer futility.

The three creatures were not confined to the ground. They were able to soar into the air in incredible leaps, always landing lightly once they had dispatched their quarry. Though some of the shadow creatures tried to drift up and away, their efforts were in vain, as they could not escape the reach of their three supernatural assailants.

The three ethereal attackers moved with tremendous speed and aggression as they levied their lethal assault. Janus watched the destruction of the shadow creatures with stunned amazement.

In just moments, only the four larger shadow-beings remained. No longer driving the smaller creatures towards Janus, they now seemed to be gripped with fear themselves, flitting about the trees in apparent confusion and disarray.

Able to concentrate entirely upon them, the three four-legged attackers wasted no time in turning their offensive upon the larger entities. The large shadows were maimed and devoured one by one, until nothing of the shadowy, menacing host was left.

Janus watched in awe as the feline-like entity swiped its claws and batted down the last two large shadow creatures in one leap, before consuming each one in turn within its fearsome jaws.

When the creatures had finished, they each turned towards Janus, regarding him intently through their blazing, white eyes.

Strangely, instead of being afraid of the formidable beasts, Janus had a strong sensation resonating all throughout him that there was nothing to fear from the ethereal trio. A calm peace settled over him, as his thoughts became steadily clearer.

If anything, he felt a compelling urge to move towards the creatures, as if by drawing closer to them he would acquire even stronger protection. He also got the distinct impression that the creatures were excited by his presence before them. Though they were not entities of flesh and blood, their forms had much more stability than that of the shadow creatures. He could see without a doubt that the two elongated, canine-like creatures were wagging their tails vigorously.

The feline creature then started to pad slowly towards Janus, moving with fluid ease. He then became aware that he had regained full control of his body once again, feeling his inner authority pass through every extremity of his limbs.

An affectionate warmth flowed abundantly over him within the next few moments, swelling towards a euphoria as the feline drew closer to him. His eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the strange mystery of the creatures that had rescued him.

The canines’ tails were still wagging, and he heard purr-like rumblings emitting from the feline that was now just a couple of feet away. The feline stepped in to brush against his side, far too tall to brush against his leg. As it did so, and as his ears heard the echoes of the first jubilant barks coming from the other two creatures, they suddenly vanished from sight.

Janus turned his quickly head from left to right, but he was completely alone. There were no shadow creatures, or sign of the rescuing entities.

Before he could even begin to make any sense of it, a voice abruptly came through the air to him. “Walk straight ahead, around the great tree that is before you.”

The voice seemed to come from right next to him, but as Janus turned around in a complete circle, he saw no sign of the speaker.

“Who are you?” Janus called out to the unseen entity.

“More than a friend,” the reply came gently, again sounding as if the speaker were standing right at Janus’ side. “Now trust me, and walk forward around that tree.”

Something inside of Janus had come to understand by then that this all was truly just a dream, and that he had not undergone another experience like the mist. Still fully lucid, he decided to see what might happen if he cooperated with the voice.

He took a slow step forward, and then another.

“It may only take you a week at this pace to reach the tree,” the voice came again, resonating with a sparkle of amusement.

“Hey, I’m cooperating,” Janus retorted curtly, though he did pick up his stride.

He walked towards the great tree that the voice had indicated, and wended his way around the trunk to the right. Janus blinked his eyes then, as he found himself within a totally new environment. He was now looking upon a cave set into a hillside, under a velvety night sky adorned with diamond-bright stars.

A few banks of low clouds were scudding over the terrain, though they blocked little of the sparkling firmament.

Beyond the cave was a hilly, undulating land. In the distance he could see the numerous forms of what he believed to be flocks of sheep moving on some of the slopes. Outlines of what looked to be a few people were at the summits of a couple of the hills, leaning on staves as they looked out over the grazing flocks.

Some tiny, gleaming, reddish lights that undoubtedly came from fires marked the presence of a small village situated just beyond the hills with the flocks. It was too far for Janus to make out any details, other than the existence of many low structures clustered together.

A human cry, unmistakably that of a woman, came to him from the depths of the cave. His attention was immediately riveted upon the dark entrance from whence the sound had emerged.

“Go, and witness,” the strange voice instructed him, almost causing Janus to jump in its firm suddenness.

Recovering quickly enough, Janus heeded the words of the unseen speaker. He approached the entrance of the cave and entered it.

A low fire was blazing deeper within the cave, sheltered from the winds outside and the light rain that had just begun to fall. The pattering of the first raindrops faded as Janus walked a few steps further. Shadows flickered along the jagged sides of the cave, and in the midst of thick piles of straw were two human figures.

A woman was lying on her back, knees bent and legs spread far apart, while a man knelt down before her. The man was many years older than the woman, with a thick beard and locks of dark, wavy hair. The woman was young and beautiful, though her brow was beaded in sweat and furrowed in the grips of her considerable strain.

The couple took no notice of Janus as he cautiously took a few more steps into the cave. He then halted and stood stark still, realizing what was occurring before his eyes. The woman was giving birth, right on the verge of bringing a new life into the world.

Just as Janus became curious as to the identity of the couple, he was drawn to the shadows in the area to the left of the woman.

His heart skipped a beat, as he saw something there darker than any blackness or shadow. A great Presence lurked there, though Janus could see no discernable figure within the deep pool of impenetrable shadows.

Janus could feel the sheer intensity pouring forth from that blackness, as it silently observed the woman, the man, and the impending birth. Janus sensed that the Presence absolutely loathed the woman. The Presence was like some enormous serpent, coiled and waiting, whose gaping maw was awaiting the birth to devour both mother and child.

Though the Presence was unmistakably baleful and raging, with a malefic radiance beyond anything that Janus had ever felt before in his life, Janus had no fears for the people in the cave. He knew that the Presence was not there in any kind of manifestation whereby It could do any immediate harm to the woman, the man, or to the newborn.

It was as if Janus was simply gaining a perception of the Presence, as It gazed Itself upon the proceedings from some faraway, unknown region, scrying from a dark place that Janus knew had nothing in common with the two worlds that he knew. He also knew that the looming Presence was far more powerful than he could possibly imagine.

Janus wondered why something as obviously immense as the Presence would have any concern with a couple of simple people and their baby in a cold, lonely cave.

With a sustained cry from the woman, and several gentle words from the kneeling man, a third voice sounded within the small cave.

The cry of a newborn baby accompanied the exuberant and joyous laughter of the man, followed closely by that of the woman, in those next few moments. While the woman sounded exhausted, Janus could hear the tremendous delight and relief in her voice.

The man and the woman spoke excitedly, in the unrecognizable language, as the man carefully attended to the immediate needs of the baby. The man gently wrapped the baby in cloth, handing the newborn over cautiously to the outstretched arms of the mother.

With the warm look of genuine love spread on the man’s face, Janus had no doubt that the man had to be the father. Nobody but a father could have given such a tender look to a newborn child. The woman looked so entirely gentle and serene as she accepted the baby from him. The look upon her face embodied the essence of a mother, with boundless joy accompanied by an infinite love as she beheld the face of her new child for the first time.

Like a sharp crack of thunder, Janus’ attention was jarred violently as he felt the sudden explosion of pure malignance from the Presence within the shadows. Janus realized with astonishment that it was the mere sight of the baby that had invoked the stark and incredible reaction.

The Presence vanished from the cave instantly, though the echoes of its last expressions shook Janus to the core. An awful understanding was impressed upon Janus’ mind. The Presence was murderous, wanting nothing less than the annihilation of the newborn. Janus knew that Its limitless anger at seeing the baby in the world was so great that It could not maintain Its observance, volcanic emotion shattering Its cohesion.

Janus had already comprehended the reality that the Presence was exceptionally powerful, whatever It was, and he found himself fearing greatly for the safety of the mother, the apparent father, and the infant.

However he came to the understanding, he knew that the Presence was the ultimate essence of a predatory hunter, determined to pursue the children of this woman to the ends of the world. Janus felt wholly dismayed, wondering how the woman, the man, and the child could ever hope to evade the black diablerie that was setting its mordant gaze upon them.

As his fear for the small family grew, the veil of the dream faded as he was called back into waking. He found himself lying upon the hard, forest floor, curled up in the fetal position that he had taken when he had first lain down.

At first, he felt a little nauseated, as if he had ingested something wholly unnatural within him. He gagged and heaved as he slowly got up into a sitting position, but the worst of it passed by quickly enough. In a few short moments, the initially strong sensations had settled into a mild discomfort and gentle cough.

The dream-experience had left its images vivid and freshly imprinted upon the eye of his mind. He breathed slowly, as his full orientation returned.

Slowly, he braced himself on his hands and pushed himself back up to his feet. Taking a look all around him, he discovered that there was nothing to be seen close by, yet he did not feel alone.

A sense of wariness brought to the fore, Janus started back for the stream near to the village. On the way back, he recalled the sequence of the dream over and over again within his mind.

Ever since he had arrived in the tribal village, and began to listen more carefully to the tales of his newer hosts, he had heard a lot of talk about dreams and the genuine significance of them. To the people of the village, dreams were not considered to be merely a whimsical or fanciful conjuration of the mind. Nor were they simply a practical process demanded by the subconscious mind, to sift and sort through the things of life’s experience. To the villagers, they were something else entirely, experiences to be taken very seriously, if not unquestioningly at some times.

If the dream that he had just experienced was indeed something more, like something that the tribal people spoke so openly of, then there was something important for him to understand within the essence of that vision.

The tribal people would suggest that there was much to discover and learn from the vivid and meticulous dream, whether on the surface or buried deeply.

Whatever the reality was, Janus knew that he would be pondering the incredible dream for quite some time to come.