Logan

The pleasant aromas of succulent meats permeated the air, as the seven exiles feasted upon the ample bounty provided for them by Deganawida and the village. The prodigious feast was attended by a substantial number of the villagers within the large, open longhouse that it was held in.

The meal itself was quite varied, with the predominant element being a kind of corn meal porridge that was prepared with oils and deer meat. A good-sized quantity of turkey was provided, the meat being the result of a recently successful hunt.

There was also a very tasty, unleavened bread that was served. The distinctive bread was derived from corn flour and contained an abundance of dried berries within it, the latter adding an appreciable amount of flavor.

Wild greens of a few varieties were included in the evening’s fare, as well as what looked to be several distinct types of edible forest roots. Also gathered in from the munificence of the surrounding forests were an assortment of nuts and berries.

A much smaller quantity of pigeon meat was presented, with evident pride reflected on the faces of the women tending to the seven guests of the village.

Logan sensed instantly that the fowl was considered to be a valued delicacy by the tribal people. As such, he feigned extra gratitude to the women, even though he found the deer and turkey meats much more suited to his own palate.

He largely ate out of a small wooden bowl, using his hands or a wooden spoon, the latter designed with a short, upright handle, surmounted with the carved figure of a bear.

The tribal women administering the feast smiled warmly, and appeared to be of a genuinely amiable disposition. The women encouraged the guests to eat heartily, as they tended to them from large kettles of brass and bulbous cooking pots of clay that were located within the broad chamber.

It did not take long before it became quite hazy in the crowded chamber. The air grew thicker as low ventilation impeded the efficient escape of smoke from the great central hearth fire.

Logan would not have initially guessed just how good the food tasted. The components of the meal were not especially fancy, in and of themselves. While not elaborate, each bite brought with it a wealth of pleasure, certainly when compared to the uncertain fare that he and the others had been recently facing, out on their own within the new world.

Logan was content to simply eat and observe their hosts, absorbing everything that he could about his new patrons. Their customs and practices were different from anything that he was used to, and he knew that specific meaning was woven deeply into their gestures and items.

Such meaning and ceremony had been made very apparent when Erika had accepted a special gift on behalf of the group, from Deganawida himself.

The medallion had been given to the otherworlders during a small ceremony that had taken place just before the feast. Crafted of a host of small bead-like shells, the flat, circular object was predominantly purple, with the exception of a white circle formed within the medallion’s center.

The shell medallion, according to Ayenwatha, had been given to the seven as a sign of fully open and truthful relations between themselves and the Onan tribe. The medallion was an emblem of the tribe’s sincere intentions toward the seven. The importance of the solemn gesture was not lost on Logan, and, from what he could tell, the others of his group also understood it clearly enough.

He could already sense that the spirits of the entire group had improved greatly since their arrival in the village. The short rest, the plenteous meal, and the symbolic extension of good intentions by the tribal people, in the form of the purple and white shell medallion, had indeed been a boon to their beleaguered hearts.

The prevailing mood of the villagers had also helped to reinforce the better feelings. They were jubilant, and not just because of the presence of the seven special guests.

The successful return of the war party was also being celebrated and commemorated at the feast. That exposed Logan and the other six to even more depths of tribal custom and cultural values.

After the presentation of the medallion, Logan and the others had been treated to several tribal songs, which were delivered in a rhythmic, chant-like fashion. Rattles of folded hickory bark, gourd rattles set upon short handles, and water drums, with hide drumming surfaces stretched upon cylindrical wooden bodies, accompanied the chorus of human voices.

The tones from the water drums were quite varied, which Logan had known was due to the amounts of liquid contained within them. The chants, and the rhythmic sounds of drums and rattles, gradually lulled him into a partially entranced state, as he immersed himself in the mesmerizing tribal music.

Only occasionally did he come out of his semi-trance, in order to ask a question, or instead listen to some brief explanation offered to him by Ayenwatha in regard to one of the chanted songs.

Logan had been fascinated when it was explained to him that there was a unique and personal nature to one of the performances then being delivered by a solitary male warrior. According to Ayenwatha, the man who was singing it before them was the only person who ever performed that particular song.

From what Ayenwatha had gone on to explain, the man had received the song directly from his father before him, and would one day pass it on to his own son.

Logan had been very curious about that particular song. His interest stemmed from the fact that he had recognized the man chanting the song, right when it had begun. The man was one of the warriors that had been among Ayenwatha’s war band, who had helped to escort Logan and the others back to the village.

The warrior had evidently performed some valorous acts in driving off some Gallean scouts that had been venturing deeper into the forest. He had killed three of the interlopers before they could reach the open ground beyond the forest’s edge. It had been his wife that had been given the pole with the multiple scalps.

The warrior, following his personal song, had then sung his full account of the martial deeds, laced within a story of the entire encounter.

To Logan, the overtly boastful song took on the open flavor of self-aggrandizement. Yet all the tribal listeners seemed to be quite enthralled with the warrior, and very pleased with the song nonetheless. It was as if the crowd’s willing embrace of the man’s lauding of his own deeds was a kind of recognition in itself.

Finally, the sequence of songs came to an end. The air within the open longhouse soon filled with laughter and conversation as the main portion of the meal ensued. Stomach rumbling, Logan had been very glad when the first portions of the feast were served.

“This is one of the best meals I’ve ever had!” Antonio exclaimed, his cheeks puffed up with an overly full mouth of the tender turkey meat.

As if to accent his words, juices trickled down each side of his stuffed mouth.

Ayenwatha grinned proudly at the compliment. “I am glad that our humble offerings please you, Antonio.”

“Very much so,” Antonio managed to articulate, despite having taken another plentiful bite of the turkey.

“We truly thank you,” Erika then said, looking to both Ayenwatha and Deganawida. “This is more than we could ever have hoped to expect when we were wandering around lost in the woods. It is a tremendous feast, and we are very grateful for it.”

From his expression, Deganawida seemed to be particularly amused by her comments.

“Thank you, Erika,” Deganawida responded. “With the threats of war, we have not been feasting often, and our hunters have been forced to be much more careful. We have not been able to undertake large deer hunts, though it was fortunate that some deer and turkey were recently taken. I had feared that we would not be able to extend to you a proper feast, given the troubles that you have been through.”

“This is far more of a feast than I’m ever used to,” Derek remarked, scooping up another heaping spoonful of the hominy.

“I hope we are not causing any burdens for you, if food is scarcer in these times,” Janus added in a conciliatory tone. “Please do not feel any pressure to do anything special for us. We are just happy to be your guests, and to have a safe refuge, and to have anything to eat. That’s enough for us.”

Ayenwatha smiled. “We are very pleased to grant you what we are able. It is just that if these were not times of probable war, it would be a much greater feast. The darkness coming from the Unifier dampens much in these lands.”

Erika then asked the two tribal leaders, “You speak of this Unifier again.… If I may ask, who is He? And where did He come from?”

Deganawida looked away for a moment, as a sad look crept into his eyes. He gently cleared his throat, and gazed upon Erika and the others for an extended pause, before answering her query.

“What we see today, the world facing all of us now, could only rightly be spoken of in a very long tale. This darkness that we confront now is something that I know has been many ages in coming, for such momentous things do not happen with a single pass of the moons.

“I have long watched this Unifier, and pondered every tiding involving Him. I have learned much in the years that have passed, and have questioned many learned people.

“The Unifier’s rise was accompanied by displays of great strength, demonstrating signs of power and offering an abundance of trade and glory to those that followed Him. Destruction came to those that did not, or who resisted … individual people at first, and now entire realms.

“Avanor, the land of the Unifier, was a territory caught up in the ebb and flow of kings and lords. The Unifier liberated the people of Avanor from the great burdens of being caught between the desires of Gallea and Norengal, and the lords who were, in truth, beholden to both.

“The fighting between lords at the time of the Unifier’s rise was terrible, all throughout the lands. Even the Peace of the All-Father declared by the Western Church did little to ease the sufferings of the common people.

“In such a dark hour, the rulers of the lands, who could not keep control of their own realms, were pulled towards giving full powers over to Him.

“All of this, I am now certain, was intended by Him from the beginning.

“In time, the Unifier grew a mighty circle around Him. Many powerful sorcerers steeped in the mystic arts committed to Him, or were brought up within His mighty citadel. It is said that many Wizards, indeed some of the greatest among them, heeded His seductive call.

“In time, there arose many more wars and times of great trouble, beset with famine and disease. The Unifier’s rise did not end strife. Yet none would dare question Him, for all rulers’ efforts had turned towards achieving the unity that He had offered; to all who would bow their will to His.

“This promise … this offer of a world placed under full order and control, was unprecedented. It was a promise to elevate the rulers of the world’s kingdoms to be at the side of a great throne astride the entire world. It offered a height of power previously unknown, and one that would be unassailable when brought into being. This promise proved irresistible to those lusting after power and wealth.

“A gathering of realms was begun, even if it was only in a secret understanding that the common people were very unaware of.

“The Unifier’s greater vision was made clear to the rulers attracted to His seductions and promises. They were told that when the Unifier’s new world came to pass, the means of trade would be governed under one standard. In addition, all people would one day be identified under a common standard as well, even with marks upon their bodies such as those now said to be on the skin of rulers and others who have fully committed to Him. These were powerful enticements to those already steeped in a love of dominion.

“Peace. Prosperity. Order. The end of all chaos and wars. These things were at the behest of the rulers of all realms, if they only would join with the Unifier. Who could argue with such ends?

“It is no secret that if the Unifier achieves His vision, His rule will one day supersede that of all realms. The world’s rulers merely think that they will continue in their own power, and have a seat at the Unifier’s table.

“It is my fear that it will not be long before the Unifier is openly declared to be the supreme authority of the world, over all manner of rulers and kingdoms. Delirious in promises of power and wealth, the world’s rulers will acclaim Him as such.

“For those so used to the things of control and power, they willfully deceive themselves, victims of the same overtures and maneuvers that they have often used in securing power in their own realms.

“So very few stand opposed to Him now. Only three realms that I know of, with any strength to resist, remain steadfastly opposed; the realms of Saxany, Midragard, and the tribes of the Five Realms, of which our tribe is one.

“Perhaps there are more, somewhere within the far reaches of Ave, but it is certain that these three lands bravely refuse to bend their knee to Him. For our choice, as one of these three lands, we face terrible lies and accusations, as the storms of war gather upon the horizon. We are deemed a wicked and vile people for opposing the completion of the Unifier’s vision, for merely wishing to retain our own sovereignty, and self-determination for our own people.

“I am under no illusions. It is certain that we are about to face a time of great tribulation.”

As Deganawida finished his somber oration, there was a heavy silence hanging over all of those who were listening nearby. The telling had quickly sobered the jovial nature that had taken root and flowered during the feast.

“It is not all that strange, to my ears,” Logan commented quietly to Janus, who sat at his right side. “I’ve often thought that’s where our own world seems headed. A domination of all, by an elite few. Just not as far along as this world is, apparently.”

“I saw that all too clearly as well,” Janus murmured in reply. “And maybe it is farther along in our world than we think. The powerful have always had an insatiable desire for control, evidently no matter what world they happen to reside in.”

“You can’t appease those types, that’s for sure,” Logan agreed, drifting off into contemplative silence once more. He found himself wondering as to why the populaces influenced by the Unifier could become so vigorously stirred to war.

There seemed to be so little that the tribal people could offer those who lusted after wealth and power. He had seen the considerable trappings of the marching army that had been assembled in the west. They hailed from a very material culture, one that was most certainly abundant in metals, fabrics, well-bred horses, and many other signs that hinted to a society rife with luxuries.

The tribes, on the other hand, did not seem to possess any great material wealth. Other than a few decorative, crescent-shaped silver gorgets, Logan had seen little sign of precious metals amongst the villagers, most of whose possessions derived from corn husk, timber, or hide. Logan could not see the allure inherent in launching a war against such a people, and figured that the motivations had to come from another kind of source.

There had to be a reason, even if it was from a distorted and manipulated perspective. Logan could also not overlook the distinct possibility that there may well have been something done to provoke the lands to the west.

He had only heard one side of the story, after all.

Logan looked over to Deganawida, who was gazing upon the seven with a thoughtful countenance. A slight grin, tinged with sadness, slowly came to the old sachem’s face.

The uncomfortable silence around Logan deepened, as all seemed to be waiting for Deganawida to break the impasse.

“Do not trouble yourselves, honored guests of the Onan. Now is a time to leave the worries of the world behind us, at least for a little while,” Deganawida said at last. His voice was soothing, as he smiled reassuringly at the others. “Perhaps it would be better to let me tell you a happier tale, one about the origin of the five tribes, and how the Five Realms came together.”

One by one, Logan and the other exiles nodded to Deganawida. For his part, Logan was ready to hear about something a little less foreboding.

The old sachem needed little further encouragement. Without delay, he began to relate the account of the origins of the Five Realms.

The tribes, as it turned out, had not always been so cohesive with each other. The tale of it all was quite fascinating, and featured a powerful Wizard from whom Deganawida had derived his own name. The ancient Wizard had brought the five tribes the Great Law, and instigated the Grand Council around the Sacred Fire, the flames of which had been tended and warded ever since then by the Onan tribe.

Even more intriguing, one of the major figures in that story was an Onan by the name of Ayenwatha, who had endured a terrible ordeal. In a time of great war and strife among the contentious tribes, the other Ayenwatha had lost his wife and three daughters. The tragedies had been attributed by many to an Onan shaman named Atotarho, a practitioner of magic who was given to dark leanings. Rumored to be under the sway of the Dark Brother, the malevolent shaman lived in the depths of the forest, and was reputed to have living snakes coiled within his hair.

It was in that time of terrible darkness that Ayenwatha had cried out in the midst of his tremendous grief, hesitating in pursuing the revenge that was expected in such loathsome situations. The Wizard Deganawida had heeded his call and come to Ayenwatha, bringing him consolation and revealing a new, more enlightened path for the tribes to take.

Out of that healing time, Ayenwatha had joined with Deganawida, and the two had worked together to found the Great Law, the Grand Council, and the Sacred Fire.

Ayenwatha had even shown compassion to Atotarho during that legendary time, bringing his former adversary to a kind of redemption that was represented with the combing of the shaman’s serpent-infested hair. The humbled shaman had renounced his previous ways, embraced the Great Law, and then had taken the second seat upon the Grand Council.

When peace and harmony among the five tribes had been achieved, and everything was set in place, the Wizard Deganawida had abruptly departed. It was said that one day, when the peace of the land had failed, and when the people faced certain destruction, that the powerful Wizard would return to them once again.

Logan found the story to be profound and compelling, rich as it was with the foundational elements of the Five Realms themselves. The tale was also intriguing, in that it contained the namesakes of two of their prominent hosts.

It also had another more immediate effect. By the time that Deganawida had finished, the mood of Logan and the others had been lifted up once again, and the look of serenity on Deganawida’s face was unmistakable. The renewed spirits were much more appropriate for a welcoming feast.

Gunther

The trespassers had unusually strange clothing, and their speech was like nothing that Gunther had ever heard before, not in even one of the many lands that he had traversed during his lifetime.

While they did not yet appear to be minions of the Unifier, Gunther stalked them with due caution. Life had long ago taught him very hard lessons about taking anything for granted. One erroneous judgement could be lethal.

Times were more shadowy and dismal than ever before. The most recent tidings were a constant burden to Gunther’s mind, and he wondered as to whether the strangers had anything to do with the darkness sweeping across the Saxan lands.

Males from the outermost villages of Saxany were being called up by a full-scale, general levy, known in the Saxan lands as the General Fyrd. The distressing news had reached Gunther’s ears when he had recently visited Ebba, an older blacksmith who lived within the village of Oak Crossing.

The village was the nearest human habitation to Gunther’s solitary woodland abode. It was named after an ancient, majestic oak tree that sat astride the crossroads of a couple of the more remote forest trails.

Not liking the droll field work that so many Saxan villagers were engaged in, Ebba had stepped forward when the village’s previous smith had taken sick and died. Having aided the smith often before, Ebba had gained just enough skill, and had scraped up enough equipment, to serve as an adequate blacksmith for the small village community.

As practically everyone needed his services, including all the other artisans, he had soon enjoyed a more prominent position in the village, even though his work was fairly mediocre.

His time was largely spent on simple, practical fare, such as the making of nails, working with small knives, and other common implements. He was also one of the very few people that the reclusive woodsman interacted with more than once a year.

The sight of the thin-faced older man was always amusing in itself to Gunther. Regularly coated with charcoal dust, and with his sparser strands of graying hair disheveled all about his narrow head, Ebba’s appearance alone had often evoked a smile from Gunther.

Gunther’s latest visit to Ebba had been for some strap-end clasps, a quantity of iron nails, a pair of small cutting shears, and the acquisition of a new hand axe head for use around his homestead. As Ebba retrieved and gathered the items together that Gunther had requested on his previous visit, the blacksmith had related the dire tidings that had cast such a pall over Saxan hearts.

A massive storm front of war had been hurled forth by the Unifier. It was heading directly eastward, rolling steadily towards Saxany, being conveyed through neighboring Ehrengard. Many allies of Avanor were involved in supporting the war effort, from what Ebba had learned from some messengers and Saxan warriors that had passed through the village on their way to designated mustering points.

There had been no choice left to King Alcuin in the face of the impending war but to issue a full levy summons. Even little, remote Oak Crossing had not found itself immune from the demands of the General Fyrd.

Ebba was one of the few remaining adult males left in Oak Crossing, just old enough that he was deemed incapable of holding up to longer marches. Ebba had still been working long hours to help ready the men of Oak Crossing that had since departed for their assigned mustering point.

Ebba had shaken his head sadly, describing what he had thought as he handed over reforged knives to anxious village men, and done whatever he could to shore up the iron heads of picks and scythes normally used for farm work. The only true weapons in the village had been the hunting bows possessed by a few of the men.

In Ebba’s opinion, a rabble was being sent out to meet a well-prepared invader in battle, and nothing about it boded well to him.

Gunther tried to comfort Ebba by reminding him that the villagers were just part of a much larger force that would include thanes, household warriors, and many other better trained and equipped men.

Nonetheless, the news had been very disheartening, especially as this was no summons for a localized defense. Ebba would have been expected to take part in repelling such a threat, as he was strong enough to hold a weapon. Rather, the Saxans were moving huge forces far from their home regions, bolstering up a line of defense that was being positioned in the far west of their realm.

The grim news had put Gunther on immediate alert, and he had mulled it all over carefully by the time that he had returned to his dwelling from Oak Crossing. He had kept the news in the forefront of his mind all throughout the far-ranging hunting foray that had now brought him to the very edge of Wessachia’s boundaries.

He did not often venture into the nearby County of Annenheim, but a part of him wanted to have a look around the outskirts of the area to see if he might come across any signs of the impending invasion.

A general levy of all able-bodied men, to be sent on a campaign, was no small matter. It heralded a very dangerous emergency, with existential implications for the Saxan Realm.

Gunther had not yet come across the enemy, but he had picked up the trail of the four peculiar strangers. It was clear that the members of the quartet were neither advanced in woodland skills, nor particularly adept at masking their travel.

Any advance scouts sent by a mighty power like the Unifier would be among the best culled from powerful realms. Such individuals would likely prove a challenge even to one as practiced and experienced as Gunther.

The woodsman had now been shadowing the quartet’s moves for a couple of leagues. Five of his Jaghuns had accompanied him on the hunting expedition, including the one that had first picked up the strangers’ trail. The huge creatures moved dexterously and nimbly alongside Gunther, with nary a sound.

It was fortunate for the strangers that Gunther held such a degree of control over the massive, highly intelligent creatures.

The group of strangers had been walking along the forest’s edge for most of the morning, but had just recently turned inward, striding deeper into the woodlands. While still a considerable distance away, Gunther knew that if the strangers kept to their current path that they would eventually come upon his secluded homestead.

Gunther could not assume that they would change directions. He knew that he would soon have to determine whether or not they were truly of the Unifier. The last thing that he wanted was the Unifier’s minion’s becoming aware of his homestead, especially in the context of an imminent invasion.

If the strangers were innocent of such an association, as a significant part of him suspected, then they would be free to go on their way with Gunther’s blessing. If not, then they would not be leaving the woods alive.

Gunther still clung to a faint hope that the affairs of the world at large would bypass his small nook within the woodlands. He was realistic enough to know that such a hope probably would not be justified.

Yet as long as he could do something to affect matters, he certainly would try to guide his fortunes.

Clad in earthy colors, with a knee-length woolen tunic, breeches with narrow lengths of gartering wound snugly about the lower legs from his leather shoes up to his knees, his appearance blended quite well with the shadowy forest environment. Gunther was quite proficient at melting into his surroundings, as well as being adept in not providing his intended quarry with any sign that he was approaching.

Gunther realized that a part of him did not entirely care if the newcomers were investigated or interceded for. He could allow them to amble right into the two Jaghuns currently back guarding his homestead. He knew that his Jaghuns and their bone-crushing jaw strength would make very short work of the four humans.

The stark honesty of the realization was a notion that immediately shamed him, because at one time Gunther knew that he would have sought to protect any creature of the All-Father from avoidable harm.

He had indeed become very hardened over the recent years.

After much travel, pain, and sorrows, he had finally gotten his wish to live the way that he wanted to. He was just over forty, in full health, and still in possession of a very capable body. He was a little slower in reflex and speed than in his youth, but was stronger, more experienced, and far more skilled.

He had fast become defensive towards any unwanted intrusions, discovering a higher degree of sensitivity within himself at each ensuing instance. Most of the occurrences had involved woodland stragglers, whose presence and motives in the sparsely inhabited wildlands were never above suspicion.

Discernment of strangers was becoming an ever greater challenge, as Gunther grew to be fiercely protective of his solitude.

The occasional outlaw or brigand, sometimes appearing in small groups, wandered into his territory. Darker intentions did not always match with courage, as they were easily driven far off from the area. Only a very few had been foolish enough to make a fight of it, and those ill-advised men had met with a very quick fate.

There were a few rare positive exchanges, including some occasional interactions with the men who served Aethelstan, a great thane in service to the Ealdorman Morcar of Wessachia. Aethelstan lived within the nearest burh, a fairly large one called Bergton that lay to the east of Gunther’s abode.

The men of Aethelstan, and the great thane himself, respected Gunther’s desire to live in peace. They also did not mind Gunther’s unceasing tendency to drive off any brigands or outlaws wishing to take up residence within the wilderness area.

As such, they had never tried to pressure him in any way to conform to the usual standards expected of most men. Gunther knew that he did not actually own the land that he lived upon, but it was wild forest, and he did inadvertently provide Aethelstan with a very effective watch close to some Wessachian villages.

Gunther had long ago surmised that Aethelstan had deemed the stalwart’s woodsman’s shunning of brigands and outlaws as a worthy contribution, in lieu of any other service or material obligation to the Kingdom of Saxany. The King’s reeve at Bergton, an honest enough of a fellow named Behrtwald, had never even paid Gunther one visit.

Gunther could also tell that Aethelstan’s men were entirely fascinated with the exotic Jaghuns that he raised. They were creatures native to the legendary Shadowlands, which lay far to the east, across oceans and other harrowing lands.

Like Ebba in Oak Crossing, the great thane’s men brought Gunther periodic news of the broader world. While remaining isolated, to the point of being fairly reclusive, Gunther was not completely disinterested in word about the happenings in the Kingdom of Saxany and realms beyond.

The larger world had been at the center of his life, up until his self-imposed exile to the woodlands in the Saxan province. Regardless of everything, he was wholeheartedly prepared to live out his life in those woods, with the company of nothing more than his small brood of loyal Jaghuns.

Despite his chosen way, Gunther knew deep within himself that he could not let fellow creatures of the All-Father become needlessly endangered. He still believed firmly that the day would come when he would have to account for his entire life with the Creator of all things.

On that momentous day, no excuses would suffice. Only what he had done, and the choices that he had made, would be weighed in the balance to see whether or not he had truly accepted Emmanu.

Gunther admonished himself harshly for his insular, selfish, and undeniably cruel inclinations, at least until he fully determined the allegiances of the four outsiders.

Even with a modicum of understanding, Gunther was confident that he could determine whose side they were truly on; that of the Unifier, or those that wished to be free in will.

Confrontation on some level was inevitable, but there were no concerns if it turned for the worse. He had five fully trained, matured Jaghuns with him. Furthermore, any of the Ealdormen or Counts in the Saxan Kingdom, even King Alcuin himself, would have given anything to have the martial skill of one such as Gunther in their service.

Gunther quietly kept stride with the group of strangers as he pondered the challenges of his situation.

It was then that a voice, like a soft breeze, came abruptly to his ears.

“Gunther, hold for a few moments. I would speak with you.”

Gunther spun around at the sudden words, raising his arm with sword in hand to defend himself. Only at the last instant did he hold back the blow that he was about to deliver.

Standing calmly before him, in long blue robes, was a tall, elderly man, with a bountiful white beard and a similarly snowy mass of hair.

His face was set into a warm smile. He looked out from under the broad brim of his low-crowned hat with one blue eye, which seemed to sparkle with an inner light. The old man showed absolutely no concern over the upheld sword that had barely been held back by Gunther, his right hand resting without any sign of tension upon a tall wooden staff.

“Stranger, you truly show yourself at the most unexpected times,” Gunther remarked curtly, not entirely amused at the sudden surprise.

He lowered his sword point, and slowly slid it back into the sheath affixed to his baldric.

Gunther could not stifle a chuckle, as two of his huge Jaghuns bounded right up to the old man. Standing idly, their broad heads came up above the man’s waist. They angled their wide, short muzzles upward to gaze expectantly into the old man’s face.

The corded muscle massed all around their jaws, thick necks, and shoulders gave evidence to the sheer, awesome power held within their devastating bite. Those massive jaws were now less than an arm’s length from the old man.

Yet there was no tension on the part of the Jaghuns, or unease on the part of the old man. It was as if they were simply old friends, and the old man smiled warmly as he reached down and gently patted both of the great beasts upon their heads, scratching them behind their dark ears as they wagged their medium-length tails briskly.

“They really do have a great affection for you, Wanderer. And I do trust their judgements,” Gunther said, shaking his head in wonder once again. “You are very unusual among those I have come across in this world, and you give little warning to your visits. We have spoken together a few times, and I find myself with more questions and fewer answers with every new encounter of you. I am certain that you will perplex me again before you depart.”

“I must confess that I am sometimes in a world unto myself, and perhaps should be more forthcoming,” the old man replied with a grin, seeming to almost laugh. “But then again, you are not the most sociable of men that I have encountered in my journeys, my reclusive woodland friend.

“Your point is conceded,” Gunther retorted, a smirk now upon his face.

“And I suppose that you were following the four newcomers too?” the old man then inquired of him. “They are unlike any within our world’s realms.”

“Yes, I was,” Gunther confirmed. “And it seems that you know of them as well, so perhaps you could tell me something more of these strangers. It would be much appreciated.”

The Wanderer smiled again. “Yes, I do. And I do know that they are not of the Adversary. You have nothing to concern yourself with about these four. As they are not of the Adversary, they are not of the Unifier either. Those Two are always of common purpose.”

“Your words are welcome to my ears, Wanderer,” Gunther replied. “I could not tell, as I cannot understand their very strange tongue. I have never heard a tongue such as they have … not in any of my travels.”

“They are from very far away, from lands that are far beyond those of your own experience and knowledge,” the Wanderer informed him. “But I can be of help to you this day. You will be able to understand their words with this.”

He reached into a pouch hanging from the leather belt secured about his robe, withdrawing his hand and extending a shaped pendant of blue stone set into metal, hanging from a long hide thong. The woodsman recognized the form of the pendant as that of a rune, the mystical lettering used by Midragardans.

Gunther accepted the necklace somewhat hesitantly, eyeing it closely, as he held it gingerly in his hand. For an instant, it was as if his mind had become hazy. The blue gemstone in the pendent was rich in hue, holding depths within that far exceeded its diminutive physical size.

“Do not worry yourself, this is not a device of the Unifier’s black arts,” the Wanderer calmly explained to him. “It is from me, and it will help you to understand their language, Gunther. With such as this, they will be able to understand you as well.”

Gunther slowly put on the necklace at the other’s bidding.

“If you only knew what I feel about amulets and powers. I have seen my fill of magic within this world,” Gunther responded somberly. He then eyed the Wanderer closely. “For me, the mystery is made clearer, with this gift. I have often wondered about your nature. You are no mere sorcerer. No sorcerer would travel these wildlands with such ease, or thwart the senses of my Jaghuns so capably.

“It leaves only one choice in my mind. You are a Wizard. Are you not?”

Gunther’s eyes narrowed with his final, declarative words, the last question taking on the tone of a direct challenge that demanded an answer.

The Wanderer grinned broadly, with a flare of evident amusement. “It is you who have said so.”

“I fear that I am not wrong in this guess,” Gunther replied, “It does not unsettle me, Wanderer. I know that if you bore me any ill intent, as a Wizard, I would have found out long ago.”

The Wanderer stepped forward, walking past Gunther. “No ill intent, to be certain. If anything, the opposite, woodsman. But this amulet will come of great use to you for the moment. I expect for you to give it to another very shortly. Let us not tarry further, indulging in speculations. Now come with me, and you will see that you understand the words of these strangers to our lands.”

Gunther, certainly no newcomer to the woodlands, had to hurry just to keep pace with the blue-robed man. He marveled at the incredible proficiency of the stranger, as even his Jaghuns lagged behind at first, and had to pick up their own gait to stay close to the long strides of the Wanderer.

In a very short amount of time, Gunther and the old man were close on the trail of the four humans. It was not much longer before they caught up to the woodland interlopers, who had by now come to a full stop.

The four humans were seated upon the surfaces of a couple of thick tree roots, radiating from an old oak tree. The roots that they were seated upon formed boundaries for a little patch of debris-strewn ground, and allowed two of the strangers to face the other two as they talked together.

Gunther and the Wanderer enjoyed the benefit of a steady rise in the ground from the area around the oak tree to a low ridgeline that allowed them to capably shield their own forms. They eased to the top of the ridgeline and looked down upon the four strangers. Talking amongst themselves, the strangers were still utterly inept at concealing their presence in the woods.

Gunther’s eyes widened, and he glanced down at the blue stone now resting against his chest.

Unlike the last time that he had heard the voices of the strangers, Gunther could now understand their words as if they were speaking the Saxan tongue with complete fluency. Astonished, he turned to comment to the Wanderer.

His breath caught abruptly in his throat.

There was absolutely no trace of the mysterious figure. It was as if the Wanderer had been just a figment of his imagination, were it not for the presence of three other amulets hanging just a couple of feet away from him, on the end of a nearby tree branch. They were siblings to the one looped about his own neck.

There was no question as to why there were four of the amulets in all, as Gunther reached out and quietly removed the other three suspended from the thin branch. The Wizard, for that was surely what the Wanderer was, intended for them to be given over to the four strangers.

The thought deeply disturbed Gunther. He was not one to trust the whims of Wizards, no matter how benevolent they appeared to be. The tales of them that he had heard in his life had been many. To his knowledge, he had not encountered any himself, with the exception of the elderly, blue-robed man. Furthermore, Wizards were commonly said to have withdrawn in recent ages from open involvement in the affairs of humankind.

There were sorcerers, many legendary, and others such as warlocks and witches, among the mortal race of mankind, but the Wizards were said to be something entirely different, and far more daunting. They were a race of immortals, ageless and powerful, and had been granted gifts unimaginable at the dawn of the world.

As one whose own life occupied a speck of history, Gunther could not begin to fathom the designs of a being such as a Wizard. He wished that the Wanderer would have stayed for a few moments longer, and had not departed before giving Gunther the four amulets.

Gunther wanted to ask the Wanderer exactly why he had entrusted the amulets to Gunther, and why the Wizard had such an interest in the four strangers now gathered just a handful of paces away from the woodsman. Gunther doubted that he would have received any satisfactory answers if he had gotten a chance to ask the questions. If the Wizard had even chosen to respond, his words would have been layered in ambiguities.

Yet at the same time, all of Gunther’s encounters leading up to, and including, his current one might be an answer in themselves. The encounters could very well indicate that the Wizards were returning to involve themselves in the affairs of the world once again. If that were true, the implications were ominous, as it was highly likely that only a great reason would draw the Wizards forth.

Gunther shook his head with a rueful grin, remembering his past experiences with the old man. At the very least, he would have to remember to thank the Wanderer for his own amulet, the next time that Gunther encountered him. He already understood and appreciated its tremendous value.

Quietly, he settled himself into a more comfortable position, watching the four strangers with a renewed interest, their words no longer an obstacle. His Jaghuns were pressed in close around him, crouched down and silently awaiting their master’s next command.

His full attention honed in upon the four strangers as he listened to their next words. It did not take very long for him to discover that they were almost certainly not servants of the Unifier, and that they were in the midst of a very dire plight.

He listened carefully to their conversation. From what he was able to ascertain, they were traveling without a specific destination in mind, and were hoping to cross paths with anyone that might be able to help them. Fear, frustration, and anxiety were all present just underneath their words, heavily betrayed by their nervous tones.

The shorter, older man appeared to be the leader of the quartet, or at least the most respected.

He had the narrow, tilted eyes and yellowish skin tones like the exotic humans that lived in the lands far to the east, in realms even farther away than the Shadowlands, across many vast lands and great bodies of water.

He had seen a precious few such men within the palace grounds of Theonium, as a result of the risky, lengthy caravan journeys that traversed the Rising Sun Road, bearing loads of spices and silks. The sight of such a man within the woods of Saxany both fascinated and highly intrigued Gunther.

The younger lad, a bit gawky in his maturing body, seemed to be close in alliance to the leader. Gunther could tell from the youth’s direct, hardened glances that the younger male held little regard, and likely contempt, for one of the others. The person holding his ire was a young woman with dark hair that had reddish streaks within it, as if dyed.

That particular female was now sitting a little distance off from the rest, having shifted to another root a bit farther back. A sullen expression crouched upon her face, and she rarely met eyes with any of the others in the group.

The final member of the party, a woman of similar age to the other female, seemed to be very attentive to what the two men were saying. Her body language and expressions towards the other woman needed little translation. Gunther could see plainly that she was disgusted with the behavior of the brooding female.

Making a subtle call, indistinguishable from a bird of the forest, he summoned one of his Jaghuns over. The great beast crept up silently on its huge paws to Gunther, its massive head looming just over its human patron and friend.

“Creator’s Children,” Gunther said in a whisper, gesturing with emphasis towards the four strangers. “Surround.”

Nostrils flaring, the Jaghun took in a long draught of scents out of the air, as it regarded the four strangers with an intense, keen gaze.

Suddenly, the Jaghun turned its great head, and roughly licked Gunther on the side of his face, before slowly backing up some distance away. Gunther almost smiled at the spontaneous gesture, but his focus stayed rigidly fixed. Well behind the ridge, the Jaghun rose and loped off into the woods upon its long, muscular legs.

Gunther called another Jaghun over, using a different call. He then gave it the same commands as the first, and sent it onward to join the other.

Gunther kept to his advantageous position. He used three more distinctive calls to bring the remaining Jaghuns in, and uttered the “Creator’s Children” command to each as they drew near.

The commands that Gunther had given the large beasts would be welcome news to the strangers, if they knew and understood the potential danger that the woodsman had just abrogated.

Gunther did not plan to lose sight of the strangers until some mysteries were solved, but the precaution settled his mind. He did not want to see his Jaghuns beset the four strangers unless he was convinced that there was a definite reason. Neither did he want to extend them any chance of escape if they turned out to be something darker in nature.

There was no need to rush anything, especially now that he could understand the strangers’ speech. Gunther chose to continue observing and tracking the humans for the time being, to see what he could learn. In addition to scrutinizing the four humans, Gunther could also keep a benevolent watch set over them.

There was no mistake that they were vulnerable. The longer that he watched them, the more that he was becoming utterly convinced that they were wholly unprepared for a woodland environment.

Aethelstan

A hardened countenance appeared to be engraved into the face of the tall warrior calmly gazing out over the thatch-roofed, timber structures filling up the great burh.

The sky overhead was radiant, a sea of blue-green dotted with rolling masses of pure white clouds, all underneath the beneficence of a beaming sun. The day’s weather was pleasantly mild, with a touch of coolness carried along the steady breezes flowing throughout the burh.

Under any other circumstances, the great thane’s heart would have rejoiced at the splendor of nature’s beauty.

His eyes lingered for several moments upon the square-sided bell tower a short distance from him. It was situated just outside the church, which along with the tower were among the few stone elements within Bergton, a large market town and site of a royal coining mint.

Aethelstan hoped in the core of his heart that the All-Father would be going forth with him, and all of the men gathered that day, once they had set out beyond the walls.

The great thane’s spirit was heavy. His stoic expression covered the sorrows that Aethelstan felt churning deep within himself. They came from a number of sources, but the greatest was derived from thoughts of leaving his beloved family behind.

A melancholy had long settled within him over the state of affairs that had been forced upon him in the calling up of a General Fyrd. He did not dispute the absolute necessity of the broad summons, but the harsh reality of its implications was undeniable in regards to a majority of the men who would be marching forth that very day.

The full focus of his authority was on sustaining and furthering the well-being of the newly levied men gathered for the march. This occasion would be nothing like a Select Fyrd, composed of seasoned veterans and household warriors used to the rigors of a military campaign. This time, he would be taking a multitude of farmers, artisans, and craftsmen from the only lives that they had ever known, and ordering them into the depths of unknown dangers. There was no doubt that a great number of the men might well not be coming back.

Even the last moments following the final review of his mustered warriors were turning out to be supremely difficult. A few last echoes of warm, relaxing nights spent in his great hall, surrounded by his wife Gisela, his children, and the men and women of his household retinue, tugged mercilessly at his tormented mind.

He could not deny that he would much rather be taking deep draughts of ale or mead, while listening to wondrous tales of adventure and heroism spun expertly in verses from the lips of a gleeman. An approaching evening would be an anticipation to savor if it were to be occupied listening to the notes of a well-played harp, or putting his mind to games of riddles, as the central hearth fire blazed vibrantly.

While all of that was true, it simply did not do any good to dwell upon such thoughts. Neither could he pity himself, as the burdens were not his alone. Those that went and those that remained behind were both being laden with a very ponderous burden.

Yet despite the unfortunate nature of all of it, there was nothing that the great thane of Wessachia felt the need to question, justify, or regret in regards to what he had to do.

He was grimly resolved. The sudden turn of events in his life was not completely a surprise to him. Aethelstan had long felt the subtle dread common to many Saxans, that even the warmth of life itself was simply a short passage from one vast darkness to another. The good moments in life always had to be cherished and remembered, as no man could stop whatever had been destined for him to face.

A few spear-bearing guards were walking slowly along the inner walkways, running along the top of the timber walls that crowned the earthen rampart ringing the entire market-town, or burh. The walls had been fashioned with wooden crenellations, its outer facing of horizontal wooden planking set between a framing of tall, timber posts. The embankment that the wall surmounted sloped far down into a successive series of three deep, outer ditches.

His eyes swept around the square, stone towers erected at several points along the oval-shaped perimeter. Four held large, iron-banded oak gates set within arches. The other four were placed at even distances in between the gate-towers, providing additional lookout positions and strong-points for defense.

As a whole, the defenses were capable enough, but only if there were enough fighters to man them. Once the column had departed and gathered up other musters, there would be scant few left to defend the burhs of Wessachia, such as Bergton, and even fewer for the outlying villages and hamlets.

Most every man who could bear weapons from the immediate region was now assembled in the masses arrayed all about him.

A number were on horseback, well-prepared for the journey and its considerable demands. These included the men of his immediate household retinue, and warriors from the garrison of the burh itself.

Others similarly equipped and with horse were lesser thanes from smaller, fortified estates who were mustering at Bergton, having come along with their own bands of household followers.

Still others had been equipped collectively, some on horse, and some to travel on foot, to fulfill military obligations to Ealdorman or thane. While not thanes, these men, the ceorls, were qualified for the more commonly utilized Select Fyrd.

All these principal groups would have been expected for a campaign or normal army summons. They were not the elements of the muster that had bestowed Aethelstan with the deep misgivings that he was feeling.

Rather, it was the much larger element of the gathering whose presence at Bergton troubled the great thane, and it was one that was far from common within a Saxan muster.

This larger group was entirely on foot, and included weathered farmers, lifelong craftsmen, simple laborers, and all manner of commoners. They came from within the lands surrounding Bergton, as the territory’s populations of able-bodied men had been summoned almost in their entirety to the unprecedented call to arms.

A greater proportion of these men had never gone far beyond their village areas, some having never before even seen the market town that they were now standing within. Rarely did they stray to other villages and hamlets in their vicinity, with the exceptions of special occasions and necessity. There was a great nervousness within this portion of the force already. Aethelstan could see it reflected in their eyes, and feel it coalescing in the air.

A great number of women, children, and older men had gathered to see the massive throng off. They had come in from all the surrounding farm villages, isolated farmsteads, hamlets, and the burh of Bergton itself.

A great trepidation hung over them all.

Aethelstan could not fault them for their anxiety and distress, as he knew in his heart that they had great reason to fear. A General Fyrd was not something that was idly called, and everyone knew it.

A burly man stood near to the front of the massed force. His face was pensive, as he stared out over the gathering. The reeve of the town, assigned to represent the King’s authority, Berhtwald would be one of the few able-bodied fighting men remaining behind. With Aethelstan’s confidence and insistence, Berhtwald would see to maintaining some semblance of order within the burh, despite the depletion of the overwhelming majority of the able-bodied menfolk.

A fair number of carts and wagons had been readied, piled high with extra weapons, mail shirts, helms, sacks, chests, and barrels of provisions. Helms rested upon the tops of vertical posts in the frames of the wagons, and mail byrnies were carried suspended, with horizontal poles running through their sleeves of circular, iron links. Bundles of spears were tied together and leaning against the sides of the wagons.

Stout oxen with bulging muscles were already yoked and tethered. The creatures waited patiently for the signal to begin pulling their substantial loads forward. The occasional bellow came from the stalwart beasts, as if they periodically sensed the anxiety looming in the air around them.

A good number of horses were standing idly, near to the carts, their backs loaded with leather packs filled with further supplies. A number of men who would be leading and tending to them were busy making last minute checks on metal buckles and ties on hempen rucksacks.

Aethelstan pulled his gaze from the massed supplies, and looked towards a trio of men from his retinue who were mounted on their steeds nearby.

One bore aloft a large banner that displayed a field of red trees set against a white background.

The second carried a spear-mounted pennon, whose right end had been cut into three triangular extensions. The tapering extensions were red, with the rest of the pennon’s body white, reflecting the color pattern of the larger banner.

Both the banner and the pennon were flapping within the clutches of the steady breeze.

The third man carried no banner or pennon, but instead had a large ox-horn. The horn was resting at his right side, hanging from a strap placed over his neck, running across the front of his chest down to his waist.

All three were meticulous men when it came to matters of campaigns and war. Where the three of them could have had their chain mail shirts and helms carried on the wagons, they had the former rolled up behind their saddles, and the latter hanging from the wide pommels of their saddles.

Disciplined, and always keeping in a state of readiness, they were very valued warriors. Their influence would be welcome among a host whose greater number would soon be longing greatly for their homes and hearths.

The great thane slowly nodded to them, as the moment that all of them dreaded could be put off no longer.

The banner and pennon-bearing warriors then turned their horses about at Aethelstan’s signal, and started their steeds forward. They cantered down the hard-packed dirt path that led from the open square within Bergton. The path continued out through one of the square tower gates, through an expanse of cleared land, and on into the depths of the surrounding forests.

The third warrior then raised his horn to his lips and blared loudly again upon it, the resonant call carrying far and swiftly throughout the still, tense air.

Last minute hugs were then exchanged, with an open and desperate passion, amongst the commoners of the force with the members of their distressed families and friends that had gathered to watch them go forth.

Aethelstan had a considerable amount of sympathy for the inexperienced commoners about to set out on foot for the long journey. No small number of tears was shed, as feelings and emotions flowed powerfully in those last, precious moments.

Aethelstan turned his gaze from such disheartening sights and inwardly batted down the sharp pangs of empathy that rose up within him. At all costs, he knew that he had to present a visage of determination to all that looked upon him. Serving as a pillar of strength and leadership was an excruciatingly difficult challenge in a moment such as this.

His own personal moment of severance had arrived. Thoughts of the world around him faded into the background as Aethelstan looked to the attractive, dark-haired woman standing just behind his two sons and daughter. Her bright blue eyes were moist with tears that she was trying desperately to keep back.

She rested one weary hand upon the right shoulder of one of the boys, a normally vibrant lad of twelve who now looked quite dispirited. Her other hand lay upon the left shoulder of their young, usually effervescent daughter of seven years.

The two children were gently corralled between her hands before her, looking despondently towards their father.

Their other son, who had just turned eleven, stood a few paces in front of his siblings and mother. He looked up inquisitively and anxiously, peering out from underneath a mop of stringy blond hair.

The little girl remained tucked close to Gisela’s side, clutching her mother’s leg tightly, as if fearing that she might be leaving too.

Named Wynflaed, Aethelstan’s daughter had a cherubic face with a little nose. Her hair was as fair and golden as the light through a bountiful field on the edge of an abundant Saxan harvest. Her eyes were wide and shy, prompting Aethelstan to smile gently at her, even as he could sense the deep sorrow within the child’s gaze.

“You be a good girl, and be of help to your mother in all things,” Aethelstan told Wynflaed, still feeling a little more awkward when he spoke to his daughter than when he was addressing the two boys. “I am counting on you in a big way. Be good and I will take you for some horse rides when I return. Maybe even give you your own horse to ride. Does that sound good?”

The little girl nodded timidly from her mother’s side, her sorrow at seeing her father leaving not placated even by the promise of getting her own horse. The subdued response pained Aethelstan all the more.

“Father? Can I not go with you?” the younger of the boys, named Wyglaf, asked.

Aethelstan smiled as reassuringly as he could. He knew that the boy would go with him if he knew his father was walking to face a dragon with just a sword in hand.

“No, Wyglaf, as I need for you and your brother to help guard the burh,” Aethelstan said, looking his son straight in the eye, with a serious tone of voice. “It is a very important task. You see all these warriors leaving with me. Who will protect the people of the town? You must help our good reeve Behrtwald, and you must appreciate this task, if you are to lead men some day.”

Wyglaf stood up a little straighter and nodded his head, struggling to look dutiful.

“When will you return?” asked the other boy, Wystan.

His thicker dark hair framed the well-defined lines of his face, which seemed to be continually manifesting towards a likeness of Aethelstan himself. His body was showing the first signs of growing into the tall, strong build, replete with broad shoulder and slim waist that his father was graced with.

Aethelstan looked to the older boy, and then slowly brought his eyes up to meet those of his beloved wife. His words were intended for both of them.

“I do not know when I will return …” he said, his words low, somber, and purposeful. “But know that I will do everything in my power to return. Be strong and work hard in my stead. Obey your mother. And in all things place your hearts in the hands of the All-Father, as well as your trust.”

He lingered for yet a moment longer, his look intimately holding his wife’s gaze, while holding back a wellspring of emotions that started to surge up within him.

Aethelstan said gently to her, “Know that your love goes with me, Gisela, my beloved wife, and mine remains with you. It cannot be broken asunder by anything of this world.”

She nodded slowly to him, the longing already present within her face and saying far more than any words could have.

With a great effort, he ripped his gaze away from the anguished look in his beloved wife’s eyes, knowing the distress that lingering any further would cause.

Aethelstan kept a resolute mien as he gripped Wind Runner’s reins and turned the iron-grey stallion about. He nudged his equine companion firmly in the sides with his heels, spurring the proud stallion forward.

He was not about to show his men anything less than that he was able to move forward at their lead, after leaving his own family behind, as they all set forth under his authority. Their sacrifice was no less than his, a shared ordeal that they would all bear together.

Aethelstan kept his gaze fixed forward as he and Wind Runner trotted off towards the open gateway, moving past the gathered throngs as he headed in the direction of the vanguard elements of the march.

The neighs of horses, shuffling of steps, creaks of wagons, cries of encouragement, and last verbal exchanges between those going and staying filled the air, as the large force began to fall into place and lurch into full motion.

Several bystanders called out warmly to Aethelstan, wishing the All-Father’s blessings and a safe return upon him. He acknowledged them with nods and waves to each side, as Wind Runner reached the open gateway and continued on the path passing through the three outer ditches surrounding the burh.

He had always felt strong affection from the people, but also knew that their hopes lay with him to lead their loved ones back alive. Such was an onerous burden for any man, and in the current instance it was tempered only by the absolute necessity of the General Fyrd.

The summons had been urgent enough, conveyed by a spirited royal courier bearing an unmistakable, clear order by sealed parchment. The distinctive seal had been from the court of King Alcuin himself, and was accompanied by another letter bearing the seal of Ealdorman Morcar.

War was thundering towards Saxany, and for the first time in Aethelstan’s thirty-seven years of life, a full, comprehensive levy was being called.

In his past, it was largely the household retinues, thanes, and ceorls that were called to duty. It was all that was necessary to meet most challenges, whether skirmishes or raids. This time, though, most every male who could bear arms had been summoned.

The full levy had not been called just to defend their immediate territory, and this profound, singular fact was not lost on anyone.

Anyone, even some of the more craven amongst the populace, could be counted on to help defend against an imminent threat to one’s own families and homes. The approaching conflict was something much larger, requiring a broad and far-reaching summons intended to bring up massive forces to deploy in strength within the western boundaries of the Saxan Kingdom.

Simple villagers were being called upon to go forth on a long campaign, the duration of which was most uncertain. Even the destination was not entirely assured, as many changes occurred in wars.

From what Aethelstan had been able to glean from the hurried reports and summons, a great army was to be gathered and deployed upon the strategic Plains of Athelney. The Plains lay just beyond the thin neck of land that served as the easternmost border territories of neighboring Ehrengard.

The Plains of Athelney were the gateway to all of Saxany. Once past the Plains, an invading army could strike out in any number of directions.

Through a network of diligent spies, much had been learned about the enemy’s intentions and preparations. It was obvious that the enemy was brazenly sending a tremendous force straight towards the Plains of Athelney. It was a titanic spear aimed at the heart of the realm.

Aethelstan had heard many rumors about the nature of the invading force, but all agreed that it was unprecedented in size.

Becoming ever more apparent was that a second force with different designs marched along with the principle invasion. This second force was almost certainly Avanoran in nature, and the leaders of Saxany were now convinced that it had a very specific purpose.

After much deliberation and study of reports, it was clear that the only logical area for a second force to try and strike through would be in the area of Wessachia. The lower areas of Wessachia offered some ideal passages for a considerable mass of warriors to get through the hilly and mountainous terrain, just beyond a stretch of open land that was part of the adjacent County of Annenheim to the west.

The passage was made ideal, of course, if it went uncontested.

As such, Aethelstan’s burh of Bergton, and the other burhs that were under the authority of the great Ealdorman Morcar, were coordinating the formation of a second battle group to go contest this likely thrust of the enemy. All indications showed that the enemy’s overwhelmingly best route lay in piercing the hills running south, just beyond the headwaters of the Grenzen River.

Anything north of that area, deeper into Annenheim, would quickly become very problematic for a substantial invading force. The swift and cold waters of the broad river flowing into the seas to the north served as both a barrier and an ancient boundary. It now marked the lands of Count Einhard’s lands of Annenheim to the west, and Ealdorman Morcar’s Wessachia to the east.

Funneled between the river to the west and the slopes of Wessachian territory to the east, an enemy force moving northward would be placed at a great disadvantage.

Even more challenging to a prospective invader, the large hills of lower Wessachia rose into mountains towards the north. A few easily defensible passes were the only routes through the northern mountains, which could be held for a long time against any force trying to push eastward.

It all left little doubt that an enemy would seek to attack in the south of the Wessachian region, pushing through the lower hills without the dilemma of having a river to its back.

Even though the Saxans were well aware of the general route that an enemy would take, this was still no mere border dispute. Nor was it anything like the common conflicts across the world of Ave through the ages, arising between rival kingdoms or landholders.

A grave and unique moment had arrived, when the very existence of Saxany was under threat from a multitude of kingdoms now in thrall to the singular will of the Unifier.

Wind Runner cantered forth alongside the dense column, and Aethelstan slowed his steed as it neared the front where the large banner of Wessachia was being carried. Aethelstan’s ears were filled with the steady tramping of hundreds upon hundreds of feet, and the continual rustles and clinks accompanying the rhythmic tread.

He glanced back along the winding throng of commoners, following along behind the leading contingents of austere-faced, mounted warriors. A great number of smaller pennons were held high among them, carried forward at the end of long spears.

The bonds between men of the same village, and with their immediate neighbors, would be of paramount importance in the face of the adversities that the villagers would soon be facing. More similar contingents would be joining the main column near the outermost villages of Wessachia, having mustered well in advance to meet the main force along its route.

The muster, though hurried, was already going very well by all the latest accounts. Very few of those expected for the muster at Bergton had failed to respond to the summons. It filled Aethelstan with a fierce pride, as he knew that the levy’s nearly total presence made a tremendous statement regarding the strength residing within the people’s hearts. There was no question that they had overcome much to be standing there that day.

Aethelstan regarded the fearful expressions and anxiety-ridden looks that filled the faces of the commoners as they filed out behind the mounted warriors. Even those who had more calm expressions were betrayed by the tight, white-knuckled grips that they held upon the bows, spears, or farm implements in their hands. Their impending sojourn claimed no end in sight, and promised to draw them very far from the town wall-walks and familiar village surroundings.

There were so many strong feelings that raced through Aethelstan’s mind and heart at the sight of the commoners, as they started out on the long journey together.

He had lived and trained with most of the skilled warriors of his household for years. They possessed the best of arms, such as the prized swords on the senior warriors, and the notorious, long-hafted war axes wielded by many of the others.

Aethelstan had already fought alongside them, such as during a few minor border conflicts with Ehrengardian nobles, and he had no doubts as to their hardiness and abilities. His axe-men, he felt, could match the skills of the vaunted King’s Guard of their mutual lord, King Alcuin.

The higher level ceorls that were part of the more widespread select levies were capably prepared as well. They were often modest landowners themselves, and some simply had not yet established the fortified enclosure and bell tower that would allow them to officially ascend to the rank of a thane.

Whether the land of a couple or several families, a designated amount of land, measured as eight hides in total, was made responsible for providing an equipped warrior to a levy. While not necessarily matching the full skills of a garrison or household warrior, these ceorls were most certainly robust, effectively equipped, and possessed quality training.

It was these more elite portions of the army that Aethelstan was well familiar with; the thanes, garrison warriors, household retinues, and ceorls.

Aethelstan knew the measure of what he could expect from them on a longer campaign. The rest of the general levy was an altogether different situation, holding so many unknown factors within its broad ranks. It gave him much to think about regarding the military aspects of the campaign and looming battles.

It was true that a small number of them had solid lances and sturdy knives, the latter including seaxs of lengths substantial enough to be like a shorter sword. A few of them even had shields and helms.

More often than not, the few better grade weapons amongst the commoners were heirlooms that had been passed down through families for generations. Quite frequently, such items were prizes culled in the aftermath of blood-drenched battles that had occurred long ago.

The matter of bows and archery was much different within the ranks of villagers, farmers, and artisans.

There were a substantial number of very good quality bows carried among the commoners. With strings of linen, and staves of ash or yew, the bows were used by individuals that had honed their skills while hunting within the hilly forests of Ealdorman Morcar’s lands.

Most with bows were competent archers, and a fair number were quite excellent in their ability. Aethelstan knew that they would hold a very important place within the Saxan ranks, and he did not even want to begin to contemplate the detriments faced by a Saxan army without an ample number of the peasant bowmen.

Even so, the host of commoners was not of the same sort of martial ilk that his household warriors were.

While most of them were undeniably good, hard-working people, they were not used to the trials and demands involved in an extensive war campaign. How they would respond to the rigors of battle and hardship remained to be seen, and Aethelstan would not know the answer until it was far too late to do much of anything about it. Both he and Saxany were at the mercy of those untested men, in many ways.

In past times, the farmers and artisans had always seen their role as being to support and provision thanes such Aethelstan and their retinues for the more prevalent type of Select Levies.

In truth, they had already performed such a role for this very march. They had worked assiduously, applying their skills tirelessly for day after day, whether it was in the making of barrels and chests, building new wagons, leather repair, the fashioning of iron implements, or any one of the seemingly innumerable elements required for outfitting a large contingent for war.

Yet while they had performed their tasks wonderfully, a growing weight had surely dragged upon their minds. They all were mentally ready to respond to any immediate threat in the vicinity of their villages, or a nearby burh, but it had never before entered their minds that they could be called upon to leave their homes indefinitely, to fight in a far distant war.

This call to arms would take them to fight in just such a battle and war, whose magnitude threatened to take an unprecedented number of lives.

Aethelstan found himself worrying ever more about protecting these people in any way that he could. Never before had he come to the full realization of just how deeply he had come to care for the rugged, plain speaking, soil-tilling people of the hamlets and villages.

The General Fyrd was a terrible burden that he now had to bear, but there was no other choice left to the thanes, ealdormen, counts, and others of the realm. The messengers had been clear about the fearsome war storm that had gathered far to the west, and was now approaching Saxany.

Each and every man would be needed if the Saxan Kingdom were to even have a hope of surviving. The only other path was to submit to the Unifier’s growing authority, and to Aethelstan that was no choice at all. To him, and to everyone that he had spoken to, that would be an abandonment of their very souls.

Whether tacit or by overt means, the Unifier was concentrating ever more authority to Himself. Aethelstan could not fail to see that it was pure recklessness to bring so many lands underneath one singular rule. While it might appear to some that kingdoms and empires still existed, Aethelstan knew it was all just illusion.

King Alcuin had been absolutely right in having defied Avanor and the Unifier. Something truly dark and terrible was afoot, as only a kingdom established and ruled directly by the All-Father could be trusted to avoid the kinds of corruption and tyranny inherent in a fallible, imperfect world. Placing such a concentration of power into the hands of mortal men was perilous and foolhardy.

Aethelstan snapped out of his momentary rumination, as there would be plenty of time for thinking once they were fully underway. He did not yet move forth to draw alongside the high banner with the red trees and white background, choosing instead to keep holding Wind Runner back, just off to the side of the proceeding column.

He gazed back upon the long, thick column wending its way down from the tower-gate of the burh. The end of the column had still not emerged, though well over fifteen hundred men were now moving within Aethelstan’s sight.

In spite of all the burdens weighing upon his spirit, a flaring surge of pride came over him as he listened to the rumbling marching of the men and watched their ranks file by him.

Saxany was rousing itself to meet a dangerous threat once again, issuing forth in a dark hour to meet its enemy openly and with courage.

Aethelstan and all the men of the column were joining themselves with many honorable generations of Saxan warriors that day, transcending all time as they merged their number to others who had stood forward in times of threat and dire need.

Whatever the result of the coming battle was, the exercise of will, and affirmation of loyalties and values, that was reflected in the great column could never be taken away.

Aethelstan burned with a great pride to be going forward with such men, from the least of the villagers to the most renowned of the veteran warriors. By stepping out of the gates, and setting their foot on the pathway towards the west, each and every one of them was making a firm declaration about themselves.

In the final account of one’s life, the measure of oneself, and what one took a stand for, was all that truly mattered anyway.

The recognition of the assertion being made by all the men before him strengthened Aethelstan’s spirit greatly, bolstering him at a moment when so many things were battering incessantly upon his mind.

Without thinking about it, his left hand dropped slowly to the leather grip of Aurora, the storied sword sheathed at his left side. His fingers felt the familiar leather wrapping, as they settled between the silver-gilt, tri-lobed pommel and straight cross guard, also gilded with silver.

The blade was named many years in the past, on the very day that it was first wielded in battle. One of Aethelstan’s ancestors had raised it high in the morning’s light, at the forefront of a Saxan force mustered to face a powerful and determined enemy.

Witnesses later said that the blade radiated the light of the new dawn, just before the Saxans had gone forward to rout one of the last incursions of Midragardan raiders to come into Saxany.

That revered sword had been drawn by others of Aethelstan’s line, and it had been a part of many brave exploits done on behalf of the Saxan people.

Aethelstan wondered if the light of the sun would strike the sword once again, when the time came for him to draw it and lead the men of his homeland into the thunder of the coming fight.

His hand squeezed the grip a little tighter, as he uttered a silent prayer that he would measure up to the thanes that had gone before him in a storied and revered line.

Nudging Wind Runner forward into a canter again, his left hand still resting upon the hilt of Aurora, Aethelstan brought the stallion up alongside the warrior carrying the banner of Wessachia just as the front of the column neared the edge of the woods.

The pathway would shortly intersect with a main route for martial forces, or herepath, as they continued westward, where more musters would be linking their numbers to the column as they progressed.

So much lay ahead, and so much remained unknown, but all journeys began with the initial step.

Aethelstan had taken that first step, as had over two thousand other men that day, despite all their fears. That alone made it an equivalent honor for Aethelstan to lead each and every one of them, simple villager and wealthy thane alike.

Deganawida

Solemnity filled the faces of the modest gathering seated around the hearth fire. The men were assembled in a chamber within the longhouse that displayed the image of a bear, rendered upon the facing of the bark panels suspended over the sheltered porch-entrances at each end.

Situated near to the highly prestigious, central longhouse that housed the revered Sacred Fire of the Five Realms, the Bear Clan longhouse that Deganawida dwelled within was one of the most prominent structures of the village.

The Bear Clan longhouse currently served as the main site for the meetings of the village council. It was the traditionally appropriate location, as Deganawida was the chosen headman of the Onan village called The Place of Far Seeing.

All of the main members of the village council were now present and fully attentive, as Deganawida had expected in light of the unusual, recent developments.

The eight other clan sachems looked expectantly towards Deganawida, their faces illuminated by the flames of the hearth fire. The blazing tendrils crackled steadily within the ponderous silence of the chamber.

Along with Deganawida himself, the sachems represented the nine clans that were present within the Onan Tribe; The Bear, The Wolf, The Firaken, The Beaver, the Shadow Flyers, The Tortoise, The Hawk, The Moose, and The Deer.

The venerated clan matrons of the substantial village had appointed each of the other eight sachems, just as they had appointed Deganawida. The clan matrons could similarly remove any of them, if they were ever deemed to be failing in their charge of guiding the village judiciously.

As of yet, all of the sachems present had served steadily and capably ever since their appointments. It had been quite some time since a sachem had been deposed for perceived failure in their given duty.

In addition to the sachems, the Wise Ones, the elderly men of the village, were also in attendance to give their own counsel and insights.

At first, all of the men had engaged in a sequence of chanted prayers, offering the rhythmic devotions to the One Spirit. As always, the prayers to the Sky Lord had largely centered upon simple thanksgiving, rather than the asking of any favor.

The men had then shared sacred tobacco together. They had smoked it reverently in the special, ornately carved wooden pipes, affixed with eagle feathers, that they passed carefully amongst each other.

A spirit of openness and harmony predominated within the longhouse when it finally became time to discuss the important village and tribal matters at hand. At this particular council meeting, there was one predominant issue that stood forth from all others.

Deganawida’s task, as always, was markedly different than that of the other ruling entities in the neighboring kingdom of Gallea. It was true that Deganawida carried more authority within the village in a more direct manner than he did on his seat at the Grand Council of the Five Realms. Yet his challenge was still to build consensus and wield influence, rather than issue indisputable and binding commands, as did the rulers in the western lands.

The thunderclouds of looming war were most certainly casting broad shadows upon the minds of the clan sachems and Wise Ones. The unexpected appearance of the strange foreigners had not helped matters in the least.

The presence of the foreigners had evoked thoughts of old prophecies and tales, all of which were set within a foreboding, worrisome context. If the foreigners were truly from another world, then there was likely much more to worry about than just the massing forces on the western borders of the tribal lands.

Aside from the daunting, broader implications, there also remained another underlying reality if the foreigners’ story was indeed true. Assuming that their tale was sincere, they were still seven fellow humans, vulnerable and lost within an entirely unfamiliar world.

That, more than anything else, weighed heavily upon Deganawida’s conscience as he looked out to his fellow council members.

Underneath the wampum banners, signifying the tribe itself, and referencing momentous events of their heritage, Deganawida convened the village council with a few opening words. When finished, he sat back down and waited with an attentive ear and apprehensive heart.

One by one, in the time-honored fashion, all of those wishing to speak rose up to address the council, taking a seat again when they had concluded.

The implications of this particular village council meeting were far reaching. Likely, its conclusions would reverberate all the way to the Grand Council itself. Deganawida was not the only man of the village who was also involved with the Grand Council of the Five Realms. There were three other men present who served as Pine Tree sachems for that august body. Their duties to the Grand Council included the running of messages, and acting as emissaries from time to time on behalf of the Five Realms.

Deganawida could not help but watch the faces of those three men in particular, knowing that they were listening to the discussion with some thoughts already given towards Grand Council matters. Their reactions might well give him a hint of what to expect in the times to come.

The series of speeches that ensued were quite uninhibited, as each speaker spoke frankly regarding their own perceptions and counsel. None would take offense for bluntly given comments during such an assembly. Candor was the way of the Onan, as it was for the other four tribes.

In general, the sentiments that were expressed by the litany of speakers were not particularly harsh. They tended to be ones of caution, balanced with the typical desire to show generosity towards accepted guests of the tribe.

Nearly all of the speakers expressed a concerted desire to keep the guests under close watch, as well as keeping them guarded should they venture beyond the boundaries of the village. It was clear that no man of the council felt comfortable enough to allow the seven free reign, both for their own protection as well as to address concerns of the unknown.

Their impressions of the guests themselves, for the large part, were very positive.

As a whole, the seven were being regarded in good favor, if not yet unconditionally embraced. To a man, the council members that spoke sensed that the seven’s claims of being from thoroughly foreign origins were genuine.

Furthermore, there were no troubling suspicions raised by any of the council members in their lengthy orations.

Deganawida’s hopes rose incrementally throughout the parade of speeches. He knew that Ayenwatha already felt very strongly about the seven, and Deganawida himself saw something very monumental in the abrupt appearance of the seven strangers.

Deganawida, like Ayenwatha, would abide by the consensus of the village council. Yet also like Ayenwatha, Deganawida greatly desired to have the seven harbored amongst the Onan, as their greater purpose was fathomed.

On a deeper level, he also did not want to see them sent unprepared out of the village, and left to the mercy of the wilderness. Such a thing would be far beneath what the Onan stood for, and would be a failure on many levels.

In addition, there was the very real dilemma facing the tribe of having the seven turned away, only to discover later that they were truly the ones heralded by ancient prophecy.

White Flower, the great Clan Matron of the Bear Clan who had been highly influential in Deganawida’s position in the village and Grand Council, also shared his many concerns. Before the council had taken place, Deganawida had spoken with the wizened matron, receiving encouragement and advice that had reinforced him greatly going into the meeting.

Her heavily creased face did not diminish the lively sparkle in her eyes, as she counseled Deganawida to listen to his deepest inclinations on the matter. Her passion for the well-being of her village and tribe richly emanated through her words and demeanor. She had reminded him that he had always based his own positions on what was just, and that he could never really fail in using such a measure.

White Flower never told Deganawida what he should or should not do, or what to think. Yet when he had left her presence just a short time before the council, Deganawida was certain that his heartfelt inclinations had White Flower’s full blessing.

Deganawida now brought those deep inclinations into his words when he spoke to the members of the counsel. He freely spoke about his perceptions of the seven, the timing of their appearance, the prophecies, their great vulnerabilities, and his hope that they could find haven among the Onan.

He cautioned the village council to bear in mind that whatever their origin or place in events, the guests were each living human spirits brought into being by He Who Holds the Sky. He implored them to do what was right for the seven on a human level, irrespective of their importance in larger matters.

His advocacy in their favor was strong, but when he sat back down again there still remained a few very influential speakers who had not yet had their turn.

The council meeting grew to be very long in duration, as they tended to be when everyone could speak without being limited in their address. A little anxiety danced at the edge of Deganawida’s hopes, as a few more individuals spoke in clear favor of the seven.

Deganawida knew that he was very close to achieving consensus.

Finally, at long last, one of the most respected of the clan sachems rose up to take his turn to speak. Deganawida leaned a little forward, very curious as to the thoughts and leanings of the venerable sachem.

The air was at its thickest, filled with the scents of the smoke, tobacco, and the sweaty musk of the men filling the space.

The clan sachem named Garakontie would be the last one to speak, but his words were the most momentous of the entire council. The sachem could sway consensus with just a few short sentences, something that troubled Deganawida when he knew that he was so very close to securing full agreement from the council.

Long of nose and face, Garakontie, when seen at certain angles, took on an uncanny likeness to the spirited tree dwellers for which his Shadow Flyer clan was named. Like those hardy little forest creatures, he was tenacious, and acutely sensitive in his approaches to strangers.

The Shadow Flyers rendered their judgements very quickly in the wilderness. If something was not deemed to be a threat, the little animals did not hesitate to be seen and heard, whereas a true threat caused them to vanish in a flash of an instant.

While not inclined to make much noise or vanish, Garakontie was never long in his own evaluations of strangers. As far as Deganawida could remember, the Shadow Flyer sachem had always been amazingly accurate about which strangers should be embraced, and which should be shunned. Charm, appearance, and silken words did not deceive Garakontie in the least. He was uncannily adept at getting to the underlying realities, and was never hesitant about expressing any misgivings that came to him. His counsel had been proven correct in hindsight, time and time again.

In such a light, Deganawida listened closely and attentively to Garakontie’s words.

“Deganawida, Clan Sachems, and Wise Ones, I cannot say that these are ordinary times, and I am not certain that ordinary answers can be the correct ones,” Garakontie stated solemnly. “Much is amiss in our world, at a time when we should be concerned only about the migrations of the eel and salmon, the deer hunts, the clearing of fields, the planting of crops, and matters of trade.

“The appearance of the seven strangers, I believe, is no coincidence with the events that have been unfolding. I also believe that it is no coincidence that they came into the hands of Ayenwatha’s war party, so soon after encountering the Wanderer.

“Only He Who Holds the Sky knows the pure truth, but we still must do our best to gain a clear sight of the matters facing our village, our tribe, the Five Realms, and indeed, the entire world. I cannot speak for the entire world, the Five Realms, or even our tribe, but I can say what I see within our village.

“And now, I will tell you truly what I feel.

“I observed the seven carefully at the feast. I can see no hint of the Adversary’s touch upon any of them. Not even a shadow or a hint of the Adversary’s corruption.

“You all already know that they have passed the crystal test, put to them when Ayenwatha’s war party came upon them.

“There is much to them that we do not know, but I say that they are here for a purpose of the One Spirit. I firmly believe that we must shelter and protect them from the Adversary, and from the Unifier. I believe that He Who Holds the Sky will guide us rightly in this path.”

It was one of the shorter addresses, but Deganawida could not have asked for any better support. The words of Garakontie were comforting and reinforcing to Deganawida’s own inclinations. He knew that the clan sachem wielded a great influence with the others, all of whom valued Garakontie’s great ability to fathom the underlying spirit of individuals.

Deganawida slowly arose as Garakontie concluded and took his seat once again. The village Headman was buoyed further by the looks that he now saw upon the faces of the clan sachems and Wise Ones.

It then came as no surprise when the village council fully supported providing a place of refuge and protection for the seven unusual guests.

There were a few parameters put in place, all of which Deganawida found to be very reasonable. The guests would be diligently watched and observed from a distance, and they would continue to be evaluated and measured for any ill signs. They would also be put under guard whenever going outside of the village boundary.

Most importantly, though, they would be given a true place of welcome within the Onan village. They would not be turned away expeditiously, and cast into the woods to fend for themselves.

When the meeting had been brought to a close, and the sachems and Wise Men had departed the longhouse, Deganawida was left with a tranquil and invigorating feeling of relief.

In a way, the village council had just passed a test, further justifying the confidence placed in them by the clan matrons.

They had not had their judgement blinded by the terrible pressure of the looming war. Nor had they rushed to an expedient decision in the hopes of avoiding perceived risks. They had acted reasonably, and with foresight and resolve, and for that Deganawida’s own heart was greatly uplifted.

A time of great pressure and imminent threat could easily move men from wisdom to utter recklessness, and see otherwise compassionate men become cruel and pitiless. Courage often gave way to mere self-preservation in the grip of such trying times, bringing about acts that bordered on the heartless and the barbarous.

Yet the true measure of a man, Deganawida well knew, was whether he became a monster during such a time, or still remained a man.

The storm facing all of them had not dissipated, and would only gather in strength as the hours passed, but the early signs regarding the steadfastness of the village leadership were indeed encouraging.

He could only hope that it was a harbinger for the way that the other villages, and even the Grand Council, would be in the difficult days to come.

Deganawida mused to himself in the wake of the council that a small victory had truly been achieved. He would gladly savor it as he sat within the quiet chamber, as all good moments needed to be celebrated.

Without a doubt, one truth had been established. The members of the village council for The Place of Far Seeing were still indeed men.