were only a few of the galloping horsemen, but all of the men in the developing trench knew what their presence meant. It signified boldly that the time that they had all been inwardly dreading had arrived at last. The horsemen could be none other than the outlying scouts of the invaders, in the vanguard of the enemy force.
“From Andamoor, I’d say. The turban-wearers far from the north, across the seas. Their horses look fragile enough. We will see what kind of warriors they are soon enough,” rumbled a grizzled thane, standing on the lip of the deepening trench.
The thane rested his strong, weathered hands on his hips, as he looked out with a hard gaze towards the plain.
Wulfstan looked from the thane and back out toowards the plain with increased wonder. He had heard a few gleeman tell tales of the lands far to the northwest, but had never actually seen anyone from Andamoor before with his own eyes.
He continued to marvel at the swift, slender horses that gracefully navigated the plain. He did not see anything fragile about the elegant, controlled way that the riders and horses seemed to glide in harmony across the open ground.
Instead, the sight of their dexterity was at once a thing to instill caution in him. It was the first, unmistakable sign that the enemy would be coming at them with new types of fighters and cavalry, of kinds unknown to their own lands and ways.
Something in Wulfstan’s mind told him that the strange horsemen would be far from the only different element within the invading army now marching upon their lands. Yet there would be no way of knowing what was truly coming until everything was already upon them. Even then, the things that were unknown to the Saxans would be just as confusing and hard to fathom.
The enemy army would be like a dense, impenetrable storm surging relentlessly towards them, vast and mysterious in the power that it would hurl against the Saxans. In some ways, it was like the cataclysmic forces of Wulfstan’s dreams. Their promises of destruction always preceded the deep, distinctive voice that Wulfstan heard in his dreams, and the subsequent flight into the skies toward a faraway, cloud-like shape.
That thought, coupled with the cognizance of the implications displayed out on the plains before his eyes, caused a slight agitation to take hold within him. He fought an impulse to look back up to the skies, to again look for a cloud-like shape of opalescent brilliance.
The horsemen showed little worry about being seen, almost as if they wanted to herald the arrival of their army. They were not worried about silence, either. The air carried their faint, distant cries across the ground. Wulfstan held little doubt that they could have easily remained hidden if they had wanted to.
“They will camp beyond the edge of our sight,” added the thane, before returning his attentions to the men in the trench. “But the battle is not long off now. Something you must keep in mind. There is no time for delay. Finish this trench.”
Despite the strong tone to the thane’s words, there was a perceptible undercurrent of grave concern in his voice. The men needed no prodding or cajoling to achieve a greater sense of urgency.
Wulfstan barely heard the thane’s words, absently nodding, as he brought his pick up and down again. In between blows to the earth, his gaze returned to the horsemen.
To the right of his field of vision, a small group of Saxan cavalry galloped in the direction of the scouts. He could see the sunlight glinting off their iron helms and the spear-blades of their long lances, pennons flapping in the wind from a couple of them.
Even from his distance, Wulfstan could assess the differences in the two types of mounts. The strong Saxan steeds were indeed hardy, but they were noticeably slower than the breed utilized by the enemy scouts. The gap still closed as the enemy horsemen circled, yelling out some unintelligible cries at the approaching Saxan
“From Andamoor, I’d say. The turban-wearers far from the north, across the seas. Their horses look fragile enough. We will see what kind of warriors they are soon enough,” rumbled a grizzled thane, standing on the lip of the deepening trench.
The thane rested his strong, weathered hands on his hips, as he looked out with a hard gaze towards the plain.
Wulfstan looked from the thane and back out toowards the plain with increased wonder. He had heard a few gleeman tell tales of the lands far to the northwest, but had never actually seen anyone from Andamoor before with his own eyes.
He continued to marvel at the swift, slender horses that gracefully navigated the plain. He did not see anything fragile about the elegant, controlled way that the riders and horses seemed to glide in harmony across the open ground.
Instead, the sight of their dexterity was at once a thing to instill caution in him. It was the first, unmistakable sign that the enemy would be coming at them with new types of fighters and cavalry, of kinds unknown to their own lands and ways.
Something in Wulfstan’s mind told him that the strange horsemen would be far from the only different element within the invading army now marching upon their lands. Yet there would be no way of knowing what was truly coming until everything was already upon them. Even then, the things that were unknown to the Saxans would be just as confusing and hard to fathom.
The enemy army would be like a dense, impenetrable storm surging relentlessly towards them, vast and mysterious in the power that it would hurl against the Saxans. In some ways, it was like the cataclysmic forces of Wulfstan’s dreams. Their promises of destruction always preceded the deep, distinctive voice that Wulfstan heard in his dreams, and the subsequent flight into the skies toward a faraway, cloud-like shape.
That thought, coupled with the cognizance of the implications displayed out on the plains before his eyes, caused a slight agitation to take hold within him. He fought an impulse to look back up to the skies, to again look for a cloud-like shape of opalescent brilliance.
The horsemen showed little worry about being seen, almost as if they wanted to herald the arrival of their army. They were not worried about silence, either. The air carried their faint, distant cries across the ground. Wulfstan held little doubt that they could have easily remained hidden if they had wanted to.
“They will camp beyond the edge of our sight,” added the thane, before returning his attentions to the men in the trench. “But the battle is not long off now. Something you must keep in mind. There is no time for delay. Finish this trench.”
Despite the strong tone to the thane’s words, there was a perceptible undercurrent of grave concern in his voice. The men needed no prodding or cajoling to achieve a greater sense of urgency.
Wulfstan barely heard the thane’s words, absently nodding, as he brought his pick up and down again. In between blows to the earth, his gaze returned to the horsemen.
To the right of his field of vision, a small group of Saxan cavalry galloped in the direction of the scouts. He could see the sunlight glinting off their iron helms and the spear-blades of their long lances, pennons flapping in the wind from a couple of them.
Even from his distance, Wulfstan could assess the differences in the two types of mounts. The strong Saxan steeds were indeed hardy, but they were noticeably slower than the breed utilized by the enemy scouts. The gap still closed as the enemy horsemen circled, yelling out some unintelligible cries at the approaching Saxan
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