Into the Cold: Dreaming of the Battle

Continued from: Into the Cold: A Call from the Wild

In my sleep I’m drifting and wandering aimlessly through a barren field, sliding down the slopes of snowy pastures, past the dead and frostbitten, leafless trees, and into the dark and unknown void that awaits at the edge of dreaming. There is a howling carried on the wind, moving from one mountain to the next, and down through one valley to the other until it reaches my ears, here in this strange and empty place where I sleep and dream. How did it come to this?

My dreams change shape, and we are close to the town Scylfig in Wildermore, where this dreaded event first unfolded. Here Yllfa and I have ridden together with a group of brave men, hunting a large pack of orcs - and the infamous ice giant - that’s been plaguing the area. Scylfig’s banners and towers are hidden behind a thick veil of falling snow, but we are close. The horses trot on through the foot-deep snow blanket, the horns are sounding, and the unmistakable cries of battle are drawing nearer. They have come at last… I look at the she-wolf by my side, giving her an encouraging wink. It would be her first major battle, I keep reminding myself… is she ready? I do not know… and all I can do is do my utmost to protect her, even if I know she’s capable. My heart is pounding, as always before a big battle to fill my veins with adrenaline and energy, even though my breaths are shallow in the freezing cold. The battle is imminent, waiting for us there by the gates of Scylfig, and we know not what to expect. A horde of orcs… but how many? A scout on a warg rides over a hill, and is swiftly dispatched of by one of our archers, leaving a red trail of blood in the snow as the injured warg crawls away before being cut down. My sword is drawn, ready to face battle again, like so many times before. And we come to it last - the battle of Scylfig. 

The horde of orcs are attempting to break through the barricades inside the town, even as they get cut down to bits and pieces, or pierced by many arrows. Their comrades are climbing over their fallen corpses, using them as ladders and stepping stones to jump over the spiked wooden poles. Some of them meet their death impaled upon the spikes, and yet the next wave just keeps climbing, over and over again, until they breach the last line of defence and roam free in the town. Beasts are what they are - and as beasts they shall be cut down! We ride towards the gates, trapping the remaining orcs between the armed men of Scylfig and the charging hammer of a hundred horses and spears and swords. The shouts of battle, blowing horns, clashing swords, deathly screams… the noises of war fill the air.

We ride down what orcs we can outside the gates… one by one they fall, and the ground is soaked with blood in this once so peaceful mountain town. We fight on, pushing them away from the town… riders fall off their horses, some injured, some dead, some keep fighting… the orcs are thinning out, but the thrashing sounds of the infamous ice giant who leads the charge and sweeps the ground clear by the town square, is equally frightening as it is maddening. How can the force of men alone stop this beast? I have not much time to think upon the matter however, as the giant finishes his appointed task and slays his intended target, and then simply… wanders off, seemingly not bothered much by anything else. No matter, then. We focus on cutting down the remaining orcs, to save the town and its people. And at last their ranks are thinning… the day appears to be won, though at great cost, as it always is. No battle comes without sacrifice and dead heroes, be it man or horse.  

An eerie silence sweeps over the town as the battlecries die out, and are soon replaced by the cries for help by injured men and women, and crying children. War is hell, indeed. So much suffering, so much pain, so much… death. Yllfa and I are still alive though, and that’s what matters. I saw her swinging her staff and crushing orc skulls, and her sword pierced others. She did well, though I worry for her state of mind. War changes people, and some never return to the one they were before. In my dreams I see many things that never happened, or it went differently; I see men dying whom I know were alive at the end of the day, and I see my she-wolf covered in blood and cuts, though she remained mostly unharmed as the battle was over then. Dreams are a strange thing, and this one is no different. 

Now comes the dream part I dread most… I see it unravelling before my eyes, and I do not want to remember and wish badly that it was just a dream - but I know it’s not. Yllfa goes to help the wounded by the meadhall, and Ofin and I hunt a few of the hidden and injured orcs that are still crawling around in the town, as all able men do likewise. Noone will be left alive. They will be piled and burned to ashes and cinders, so they will never spoil our world again. Soon I’m standing by the meadhall, looking for my she-wolf, who always put her heart into helping others. And she’s not there, nor is anyone else, except a wounded, old man. His words send my heart down to the furthermost bottom of dark, dreary pits. 

“She’s gone”, he says with his voice struggling as I ask him of the woman who aided him, and his breath quickens. “She was cut by a sneak orc and fell to the ground, and I saw a tall man clad in thick furs emerging from the shadows, out of nowhere. He killed... the orc… I fainted. They were both gone... when I woke up again. He must’ve taken her.”

I scream at the man, over and over again. “You’re lying! Where is she?! Where’s my woman?!” I’m beginning to lose it. All the composure I once had, all the and adrenaline from winning the battle, replaced by anger, dread, fear, and confusion. The dead orc by my feet is a lifeless corpse, and I stab its throat with my sword over and over again until its head is separated from the body, and scream at the top of my lungs. “Where is she?! WHERE?!” The man faints again, his face is pale from the loss of blood, though his wounds have been bandaged by skilled hands. There is an old leather helmet on the ground… and I send it flying with a hard kick in pure anger and frustration. I watch as it tumbles down the snowy slope, tumbling, rolling... and it takes me a second to realise that it was her helmet I had kicked away. In this nightmare I see for a split second her bloodied face looking back at me from the helmet as it lays itself to rest in the snow, her eyes cold and dead. 

Another scream leaves my throat and I wake up in the cold, empty bed in this deserted house somewhere in Wildermore, where our hunt is only just beginning. It is late at night, or early in the morning perhaps, and Ofin stirs there in his sleep, perhaps also troubled by dreary dreams of his own. She’s gone, but I will find her. We will find her. By Bema, we will.