Flying at the head of a small patrol, Dragol gestured downward to where the fallen corpses of the Saxan horsemen, Trogen warriors, and a few horses were just beginning their lengthy process of decomposition. Some carrion eaters were already busy indulging themselves in a grisly, gluttonous feast, the sight instantly raising Dragol’s ire.
A couple of Trogen warriors in the modest war band broke away from the main body of the formation, in order to survey the surrounding area from their high elevation. As always, it was necessary to make certain that no imminent enemy presence was lurking about. Dragol watched the pair carefully as they coursed low over the edge of the dense forest. Encouragingly, there were no wisps of campfires lingering in the air over the forest, but the enemy was cautious, and nothing could be taken for granted.
After a few passes up and down the woodland boundary, the warriors settled into a circular pattern high over the area of the previous day’s fighting. Dawn had already broken for quite some time, and there was ample visibility within the new morning’s light.
The sky riders finally signaled back to Dragol that they had seen nothing amiss. Knowing well the keen eyes of the particular Trogens that he had assigned to such scouting tasks, Dragol was more than satisfied with their evaluation.
With a firm jerk upon the leather reins of his winged Harrak steed Rodor, Dragol guided the great beast swiftly in descent.
As the shadows of Dragol and his sky riders crossed over the carnage-strewn battle site, the winged carrion eaters took to immediate flight, and the four-legged ones scattered off rapidly in the direction of the nearby forest.
Alighting smoothly upon the ground, Dragol quickly unbuckled the straps securing him to the low saddle. They were a necessary precaution during longer distance traveling, though most Trogens, like Dragol, often left the straps hanging free during battle, so as to enable better movement in combat.
Bringing his right leg back around, he swung down off of his steed in a continuous, and oft-repeated, movement. Dragol then took a step forward, and gave Rodor a firm pat on the side of the creature’s amply muscled neck.
“Gather up swords, mail shirts, and any other valuables,” Dragol shouted out to the others, as they landed nearby. Dismounting hurriedly, the other Trogens moved rapidly to obey his orders, and strip the dead bodies.
Dragol did not like returning to the site of the previous day’s fighting. He had endured a very restless night, once again despising the fact that they were under strict commands not to bring any undue attention to themselves.
With night falling, and with the war band far away from their base camp, Dragol had to strictly adhere to his orders as darkness approached. He would have been tempted otherwise, had the circumstances been different.
His war band had been aghast when he had commanded them to depart without attending to the fallen warriors. Even the greatly hated Elven warriors, who fell in battle, were given the honors accorded to those deemed to have a genuine warrior’s heart. Dragol had been forced from extending any such honors, to either the capable Saxan horseman or to his own brave Trogens.
He was not supposed to tarry and allow any proper respects to be given now, though his conscience was again tearing at him from within.
A few Harraks, the steadfast, flying war steeds of the Trogens, had been brought along by the war band without riders. Instead of carrying warriors, they had large hempen sacks or small wooden chests strapped to their backs, in addition to coiled lengths of hide cordage. Their purpose was specific. The patrol had returned to the site to bear back any quality weapons and equipment that might be found.
Leaving the unattended implements behind for the night had been a risk, though it was one that had been unavoidable with night falling, and such a far distance to return. As they had flown away, Dragol had known that they would have to return briefly. Well-crafted swords, iron helms, and chain mail shirts were of great value to the enemy, and it was Dragol’s task to deprive the enemy of their further use.
Dragol strolled slowly among the bodies of the fallen warriors, his mind a tumult of thoughts and misgivings. He clenched his powerful jaws tightly at each troubling sight of one of the fallen Trogens, resenting his orders more and more with each passing moment. His mood blackened, as the bitterness flowed through him, bolstered by the each sight of a brave Trogen warrior who would not be honored properly.
The Trogen leader was not made to brood for very long. Dragol’s dark simmering was abruptly interrupted, as an unsettling discovery was brought to his attention.
“Others were here. Since the fighting. They were not Saxans. They could not even be Midragardans,” a stout Trogen with very broad shoulders reported quickly to Dragol, after hastening up to the massive Trogen chieftain. “They took very little with them, and left all the mail shirts and helms behind. No true warrior in these lands would leave such items unclaimed. Their tracks go back to the woods, and are very different in shape from those made by the humans of these lands.”
“And have you have examined the tracks?” Dragol asked the other Trogen, instantly curious about the very strange tidings.
The development was mystifying, for no Saxan party would have missed the chance to reclaim so many mail shirts, swords, helms, and other weapons. The armor and the weapons of the horse riders represented months upon months of hard, skilled labor by many blacksmiths. Such a quantity could not be replaced by the time that the full war broke out.
“Yes. They lead straight towards the woods. Three sets of footprints. A taller human, and two others, more average in height. They took a couple of shields, some swords, and some of the foodstuffs. Maybe a few more small items. Nothing from our fallen warriors. It also seems that they were not using any horses, or any other manner of steed,” the Trogen warrior answered.
“Where did they go in the woods?” Dragol asked, his eyes narrowing. The fact that they had not taken anything from the Trogen dead was even more perplexing, as even one Trogen weapon, like a longblade, would be solid, irrefutable proof to carry to anyone in order to testify to the presence of Dragol’s kind in Saxan lands.
“They rested, and then traveled onward, keeping to the edge of the forest at first,” the other Trogen replied. “But I came back to report to you, and did not follow those tracks very far.”
Dragol grew silent, as he considered the other’s discoveries carefully, mulling everything over. The other Trogen waited patiently for his response.
“Then we will have to search them out, for nobody must know of the Avanoran army approaching this territory,” Dragol finally responded in a firm tone.
He glared in the direction of the woods, knowing that the day was suddenly becoming quite problematic. Dragol was not privy to all the particulars of the events that were unfolding, but he clearly understood the core elements.
The invasion of Saxany was now imminent, which left little room for error on his part. Vast forces massed deep in Ehrengard to the west were even now crossing the eastern edges of that land, as they moved resolutely towards the borders of Saxany. Soon the juggernaut would cross that short stretch of borderland, and seek to hammer right through the center of the Saxan Kingdom. The numbers comprising the looming invasion were staggering, unlike any that had ever been assembled within the current age, or likely any other age.
A smaller Avanoran force, which was a modestly sized army in itself, would soon be breaking off from the teeming masses to head directly through the region where Dragol was now standing. The Avanorans’ unimpeded passage, and the crucial matter of determining their most advantageous route of travel, were squarely upon the shoulders of Dragol and the other Trogens.
Dragol understood that this second, offshoot force was integral to the overall invasion campaign. Its task was to penetrate the Saxan lands in such a way that the forces assembling for the defense of the Saxan Kingdom, against the main thrust of the invasion, could be outflanked, and then cut off from their own main route of escape.
The Trogen leader saw the simple brilliance in the plans envisioned by the powers in Avanor. The great hammer that was the primary invasion force would smash the defenders against the anvil formed by the smaller force.
Given what he thought of humankind, Dragol sometimes found himself wondering as to why the Saxans were so resolved to fight. He did not doubt that they were well aware of the immensity of the force that was being sent against them.
Most other human-ruled lands had capitulated to, or placated, Avanor without a battle having ever taken place. Why the Saxans were among the very few exceptions remained a question, though it made Dragol respect them more than those lands that had acquiesced and surrendered their ultimate sovereignty so easily.
It was in such moments of rumination that he acutely remembered his own troubled homelands, and the age-old, relentless struggles of the Trogens against the Elven menace.
The Trogens’ long-established nemesis held numerous advantages in the great conflict between the two races, but no matter how powerful the Elves were, no worthy Trogen would ever capitulate in the fight. The Trogens had suffered terribly for ages, but as a whole they still remained unconquered. Every last Trogen would resist until the Trogen population held captive within Elven lands was freed, and the shadow of the Elves’ persecution was fully removed from Trogen lands.
Seen in the light of his own kind’s struggle, Dragol could certainly relate to the spirited, defiant response of the Saxans. Their great resolve against insurmountable odds made him respect them all the more, which was precisely why his burden in the present moment was made that much more difficult. In the pure core of his heart, he wanted to extend honor to the Saxan dead as well as his own.
“Get the Harraks heading back to the camp, with the best weaponry and mail that can be taken from here. Take an escort of five warriors, and press with all haste to the encampment. The rest of us will set off to search after these unknown scavengers,” Dragol stated to the other Trogen.
“It shall be done,” the Trogen answered, lowering his golden eyes and giving a slight bow of the head.
Dragol then personally selected the five warrior escorts that would return with the confiscated swords, helms, and mail shirts. All were exceptional fighters, which would help offset the lack of numbers in the returning party. The Saxans had not yet appeared upon their own breed of sky steeds, to challenge the Trogens in the skies over their lands, but Dragol was not about to become reckless in carrying out his charges.
The orders were promptly carried out. The pack-bearing Harraks were soon loaded up to capacity with the remaining weapons, both Trogen and Saxan, and any other prominent items that could be salvaged and denied to the enemy.
Accompanied by the six Trogen warriors, the small group of Harraks was spurred forward and off of the ground. The contingent flew off at a slow pace, laden with the confiscated items.
Dragol watched their departure for a few moments, and then brought his eyes back to his immediate surroundings. He gnashed his teeth in bitter regret as his eyes came across the body of a particular young Trogen warrior that had fallen the previous day. He knew the warrior well, who had been one of his personal favorites.
The dead warrior’s amulet, set with large claws from the great forest wolverines for which his clan was named, had already been retrieved. Small personal items, especially those things that related to a warrior’s clan affiliation, had been immediately taken so that the warriors could be honored and remembered at a later time. Items such as the amulet would be passed on with great reverence, to be held with pride by others in the clan that the slain warrior had belonged to.
Dragol simply wished that he could set fire to the bodies of the brave Trogen warriors, as well as to those of the equally courageous enemy fighters. None of them deserved to have their remains be food for carrion. All of the slain fighters deserved a welcome place in Elysium.
Yet he knew that he could not allow their bodies to be consumed by flame. The smoke from the open fires would signal to the enemy for leagues around. It would mark the vital territory for a wary enemy, one that could adjust and more capably prepare for the approaching incursion.
In war, even the slightest change in timing or advantage could become critical to the outcome.
Dragol tore his eyes away, and with a loud cry he summoned the other Trogens back to their steeds. He mounted his stalwart, dutiful Harrak, which had remained in place for him where he had left it. He took up the creature’s reins after buckling the straps that secured him to the low saddle.
Dragol, with fifteen other riders gathered about him, gave another resonant shout. At the signal, the steeds surged forward in a staggered line, sprang upward, and ascended into the air on the strength of their powerful wings. The Trogens headed off in the direction of the forest, almost immediately reaching its border following the take-off from the ground.
Dragol skimmed with the others a short distance above the surface of the trees, his eyes watching closely for any signs of movement. He signaled to the others to be as quiet as possible. The group glided in relative silence over the woodlands as they headed southward, the wind whistling by their heads as they cut through the air. Rodor bumped and rocked lightly as they shadowed the border of the forest, and Dragol settled into his saddle, acclimating to the familiar sensations of air travel. With little turbulence, there was not much to distract him from the search.
Dragol hoped to sight, and then close in upon, their quarry soon. He did not like having to deviate from the main tasks facing the Trogen warriors.
The amount of territory that could be covered from the sky was substantial, and would easily encompass any distance achieved by a party on foot. Whoever had visited the battle site had a full day’s lead, though, and the Trogens only knew of the initial direction that they had taken.
Some luck would be needed, but Dragol was not overly worried. Unlike the dilemma that the Trogens had faced at the end of the previous day’s fighting, which had forced them to depart for the evening, there was plenty of daylight remaining this time.
Whether sooner or later in the day, Dragol was confident that the unidentified visitors to the battle site would eventually be discovered.