Dragol and the other Trogen riders guided their steeds downward, to skim along at a slower pace just a short distance above the uppermost reach of the trees. Fanning out in a wide formation, they were able to survey a fairly extensive swathe of land, doubling and tripling their passes to make sure that no swatch of ground went uncovered.
Though more vulnerable to arrows, as they were within the average range of a Saxan bow, the lower altitude formation still gave them some advantages. It helped to lessen the chances of an advance warning being given by a lookout watching the high skies. An unaware enemy presence along the ground was also more likely to be detected before they could melt among the shadows and foliage beneath the Trogens.
Dragol knew that any Saxans within the woodlands were likely to be very capable in such skills. His own kind was adept at concealment in their own lands, and not just due to the ever-present threats from the Elven menace. Navigating the dangers of the wilderness demanded the ability to become motionless in a flash of time, to be able to quickly shroud oneself in forest growths, and to snap into total silence.
The Trogen’s sharp eyes watched carefully for any hints of movement beneath the canopy, but nothing stirred. No signals arose from any of his riders either during the broad search.
Light would be fading soon, and Dragol could not deny the fact that no creature on foot could outdistance the considerable area that they had covered through the sky. Frustration now boiled within him, his patience wearing steadily thinner with the approach of the sun’s descent.
One of his riders abruptly cried out.
The tensions vanished instantly, adrenaline sparking within him as the cry reached his triangular-shaped ears. Without hesitation, Dragol deftly maneuvered his Harrak to the left and dug in his heels, spurring the quickly responsive creature to accelerate to full speed.
As a unit, the other riders were doing likewise as they honed in upon the area signaled by their comrade.