Dragol and the surviving Trogen warriors, with burdened, simmering hearts, returned back to the sprawling encampment where the reconnaissance and sky steed contingents delegated to assist the second Avanoran force were based. There was little permanence to the design of the camp of scouts, as it had to maintain fluidity with the continuing movements of the invasion force that was now marching deeper into Saxany.
A small contingent of light cavalry from Andamoor served as guards for the largely Trogen camp, as well as providing additional scouting upon the ground.
The presence of the Andamoorans was not frivolous. They were extremely mobile, proficient horsemen who could range far from the camp to keep up a constant, flowing perimeter at the ground level. Any approaching enemy forces could be harassed and delayed by ground and air alike, while the evacuation of the camp took place.
As much as humans annoyed him, Dragol had to grudgingly admit that the Andamoorans’ endurance, and the swiftness of their steeds, complimented the nature of the camp very well. Most importantly, they enabled the Trogens to remain fully focused upon the tasks that they had been charged with by Avanor. Under the demands shouldered by Dragol and the other chieftains, none of their kind could have been spared to the duties performed by the Andamoorans without it being a detriment to their own efforts.
There were nearly seventy-five Harraks being quartered within the camp, serving almost one hundred veteran Trogen riders. It was a strong sky force in its own right, capable of engagements with modest contingents of Saxans on the ground or in the air. Yet instead of actively searching out the enemy to engage them, the Trogen force was now largely relegated to gathering and providing vital information regarding the lands that the invasion force was moving through.
There was a constant stream of activity within the encampment, as squads and patrols landed and took off, attending to their range of assigned scouting tasks.
As there had not been enough Trogens available to spare even a few for the more basic needs of the camp itself, the Andamoorans had been reluctantly delegated to tending to the Trogen steeds, as well as their own.
As was now routine, a few Andamooran attendants hustled over when Dragol and the others landed. They nervously waited for the Trogens to dismount, so that they could guide their large sky steeds off for food, water, and rest.
Snarling with anger, Dragol forcibly shoved back one of the Andamoorans who lingered too close to him as he got off of his Harrak. The man’s dark eyes glittered in fear and resentment, while he trembled in the presence of the outwardly maddened Trogen.
“Away from me, weakling!” thundered Dragol in a growling voice.
The man most likely did not understand a single word that Dragol had said. Only a few Andamoorans understood a smattering of Trogen words, and even fewer Trogens possessed a handful of words from the tongue used by the Andamoorans, spoken by those who followed the ways of the Prophet in the Sun Lands. Nevertheless, Dragol communicated his intention clearly enough, as the Andamooran scrambled to get away from him.
Dragol spat at the ground in disgust with the behavior, for no Trogen thus treated would have failed to defend their personal honor. He could not fathom the weakness that the humans continued to show, wondering what business the Unifier had in putting the Andamoorans to serve alongside the Trogens.
The only reason that he had ever been able to glean was that the Andamoorans and the Trogens did not adhere to the faith of the Western Church. Dragol had already noticed that this fact alone incited almost instant tension whenever Andamoorans were brought together with the other human factions involved in the invasion, such as those from Ehrengard and Avanor.
Perhaps the Unifier wished to isolate the Andamoorans a little, reasoning that the temptation towards conflict would be much reduced if they were placed alongside a non-human race. The Andamoorans could perhaps find it slightly more palatable that the Trogens were non-believers in their faith, given the Trogens’ fundamentally different nature. There had been no religious wars between Trogens and Andamoorans, but there certainly had been many among the humans of different faiths.
Whatever the true reasons were, Dragol still despised the arrangement.
Compounding his detestation, he had heard it said that that the Andamoorans had great warriors among them. Word had also spread among the Trogens that the particular Andamoorans within the scouting camp avoided armor as an outwardly visible sign of their courage.
Dragol was highly inclined to challenge any that would make such an assertion, as his experience so far had shown him little to substantiate either of the claims. The unarmored Andamoorans always sniveled and cowered in the face of a Trogen provocation or insult, even though Dragol could easily sense their strong dislike of the Trogens. Confronted, the supposedly courageous men of Andamoor wilted fast.
If the oppressive, westerly Elves dwelling near his homeland had such constitutions, the plight of Dragol’s kind would have been lifted a long time ago. The thought of those sufferances, in his present, blackened mood, brought a deep rumble to his throat.
Other Andamoorans, and even a few Trogens, gave Dragol a wide berth as he stormed off into the camp, striding quickly towards his tent. There was no mistaking the aura of absolute wrath that pulsed around the huge Trogen, and nobody within the vicinity wished to voluntarily incur it.
Dragol slowly removed his iron helm, the lining inside the segmented construction thoroughly soaked. His long locks of hair were matted with sweat, and he welcomed the soothing, cool air that enveloped him, caressing his heated crown with the removal of the helm.
The pleasant physical feeling did little to calm his frayed emotions, but at the least it would not add to his agitated state. He could have grimly accepted the day’s losses if his warriors had been overcome in hand to hand fighting, pitted in open battle against skilled warriors.
The thought of his warriors being slaughtered by primal animals, and a hidden archer that they had not been able to fight back against, was tormenting his every moment. His face a mask of barely suppressed rage, he stalked morosely past several tents, before drawing the attention of one particular Trogen.
“Dragol! You have returned at last!” called a voice to his right.
Dragol was about to lash out at the interruption of the other, when the more sensible part of him recognized the voice. He held back the heated expletive that he was about to loose, as he turned his head towards Goras and came to an abrupt stop. The Trogen warrior, like him, had just returned from a sky patrol.
Dragol eyed his comrade as he approached, letting his ire recede.
Goras was highly imposing in mass, even when considered among their commonly sizeable race. A little shorter than Dragol, the other Trogen was visibly broader of shoulder, and much thicker of chest. The Trogen’s abundant hair sprouting from atop his high forehead, and along the forward half of his head, was pulled back and tied into a ponytail that kept his face completely cleared. The rest of his hair fell freely down the Trogen’s shoulders and back.
His unobstructed face gave even more prominence to a large, straight scar, which ran almost vertically down the right side of the warrior’s face, from just below the Trogen’s eye to the base of his muzzle. It was a mark of profound honor, incurred in single combat with an Elven warrior that Goras had finally hewn down with his longblade.
Goras was clad in a newer style of cuirass being used by some of the higher-ranking Trogen warriors. The leather armor was fashioned in a style of interlaced, rectangular pieces. The pieces were arrayed in patterned rows, arranged opposite of the way that the elements in a cuirass of scale armor lay. It was a more eastern style, echoing the methods used in lands such as Theonia.
Dragol found the new style intriguing. Goras had taken a quick liking to it, saying that it was much more well-suited to movement than were the thick hide jerkins that were natively constructed and worn in the Trogen homelands. Dragol contemplated trying out such a cuirass in the near future.
Goras finally drew to a halt about two paces from Dragol.
“Goras,” Dragol finally stated, in a low and restrained voice. The anger continued to seethe within him, and it took an effort not to rage further at the fates that had allowed such a dismal day to pass. “It is by the fortune of Elysium I even returned… My heart burns for vengeance… Trogen blood was spilled in a terrible way.”
The other’s face grew taut, and his eyes narrowed, as a perplexed look rose upon his face. Even with their elongated faces, forming something closely akin to a canine’s muzzle, the Trogens were able to display expressions that held some similarities with those of humans.
“What has happened?” Goras inquired. His initial enthusiasm was swiftly replaced by pensiveness.
Dragol continued to temper the fires threatening to erupt inside of him, as he related the events of the recent past with his longtime comrade and fellow member of the Thunder Wolf Clan. He started the telling with the successful destruction of the Saxan border patrol, continuing on up to the forest ambush from the unusual, dog-like beasts. He spoke at length regarding the presence of the exceptionally skilled archer, who had carried a bow whose range far exceeded those normally seen among the Saxans. Most importantly, Dragol iterated his firm desire to return to the area in force, to seek revenge.
Goras’ own anger was stoked as Dragol described everything, the visible signs revealing it to have swelled steadily during the tale. His eyes narrowed further as Dragol continued, and his snout began to wrinkle. Before long, he was baring his sharp teeth, as his lips turned back into a snarl. His long canines glinted in the light of the night moons.
Goras nodded slowly as Dragol spoke of his desire for vengeance. When Dragol fell silent, he uttered through clenched teeth, “We will take to the ground, and avenge this treachery. We will find this archer who cowers among the trees. We will hunt these other beasts down, until their skulls decorate our tents!”
Dragol held up a massive hand. “I would like that… more than anyone. I lost Haza, who has flown with me for many years. His blade was mighty, and his heart very loyal. His spirit finds Elysium now. He did not deserve the kind of death he received… torn apart by beasts, and given no chance to fight them!”
He had to pause for a moment, a low growl emitting from the back of his throat as his fury almost tore through again. Had Haza been on a great hunt, and found himself locked in mortal combat with a formidable quarry, the manner of his death would have been more acceptable. Standing on his two feet, blade in hand, and willfully engaging a mighty predator was one matter. To die from an ambush was another, as it had robbed Haza of a moment to consciously muster courage, to willingly face an end worthy of a Trogen warrior. The beast had been upon Haza before he could even begin to react.
Slowly and with effort, Dragol regained his composure.
“But we cannot go in where we do not know the enemy’s strength, or we shall repeat the folly of today,” Dragol conceded, as reason came to the fore. “We will need to speak to those from Ehrengard, and find someone who lives near their eastern border with Saxany.
“We must know about those strange beasts, and see if any know of this archer. He was no common man. I am sure of that. Then, we may go and see that our blades are bathed in the blood of these beasts… and that this archer can no longer hide from us.”
“Then let us send some patrols to seek these answers,” Goras suggested. “Since we have arrived in these lands, I have seen no creatures such as you describe.”
“A question that demands an answer,” Dragol agreed.
“I know you are greatly tired, Dragol, and in need of food and rest. We can send patrols out, after you have eaten,” Goras stated.
“Still the accursed dried fish, and hard bread?” Dragol rumbled, loathing the answer that he knew would be forthcoming.
“Yes, and not even in good amounts. It could not feed the scrawniest of humans well, even these puny Andamoorans… It barely gives them the strength to clasp the ground each day in their futile prayers. But I will make sure you receive more rations, and some cheese as well,” Goras said with a reluctant tone to his voice.
“And the cheese will be like eating rocks too… as this foul, rotten bread is. I think we should soon send hunting parties out, as well as patrols and scouts. Maybe even make these weak Andamoorans earn the right to be in a camp with Trogen warriors,” Dragol muttered, flustered at the notion of the meager palette. His eyes flashed in a feral manner as he looked back up to Goras, his sharp teeth unveiled within his sneer. “Perhaps we should really make use of these Andamoorans.”
“What I would not give for some juicy meat, and a thick draught of ale” Goras said, a half-smile forming in response to the dark implication of the other’s statement. He glared as a couple of the robed, turbaned Andamoorans walked by a short distance away from them. “I fear both those Andamoorans would not have enough meat on their bones to satisfy one of us.”
Their banter was the substance of a dark jest. Both Goras and Dragol knew fully well that they would never have eaten the meat of human or humanoid, unless in an act of absolute survival. They also knew that the Andamoorans were not so sure of that.
“You are right,” Dragol replied, chuckling darkly. The two Andamoorans took notice that the two huge Trogens were staring intently at them. They picked up their pace and hurried onward, their heads lowered.
“You should eat now. Then we will send patrols forth,” Goras insisted.
“And what would Tragan think of that?” Dragol said, posing the most pertinent question.
Goras and Dragol had considerable authority as patrol leaders, but Tragan of the Blood Boars was the commander of the entire Trogen force within the scouting camp.
Even among the most abrasive of the Trogens, his strident attitude was legendary. Yet it was not without purpose. Tragan was not one to frivolously make unnecessary sacrifices, or risk losing resources. He ran an efficient camp, marked by an extreme of discipline, challenging even to the toughest of the Trogens in the force.
In truth, it had been Tragan’s absolute directives, derived from Avanor’s wishes, that had prevented many Andamoorans from receiving severe beatings from highly vexed Trogen warriors.
Goras grimaced, knowing at once the danger that Dragol was indicating. “Then curse him, if he would be such a lackey of the Unifier. Sometimes I believe he would run this camp like a prison, to please his new human masters. But if he would not avenge Trogen deaths? He protects the human weaklings infesting this camp. What does that say to you, Dragol?”
Dragol abruptly shot up an arm, palm spread open, to cut Goras off before he said anything further. “Do not speak such words aloud in this camp. Tragan will allow no challenge. You know that. And you know that we are here, fighting and eating our rock-bread, so that we can free our entire race from the vile Elves. Many times I have to remind myself of that, it is true… but we must hold to that.”
A hot look flared up in Goras’ eyes, as Dragol mentioned the core concerns of the Trogens fighting for the Unifier. They did not fight out of any great feeling of loyalty to the Unifier, or even because they really believed in the strange vision of the Unifier’s emerging world.
The allegiance had happened because the Unifier had resolved to help the Trogens end their long-time oppression at the hands of the Elves, in return for their ardent service as warriors. The Unifier had promised to eventually bring about an end to the long plight of the Trogens, which would liberate the great numbers of Trogens living in abominable slavery within Elven territory.
Dragol, Goras, and all Trogens knew readily that no other race or powerful individual in the world had ever openly offered to aid the Trogens against their ages-old nemesis. The decision by the Trogens’ Clan councils to send substantial forces forth, and ally with the Unifier in the ongoing wars, had been swift and acceptable by all.
In their own view, the Trogens were fighting as much for themselves in these ongoing wars as they were fighting for the Unifier. The best chance of realizing their own aims lay with the success of the Unifier, and the Trogens were willing to do everything that they could to bring an end to the unrelenting nightmare suffered by so many of their kind.
Goras’ great jaws tightened, and Dragol knew that his comrade had realized his momentary foolishness. His eyes darted about, and he looked relieved to find that no one was close enough to have heard his reckless venting. “I cannot argue with you, Dragol.”
“We must still seek to take action, but we must be careful,” Dragol said more gently. “Remember, a great army will be sweeping through those woods soon enough. If there is a woodsman, we will find his homestead. We will also have time to hunt in these woods for the beasts. My blade and arrows will have a great thirst when we find them
… I will make sure that thirst is slaked.”
“As I will with mine,” Goras concurred grimly.
Dragol looked off in the direction of some tents to the right, where there was a collection of packs and barrels stacked.
He gestured off towards the tents. “Goras, join me now, if you do not have to soon leave on patrol. For now, I think you are right. It is best to fill my belly, and get a few moments’ rest.”
“And to fill mine as well, for I have not eaten yet. Know that we will eat better tonight, or I will spill some blood. I shall get us some cheese, and see about some true meat,” Goras said with conviction.
The two large Trogens headed off for the tents. It was no use courting disappointment, and Dragol resolved himself to the simple fare that they would be getting.
The ensuing meal passed with little conversation, the food devoured quickly, though its substance hardly caused the Trogens to salivate. While there was no good meat to be had, Goras did succeed in obtaining a small quantity of cheese, and some bitter ale to help wash the food down, both of which Dragol was eminently grateful for.
They had barely finished eating when a Trogen messenger came up to them, and delivered some new orders directly from Tragan. The messenger, a young Trogen warrior of the Sea Wolf clan, gave a slight bow and took his leave.
Dragol and Goras would have to put aside their individual interests for a time. Tragan was ordering a heavier presence to accompany the initial surge of the ground force as it drove eastward. The two patrol leaders were to be summoned to Tragan’s tent soon, to learn the rest of the details.
As the two pondered the messenger’s tidings, a commotion rang out suddenly within the camp. Trogen and Andamooran alike were hustling about, and word was quickly spread around that the expected force of warriors for the northeastern thrust had arrived near the camp.
It was a force from Avanor itself, very well-equipped, and highly disciplined.
Dragol was highly curious about the renowned human fighters, especially with his great disappointments in the other humans that he had interacted with. He had learned many things about the Avanorans in recent weeks. He hoped that the tales were true and that he would find them to be worthy allies. Of all the human factions, the Avanorans appealed to him the most.
Their ilk, as part of sovereign realms, as mercenaries, and as ambitious adventurers, had gained a legendary reputation in both the development and overthrow of many realms within Ave. It was almost fitting that the origin of all Avanorans was the same place where the Unifier had risen to power, given the great renown of the warriors of Avanor.
In terms of landmass, Avanor was not an exceptionally large territory, yet it had sent forth a torrent of power that had shaken Ave. Their storied history could not be denied. As a whole, Avanorans possessed an undeniable genius for war.
The Trogens knew that if the force from Avanor succeeded in its aims to curl around to the back of the main army of Saxany, which was deploying out on the eastern plains, the war could quickly be brought to an end. The invasion was also the means by which the location of the archer, and the savage beasts, could be explored. There would be plenty of opportunities during the chaos and upheaval within an invasion campaign.
Goras and Dragol looked to each other, and though Goras’ expression remained austere, Dragol knew that they were both gladdened that the war was finally going to escalate sharply.
Their goals, from those of their clans to personal ones, were being brought steadily closer to achievement.