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Dragol sauntered across the ground in relative silence, the only sounds of his passage the rustling of the grasses beneath his feet. He eventually reached an open expanse of ground, well beyond the outer boundaries of the encampment. He risked no great danger, as the area was still well within the perimeter guarded by the scouts and patrols, who labored so persistently to ward the sprawling mass of tents, supplies, steeds, and weapons.
Night had drawn richly upon the wellsprings of darkness, as the large and small moons of Ave endeavored to make their appointed journeys across the velvety, ebon sky. Scattered swathes of clouds blotted out bright clusters of stars as they drifted overhead, but otherwise the evening was clear, and comfortably cool to the touch.
The giant Darroks were now deep in their slumber, the outline of their behemoth forms easily mistaken for moderately-sized hills under the shrouding veil of night. Only the rectangular carriages still affixed to their backs broke the temporal illusion.
Within the shadows of the Darrok’s looming forms, a number of broad tents housed both Harraks and their Trogen riders, resting in anticipation of the coming day’s exertions.
Clad only in a dark woolen tunic, coarse trousers, and a pair of leather boots, Dragol had left the better part of his protective clothing and equipment back within the confines of his tent. One exception was his cherished longblade, whose lengthy scabbard hung from the baldric resting snugly around his right shoulder. His left hand rested for the time being upon the leather-wrapped hilt, as he strolled by spear-carrying Trogen sentries, both of whom nodded respectfully towards Dragol as he passed.
He inhaled deeply, taking in several breaths of the crisp air, feeling it swiftly descend into his lungs. Breathing out was an equally pleasant experience, and the rhytmic pattern brought his entire body into a more relaxed state.
Looking skyward, and carefully studying the horizon, Dragol’s intense gaze quickly registered the shadowy form of a large Trogen patrol passing in the distance, faintly outlined against the dark sky. He could see that the patrol’s course was set just along the edge of the forest line to the east, precisely where the Trogens had to conduct themselves with the greatest caution.
Dragol wondered if they had espied anything at all, given that the enemy forces were not likely to mark themselves carelessly, with open campfires that would serve as stark beacons from leagues around.
The sky patrols were, in essence, performing a routine. It was highly doubtful that there would be any strikes against the encampments on the open grasslands.
Just a few leagues to the north from the Trogens was a massive, Gallean-led encampment. Its swelling numbers contained the invasion forces now poised to assault the lands of the Five Realms.
The two encampments, viewed from north to south, ran along a new kind of boundary, directly parallel to the first trees of the sprawling forests, hills, and multitudinous waterways of the Five Realms. The invasion force was positioned at the mid-point of the dark woodlands sheltering the enemy tribes, like a spear about to be thrust into the heart of a hunter’s quarry.
The Trogens, such as Dragol, with instincts sharply honed in the forges of a harsh existence within their homeland, were not about to underestimate their cautious, concealed adversary. The Trogen sky patrols were diligently maintained, as if there was always an imminent threat. Dragol and the other chieftains had seen to it that new routes were implemented wherever there was the slightest concern of vulnerabilities in the areas that the patrols warded.
With clearer skies and a pair of bright moons, any significant enemy force would be easily espied from the upper heights of the sky. Before an adversary ever got close to the encampments, the sonorous warnings of Trogen horns would have already roused a multitude of warriors, alert and prepared to resist any attack.
Though his physical eyesight scanned the wide spaces ahead of him, his mind’s eye was roving elsewhere. His heart was weighing heavily upon him, grappling with unyielding cares and resentments. He was not about to shy away from the inner tumult, as it was a favorable night to ponder the things that were bothering him.
Dragol continued to envy the Trogens that were soon to take part in the momentous battle for Saxany. He thought of Goras, his longtime comrade, companion, and fellow member of the Thunder Wolf Clan. Goras was on the verge of participating in the greatest battle that the world had yet known.
Dragol was not so envious that he wished otherwise for his stalwart comrade. He wanted nothing less for Goras, and was genuinely happy that the hardy warrior would have such an incredible opportunity to bring tremendous renown to the Thunder Wolf clan.
Nevertheless, Dragol’s own isolation from the impending battle, right at the cusp of participating in it himself, chafed sorely within him. The troubling thoughts caused him to clench his jaws tightly within his short muzzle, the tensions further stiffening his already taut neck and shoulder muscles.
Realizing that he was allowing himself to fall back into a strained inner state, so soon after easing himself down, he consciously focused upon relaxing his body again. Shaking out his powerful arms, and breathing in deeply, Dragol quieted his mind as much as he could. In a few moments, the Trogen warrior gradually felt the tightness ebb once again from his arms, shoulders, and neck.
Yet even if he could loosen the physical symptoms, it was all that Dragol could do to refrain from shouting out at the top of his lungs, erupting in a raucous cry of frustration and rage. Few warriors who had shown as much worthiness as Dragol, especially among his rugged, courageous kind, would ever have been restricted from the chance to measure themselves against such an unrivaled challenge. In the western marches of Saxany, upon the Plains of Athelney, two massive, determined armies would clash with titanic thunder.
Dragol could not deceive himself, in that the battle for the Five Realms was shaping up to be a conflict that would be much different in nature. It was far from what he had hoped for, when he had first arrived at the border region. Hiding and wary, the tribal warriors were scattered throughout the densely forested lands. It would be absolutely impossible to force the tribes into open battle, of a similar nature to the impending clash in Saxany.
Dragol knew that the tribesmen could not forever evade the Unifier’s combined forces, whose multitudes would be swarming into the depths of the woods once the command was given. Once they had penetrated the forests and began to spread throughout them, their reach would be too extensive for the enemy tribes to avoid.
Even worse for the enemy tribes, the ranks of the invaders included some elements that were very well-suited for the forested environs. Very recently, more than one Trogen sky warrior returning from airborne patrols had spoken of very unusual entities sighted within the allied forces encamped to the north. Word had rapidly spread among the Trogens that a war band of the fabled Atagar had been brought in for the impending battle. The Atagar hearkened from the mysterious land of Yanith, located across the seas to the west of Kiruva. Filled with its legendary, towering forests, Yanith was reputed to be an exceptionally dangerous woodland environment, and the Atagar had thrived within it for generations. The strange, rodent-like beings were undoubtedly being utilized for their exceptional skills and experience within a woodland environment, one that paled in comparison to those of their homelands.
The stories of Yanith intrigued the Trogen chieftain enough that he desired to see the Atagar homeland for himself one day. He could only imagine the kinds of creatures that lurked within the depths of those dense, colossal woods, both upon the ground and within the lofty boughs of the enormous trees said to populate Yanith’s forests. A vivid hint of the nature of those denizens came in the form of the brawny, predatory cats with the sabre-like teeth that the Atagar raised and trained, called Licanthers.
Though a part of Dragol regarded the Atagar as little more than glorified rat-men, he could understand their tremendous value for the very different type of fight that would be facing the invaders of the tribal lands. The enemy tribesmen intimately knew the pathways, ridges, hills, creeks, rivers, trees, rocks and every other natural feature within their lands. From evasion to ambushes, the advantages would certainly lie with the defenders due to their knowledge of the terrain.
The coming invasion would take speed, dexterity, and the ability to navigate, and swiftly learn, such a terrain, to bring the battle to the enemy quickly. The Atagar, at the very least, would be formidable adversaries within any forest environment. As scouts, they would be invaluable.
In addition to the Atagar, there were also recent reports of a small number of Gigans being present within the Gallean camp. The hulking Gigans were far less of a mystery than the Atagar, as Dragol’s own homelands bordered the native lands of the Gigan clans to the east. Both the Trogen and Gigan territories lay just north of the broad principalities of Kiruvar, with the ranges inhabited by the great Mountain Trolls completing that boundary.
The brutish creatures, as a race, were relatively stupid and simple in Dragol’s estimation. Over the years, he had become well acquainted with their ways and tendencies, though he was still perplexed by their reclusive nature.
Their unmatched strength could have won them far larger territories than their clans now occupied. As it was, while there were occasional skirmishes in the border regions with Trogen clans and the Kiruvans, the Gigan clans remained quite content to hunt within their own territories, and war amongst themselves.
The announcement of the Gigan presence within the invasion force had given Dragol great pause, as it was unprecedented. No outside ruler had ever been able to harness the Gigans’ fearsome strength for their purposes. Dragol knew that no human king would have hesitated for a moment to bestow an abundance of riches to employ the ferocious creatures in their service.
It was quite an anomaly to Dragol that the Unifier had been able to secure the use of Gigans in such a fashion, gaining an immediate advantage in almost any battlefield scenario. Whatever had transpired between the Unifier and the Gigan clans, the circumstances of the Gigans going forth from their homelands, to be used in foreign wars, mystified Dragol.
It defied all precedents, as the Gigans cared for so little beyond hunting and the inner matters concerning their clans. They were rather crude artisans when it came to the making of weapons, clothing, or tools, and they knew little to nothing of metalwork or trade. The Gigans dwelled amid towering mountains and deep gorges, natural barriers that sequestered their homelands, apparently satisfied with plentiful game and their ancient clan traditions.
The relations between Trogens and Gigans had been fairly benign over the years, seldomly declining to outright enmity. Though encounters and communications were random, scattered irregularly between the neighboring Trogens and Gigans, their interactions had most often been of an amicable manner. There were only a few times when renegade elements of Gigan or Trogen clans had battled along the border regions of the two races. The bloody, costly ends of those incursions and skirmishes had been more than enough to stifle any notions of outright war, if such thoughts were ever held by individuals of either race.
As the invasion of the Five Realms and Saxany loomed, the Unifier had somehow been able to bring the Gigans down in force from their mountainous homelands, and pull them far away. The only reason that Dragol could fathom was that the Gigans participated for very similar reasons to those that had secured the involvement of the Trogens. Both had long suffered at the hands of a venemous, powerful enemy, even if the brunt of that long-standing oppression had fallen upon the Trogen clans.
The Northern Elves often marauded in force from their protected islands, off the northwestern shores of both Trogen and Gigan lands. Their cruel raids were also launched from a couple of very valuable areas of mainland taken in the past from the Trogens and Gigans.
Most disturbing and agitating to all Trogens, a population of Trogens had been cut off from the rest of their kind in the taking of those lands long ago. Those unfortunate Trogens now lived in thrall to the Northern Elves. They were made to labor unendingly for the vile beings, whose pallid appearance echoed the cold, pitilessness of their hearts.
There was nothing that the Trogen slaves could ever hope to appeal to, as the ageless Elves saw themselves as the first fruits of creation itself, imbued by the Creator with a preeminent position over all creatures dwelling in Ave. The cruder, mortal Trogens were viewed as mere fodder, to be used in the service of such blessed, exalted beings. Dragol’s kind were considered to be sentient, expendable cattle, to be used however the Elves deemed fit.
Despite possessing lethal martial skills, honed over long ages, a Northern Elf did not enjoy any significant advantages in single combat with a fully-trained, seasoned Trogen warrior, much less one of the towering Gigans. Exceptional at archery and the use of crossbows, the Elves fought most often from a distance, less inclined to risk their enduring, age-defying lives by setting blade against blade. Moving nimbly through shadows, they had culled many Gigans and Trogens alike from positions of concealment, sending poison-tipped shafts deep into the flesh of victims that were not given a chance to acquit themselves in battle.
Their mastery of the two mortal races relied upon their long-established naval power, and their own teeming masses of sky-steeds. Their advanced shipbuilding had resulted in the creation of a formidable fleet, whose constant pressure over the years had successfully prevented the Trogens from ever fielding, or even developing the skill to fashion, larger watercraft. The Northern Elves had trained and developed large numbers of a very special, fearsome kind of Skiantha. With appearances like winged lions, they were ferociously hostile to the Harraks, as if an inherited enmity existed between the two.
With the advantage of having existed long before Trogens or Gigans had taken a single step upon the face of the world, the Northern Elves possessed the luxury of abundant time. It had allowed them to develop advancements in fortification that tremendously augmented their predominance.
When the discovery of great iron deposits, veins of silver, and some particularly bountiful coastal areas, teeming with many kinds of fish, occurred centuries after the Trogen and Gigan Clans had come into existence, the Northern Elves had moved with self-annointed impunity. They had conducted a huge campaign to occupy and fortify the portion of mainland necessary to secure the valuable resources.
Once considerable fortifications had been erected to shield the newly-acquired areas, the Elves had used them as bases for sending raiding parties deeper into Trogen and Gigan lands. They culled meat and furs from the wild herds of animals that the Trogens and Gigans relied upon, as well as levying destruction upon any cropland areas or dwelling sites that they could reach.
The intention was unmistakably punitive, calculated to create hardship and suffering among the other two races, and keep them in a perpetually weakened state. Withdrawing behind their massive fortifications, or retreating to their sleek war galleys, safely beyond the shoreline, the Elves had never been made to feel the pain that they delivered so regularly to others.
Elvish raids had occasionally brought about a few desperate incidents that had temporarily bonded Trogens and Gigans in a united cause. In an hour of common affliction, the two races had reached a higher level of solidarity, gained through the necessity of fighting side by side against a mutual adversary.
If used appropriately within the forests, the Gigans would be immensely effective warriors, able to batter and break through any defenses that the invaders might encounter, or reduce any obstructions erected to slow advances through the forest. The stomping approach of bellowing Gigans, battle-maddened and swinging great war-axes and maces, would challenge the resolve of even the most hardened veteran among human warriors. Dragol conceded that such a sight was unsettling enough to a battle-seasoned Trogen.
The full assault would be foreshadowed by a massive bombardment of great stones loosed from the backs of the Darroks. The monstrous hailstorm would be levied upon the areas around the invaders’ planned routes, allowing for a swifter initial surge into the forest.
Dragol and Tirok’s charge during that time would be very straightforward. They had been ordered to see to the protection of the Darroks, to scout for enemy movements, and to provide regular reports on anything of interest sighted from the higher skies.
Dragol could only hope that the attack proceeded quickly enough to subdue resistance, reducing it to such a miniscule level that the occupation of the Five Realms did not require the sustained involvement of large, concentrated forces. He wished that he and the other Trogens would somehow be called away to the battle marshalling far to the south, out on the Plains of Athelney.
Yet Dragol was only one Trogen, standing alone on a swathe of windswept grasses just outside of his encampment. He could not begin to see how he could possibly tilt the course of things to a better direction. Everything already seemed to be so heavily weighed against his most deeply held desires. The feeling of helplessness was becoming more overwhelming with each passing day.
His focus was slowly drawn upward, to the moons high above. Dragol took up a familiar stone disc in the palm of his right hand. Suspended from the long, leather thong around his neck, the pendant was caressed gently by the silvery light.
He peered intently at the distinct profile of a wolf’s head, carved into its surface. A singular, large tooth, taken from the skull of a long-dead Thunder Wolf, was set in place across the middle of the stone disc, the sharp fang aligned with the thick neck of the wolf image. The pendant honored the apex of the moons’ cycles, when both orbs were manifested in their fullness within the night skies, while also cradling the sacred image and relic of the Thunder Wolves within its circumference.
The moons were a very special part of his clan’s symbolism, as were the great Thunder Wolves of old. For many ages, the Thunder Wolves had howled vigorously towards the moons when they had reached their zeniths, extending the radiant orbs hailing tributes of timeless reverence.
Dragol clenched the sacred pendant tightly in his balled fist. He closed his eyes, feeling the ache that welled up inside as he realized once again that he had never heard that sound with his own ears. Nor had he ever set his eyes, for even a moment, upon the very creature that his own clan was a living, proud homage to. Theirs was the only Trogen clan to carry such a terrible burden.
The Thunder Wolves had long ago been driven into extinction by the Northern Elves, one of the greatest travesties ever visited upon the Trogen race by their longtime tormentors. The Thunder Wolf clan had carried on ever since, refusing to choose a new clan symbol, even though the noble creatures had vanished from their lands.
Dragol slowly looked back up to the larger of the two moons, musing for a few moments that Goras and his other Thunder Wolf brethren in Saxany might well be looking up towards it at that very moment. If the Thunder Wolves could no longer gaze upon that silvered moon, then the Trogens of the clan honoring the legendary creatures still could; and always would, as long as even one of them drew breath.
The large, glowing night traveler and its smaller companion had not been stopped by the Elves. The luminous orbs would continue on their ancient journey over both Saxany and the borderlands between Gallea and the Five Realms, as they would also over Trogen lands. The celestial bodies would remain firmly in place, no matter what the Elves might otherwise wish. That thought, at the very least, was a source of comfort.
For the moment, Dragol pushed back the rancorous thoughts of the Northern Elves from his mind. He tried to replace them with thoughts of the more positive things that the sight of the moons evoked, bringing to the fore the idea that Goras and his fellow Thunder Wolf clan brethren were even now gazing upon its sylvan luminance.
Dragol reflected that both the Trogens and the moons were engaged in a timeless natural procession. While the moons already possessed an ancient legacy, the current generation of Trogens was just about to begin their own journey across the skies of the life cycle.
As the moons fulfilled their determined part in the natural order, so would the Trogens, fueled by the fires of spirit that burned fiercely within them. The blazing spirit of their kind would drive them to meet their challenges directly, to face all fears with their utmost courage and skill, and to find their measure within the enduring, growing legacy of their race.
That was the true way of a Trogen warrior, and whether the Unifier wanted to recognize that or not, Dragol did not entirely care. It was a special inheritance reserved for his own kind, to be honored and continued, and he only hoped that he would not be denied his own chance to see where his individual place stood among his peers and ancestors.
That hope was the greatest reason why he felt disconcerted as he ruminated in silence, staring up at the skies that he would fly across the very next day. His slow exhalations merged with the soft breezes, as if the winds themselves would carry his worries to the ears of some greater power that might listen, and address his inward anxieties.
Dragol knew that he could watch a thousand Darroks drop a torrential cascade of stones for days on end, and he would come no closer to knowing his own measure. He had to be given the chance to fight a worthy adversary, blade to blade, in the skies or upon the ground. It was truly that simple, though the realization of it seemed so maddeningly elusive.
Another faint, dark thought continued to nag at the fringes of his conscience, even in the face of his incessant worrying over being able to take measure of himself in combat. It was a troubling thought, one that he dare not voice to other Trogens, as everything that they did in service of the Unifier’s forces hinged solely upon the promises that had been made to their kind.
Rising doubts had taken firmer root, revealing themselves to Dragol with greater frequency. The meddlesome concerns nonetheless had momentous implications: If the Unifier did not fulfill His promises to the Trogens, then the war that they were fighting would become unjustifiable.
The terrible prospect represented a conundrum for Dragol, as it acknowledged the possibility that all of the Trogens’ combined involvement could ultimately be for naught. The possibility loomed that every Trogen fighting in this war could return to their homelands tainted with disgrace, having participated in a baseless war that carried no legitimacy under a Trogen warrior’s code of honor.
With a low, audible growl of frustration, the Trogen shut his eyes once again, laboring to chase the new swarm of worrying thoughts out of his head.
There was only one thing to think about, in light of what Dragol could, and could not, control. He was on the threshold of a new era. While not denying the uncertainty encompassing him, the Trogen chieftain had to believe that somehow great honor would be gained, both for his race and for himself. It was the only way that he could go forward, with all of his strength and conviction intact.
He needed only to concentrate upon the charges that he and his warriors had been given, and to execute them flawlessly, helping to conclude the battle for the Five Realms swiftly. Everything beyond those imminent tasks was well out of his control.
There was also the possibility that welcome surprises could emerge within the course of the approaching battle. The full nature of the tribesemen was still to be revealed, and if the daring resistance displayed in the first Darrok raid was any indication, then the invaders would be well advised not to underestimate their opponent.
As the main attack would be launched with overwhelming force, a part of Dragol could not help but wonder why the tribesmen did not surrender, or at least parley. But the fact that they had not elevated his respect for them even more.
The tribes lacked the numbers and quality of weapons and armor that the invadors would bring to bear. Yet like a proud black tiger from the Trogen homelands, when cornered, the tribal warriors would undoubtedly fight back with fury. Dragol’s instincts told him that the overly confident Galleans were going to be in for much more than they expected, at the very least.
Dragol’s attention returned back to the present, as he opened his eyes with a markedly calmer mind. The stone disc pendant was still clutched within his hand, he suddenly realized. Gently, he lowered his right hand, letting the symbol of his clan come to rest against his muscular chest. He knew that when the new day rose, he would face the enemy as a Trogen warrior of the Thunder Wolf clan, come whatever may.
He then looked off in the direction of the dark outlines that indicated the forest’s outer boundary, well off in the distance. He was not altogether certain what it was that he was looking for, but he scanned the boundary from horizon to horizon nonetheless. It was a tense stillness that met his rigid gaze, and in that moment he felt in his gut that the fight on the coming day would not be easy.
The dark, shrouded forest revealed nothing of what the future would be, yet, in a way, it represented the gateway to everything that he would become in the future. One way or another, the answers that addressed the innermost core of his being would be found somewhere within that impenetrable line of shadow spread before him.
Turning away from the concealed boundary region, Dragol strode calmly back towards the encampment. The night had not yet aged to where he needed to turn in to his tent, and take some rest. There was still time enough to join with some of the other Trogens for some meat and drink. Perhaps, if he were fortunate, there would even be time to engage in further conversation with Tirok.
Most of the other Trogens not assigned to patrol or sentry duty would likely be settling in for the night. There was always a chance during such a period to hear some good tales from members of other clans. It was an opportunity not often afforded when Dragol was back in his own clan’s territory.
The legacies of the Thunder Wolf clan, and all of the clans, were like the iron ingots worked by Trogen artisans to fashion one singular Trogen longblade. That collective blade was about to be labored upon further, in the coming days and weeks.
Dragol’s heart was lifted as he gazed upon three Trogen warriors immersed in conversation, relaxed and confident in their demeanor as they sat around a blazing campfire. Seeing him, the warriors called for him to join them, offering him cooked meat and ale without hesitation. As he drew closer, Dragol saw that they were of three different clans, but the bonds of a warrior brotherhood flowed among all of them.
The sight filled him with confidence, as he took a place with them, representing a fourth clan in their ongoing discussion. Trials lay ahead, of that he was certain. Yet when all was finished, and no matter what it took, Dragol believed fervently that the blade of the Trogens’ spirit would ultimately come out sharper, and more robust, than ever before.
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