*
Dragol and a couple hundred Trogen warriors adhered strictly to their given orders, as the gigantic Darroks cruised uncontested through the skies over the Five Realms. Renewed bombardment with heavy stones had commenced, and there was ample evidence that they had struck their long-sought targets this time.
Loud cries and wails, and large numbers of tribal people scattering through the sporadic breaks in the forest’s dense ceiling below, indicated that the Trogens had uncovered one concentrated gathering of their enemies. The stones thudded amongst people this time, rather than the empty villages that they had encountered on their most recent foray.
The heavy tree cover allowed Trogen observers to only see flashes of movement, but it was very apparent that a considerable number of humans were fleeing in all directions below the Darroks. The falling stones crashed through the trees, breaking branches, and spreading chaos and death.
A few small squads of Trogens had already taken to the air upon their Harraks, leaving the backs of the Darroks that had ferried them eastward. They had been dispatched to loose arrows into the tree cover, wherever they saw any signs of significant movement. The archers were careful to keep their steeds high in elevation, positioned safely away from any chance of return arrow fire. Not even the unknown bowman back in Saxany would have had enough range to threaten the Trogen archers where they hovered.
Following orders, Dragol drew no satisfaction from the one-sided affair. He could not deceive himself, or soften the bile he felt building within him. There was absolutley no honor in such a manner of fighting. Something felt terribly wrong deep inside him, a matter of spirit, and not flesh.
He was still chafing with envy regarding the Trogens who were taking part in the invasion of Saxany. They were likely engaged in a truly honorable manner of fighting; warrior against warrior, face to face.
He and Tirok, as Trogen commanders, still remained on the backs of the Darroks, along with a few clusters of mounted warriors that were being held in reserve, just in case the enemy had any airborne surprises waiting to throw suddenly at them.
“We have the insects stirred up,” remarked Tirok, with some apparent disgust, as he looked out over the side of the wooden railing.
Dragol knew that Tirok was also miserable about the manner of war that they were engaged in. It was never the way of the Trogens to avoid facing an enemy blade to blade. The cold truth was that this form of war, levied from high in the sky against defenseless targets, was a coward’s war.
The only thing that had kept Tirok and Dragol from turning the Darroks about was the promise that, at the end of the war, many generations of torment and tragedy inflicted upon Trogen kind would finally be brought to an end. Yet even with that momentous bargain with the Unifier, set to secure the long-awaited help that was needed to overcome their terrible oppression, Dragol still felt very uneasy inside. He knew, without asking, that Tirok did as well.
Close by, a number of Trogens labored to offload a pile of moderately-sized rocks over the side of the Darrok. Each rock was fairly heavy, even for the considerable strength of a hale Trogen, lifting with both arms. The rocks had been selected for a strictly Trogen crew, as no human crew would have been able to maneuver the heavy missiles.
“Yes, they are moving about under the trees, but you and I know that nothing will come up to challenge us… they do not have the steeds to fight in the sky. Their warriors can only fight on the ground,” Dragol bitterly replied.
He knew that the limited number of Bregas left to the tribesmen would not be sacrificed futilely, trying to stop the formidable array of Darroks and Trogens. The tribesmen had already shown that they were warriors with the courage to embark upon a flight in the face of death, but they were not foolhardy. They would not carelessly throw their lives away, certainly not while they had their elderly, women, and young to guide forward.
“It is hard to say how the enemy warriors fare upon the ground. They may be overwhelmed, or they may put up a good fight. The attack is a powerful one,” Tirok replied, referencing the immense border attack that had been initiated, just shortly after the Darroks had taken to the skies.
The Darroks, with their numerous Trogen escorts, had been sent to the furthest edge of the attack to the south. They had begun their strike deep over the woods to the east, proceeding in a line that worked back up north. It was very difficult to observe what was happening within the woods, or to gain any insight regarding the fighting occurring further to the north.
“Do not worry yourself, Dragol. Very soon, you and I will be flying together in the skies over Saxany,” Tirok continued. “There are enough sky steeds in the Saxan ranks that we will be challenged blade to blade.”
“May your words come true, soon,” Dragol practically hissed, glaring in his frustration at the older commander whom he had such immense reverence for.
The chance to fight alongside one as honored among Trogens as Tirok did not come often. Dragol’s current predicament would be little different if he and Tirok were chained to the Darrok’s back. The effect was the same. He was held back from the Trogen way of war, and an opportunity to go into battle by the side of one as eminent as Tirok.
“Dragol, Tirok!” an insistent Trogen interrupted, with obvious urgency.
“What is it?” snapped Dragol, now engulfed in a black mood.
The Trogen, wide-eyed and excited, pointed out towards the horizon, off the right side of the Darrok. He shouted his words, as he directed their attentions. “Out there! Look! In the skies!”
Dragol and Tirok followed the insistent gestures of the Trogen warrior. To his great surprise, Dragol saw what appeared to be a dark cloud moving steadfastly towards them.
It was no cloud of the natural order, as the sky around them was very clear. In truth, the skies were largely devoid of cloud cover, all the way up to the heights that a Harrak could not reach. What little could be seen was snow white in hue.
“What is that? A cloud that moves towards us?” Tirok asked, as a grin started to spread across his face. He cast a knowing glance towards Dragol, as sparks erupted within his deepset eyes.
“I would guess a great number of sky steeds, Tirok,” Dragol observed, squinting towards the apparition to the east. “We must find out whose side they are on. They are still too far away to tell.”
His hopes for redemption from the current, loathsome way of conducting a war were rising.
“Are there any more Harraks in this area? And why would they come from the east?” Tirok asked.
“Are we to be allowed an honorable fight at last?” Dragol offered, giving voice to his escalating hopes.
Tirok cried out, with no hesitation, “To the skies, Dragol! All forces, to the skies!”
The two Trogen commanders hurriedly issued directives that were conveyed by horn signal to the mounted Trogens upon all the Darroks to take to the skies. The short blasts were a welcome music to Dragol, and the orders were disseminated quickly along the backs of every Darrok. Within moments, several streams of Harraks were flying up into the air, taking positions above the huge creatures.
On the backs of the Darroks, most of the other Trogens stopped carrying the great rocks, or pushing them down the timber chutes from the carriages. They scrambled to grab up their longbows, readying quivers of arrows as they prepared for defense.
The sky warriors then converged together, gathering into one great mass. Dragol and Tirok hovered side by side in the air, set just in front of the assembling muster.
The Darroks were then guided away from the area by their handlers, who altered their courses sharply to the west and north. The shift placed the Trogen sky formation squarely before the unknown, oncoming force, in a perfect position to intercept them.
The two commanders were content to maintain the buffer zone between the Darroks and the approaching cloud of unidentified sky warriors. Dragol kept straining his eyes to ascertain the nature of the approaching riders, but the distance was still too great.
“And if what is in that cloud outnumbers us greatly?” Tirok asked.
“Then we should fly closer to the Darroks, and draw the attackers in, to where our warriors on the platforms can loose arrows at them,” Dragol suggested.
Like Tirok, he could discern how the Trogens could be split and engulfed if the enemy numbers were overwhelming. Still, he far preferred such a concern over what he had been forced to endure while idle on the back of the Darroks.
“We must protect the Darroks, at all cost. Those are the orders,” Tirok reiterated.
Tirok echoed the primacy among the commands that had been delivered to the Trogens just at the onset of daybreak, while the sky warriors were busy double-checking the harnessing on their steeds. The priorities had been made perfectly clear, repeated to the point of irritation.
“That can be done best if we have the help of the archers on the backs of the Darroks, if the enemy numbers are too many for us to entangle here,” Dragol remarked. “The enemy will not be able to do much harm to the beasts, as long as we are also flying amongst them.”
Tirok grew silent, staring off at the swiftly approaching cloud, while he pondered Dragol’s suggestion.
“If the numbers look to be too great, then we will draw back,” Tirok replied firmly. “Until then, we will remain here, to give them a proper Trogen greeting.”
Dragol nodded as he sat back in his saddle, grasping the leather grip on the hilt of his Trogen longblade, sliding the weapon purposefully out of the scabbard. The smooth movement felt reassuring, and as the blade was freed he felt a surge of anticipation course through him. In his left hand, he took up the grip on his wooden shield, from where it had been resting on his back by the guige strap. He grasped the iron bar in the center, along with a segment of his Harrak’s reins.
Everything depended on the identity of the approaching sky steeds. Dragol was all but certain that they would be foes, but he still did not know what kind of warriors constituted their numbers, or what manner of weapons they wielded.
Shifting his full attention back to the nearing cloud, Dragol allowed the fires of anticipated battle to build up within him. They burned throughout his being, flaring up as all of his thoughts narrowed towards a singular focus on the impending combat.
Ahead, the dark cloud kept increasing in size, as it grew closer. Finally, individual shapes could vaguely be made out.
There was the faintest possibility that it was a contingent of Harrak-mounted Trogens that Dragol and Tirok had not been aware of, coming in to reinforce their efforts over the Five Realms. Further numbers would certainly increase the havoc that was being wreaked far behind the enemy lines, spreading it over a much wider area.
A few Trogens were now engaged in executing scouting duties over other areas of the battlefront, either alone or in pairs, but the overwhelming majority of available sky warriors had already been concentrated in the task of protecting the valuable Darroks. Dragol strongly doubted that there was even a shred of a chance that the incoming force would be Trogens.
The possibility that it was a horde of defenders from the Five Realms, mounted upon Bregas, also seemed quite unlikely. If there had been a large contingent of Bregas still available to the defenders, in numbers that could constitute any real threat to the Darrok juggernauts, then they would have long since made their presence felt. The tribal warriors had already demonstrated their mettle, and it was not lacking in any measure.
Turning his head, he looked back over his shoulder. He saw that the Darroks had covered quite a distance as he and Tirok waited, having drifted much farther to the north in the intervening time. The Trogen archers on their backs must have gauged that they had ample time to respond to attacks, as a small level of bombardment had resumed. Dragol watched the Darroks for a few moments, as several rivulets of dense rock were unloaded and sent towards the ground below.
Dragol surmised that the Darrok crews must have discovered an inviting target, though he knew that all of the Trogens involved would rather be with Tirok and Dragol.
Loud outcries jerked his attention back around towards the front.
“Fenraren! Midragardans!” an excited shout loudly proclaimed, from just to his right.
Dragol stared back out towards the living cloud coming from the east. It had drawn close enough for him now to make out the triangular ears and elongated muzzles of the storied Fenraren from Midragard. The morning sun glinted off the iron helms of their riders, and he could hear their exuberant shouts, as they streaked towards the Trogens with deadly intent.
The sight thrilled him, as Midragardans were no cowards, and were certainly the manner of fighters that brought great merit to those that overcame them. Dragol’s grip on his longblade tightened, as an adrenalized feeling washed over him. At last, he was being set free.
Yet his rush of excitement did not overwhelm his sensibilities. Ominiously, Dragol could clearly see that there were several ranks of mounted Midragardans flying tightly behind the others that had formed the main cloud outline from a distance. The Midragardans had taken a direct approach, on a roughly even line with the Trogens, holding a formation that had effectively masked their true numbers.
Tirok’s spoken concern was now a very grim reality. The Midragardans did indeed have them heavily outnumbered.
Dragol swiftly glanced over to Tirok, whose eyes were narrowed as he studied the enemy sky riders, now that they were close enough to scrutinize.
In Dragol’s mind, it would be much better to have the support of the archers on the back of the Darroks. There would be some risk of a few Trogen sky warriors being hit by the arrows, but the enemy cloud would be divided up, and prevented from easily concentrating. A chaotic melee, in Dragol’s judgement, would serve the Trogens much better. It would reduce the advantage of far superior numbers, and allow the Trogens to chip away at the Midragardan force, piece by piece.
“You see the numbers they have. What do you say?” Dragol asked Tirok. “Should we hasten to the Darroks?”
The more he thought about the situation, the more Dragol realized that they must not abandon the Darroks. The Midragardans were great enough in number that they could engage all the riders in the sky, and still have a considerable number to spare for sending after the Darroks.
The last thing that needed to happen was to have the Trogens in the sky separated from the Darroks. Dragol scanned the oncoming force, and a part of him felt that such an idea was very likely within the minds of the enemy’s leaders. One force would engulf Dragol and Tirok’s group, while another would race after the Darroks.
Tirok’s knuckles whitened as he firmly gripped the shaft of his long lance, lowering the broad, socketed blade at its end. The traces of a crazed look were spreading in his dark eyes. Tirok had long been renowned as a living maelstrom in battle, and Dragol was undoubtedly witnessing the calm before the storm.
“Midragardans… a day to remember arrives. Not too many! We will fight them!” Tirok rumbled in a low, growling voice, his face taking on a dangerous hue, as his eyes flashed fiercely.
Consumed by the searing heat of the moment, given a chance to match arms with skilled riders upon the legendary Fenraren of Midragard, Tirok raised his war shield and shouted a bellowing war cry. With a dig of his heels to the sides of his mount, he spurred his Harrak forward, into the airborne semblance of a charge.
Before Dragol could do anything to stem the outright madness, and temper the older warrior’s battle rage, the multitude of Trogens directly under Tirok followed suit. They drew their longblades, or adjusted the grip and position of their lances, before roaring their own war cries and hurtling forth towards the oncoming Midragardans upon their Fenraren.
Those under Dragol’s direct command looked towards him with shock and disbelief, as if they could not believe he was not following after the legendary Tirok.
The second warrior in command, a burly Trogen of the Sea Wolf clan named Gavnar, whose face was streaked with scars gained from many fights, cried out in dismay, “We must charge! Dragol, Tirok has moved!”
Dragol held up on the reins of his Harrak. He was bold, passionate, and eager, almost without rival, but he was also no fool. Nor was he suicidal. The insanity that had suddenly gripped Tirok had transferred to the sorely outnumbered Trogen ranks, beckoning to take all of them on a path to what would undoubtedly be their doom, and leave the Darroks unprotected.
If the Darroks were isolated, the Unifier’s prized creatures could be overcome, and Dragol did not want to think of what the consequences would be if that happened. The Avanoran leaders had been very clear about the vital importance of the Darroks to the Unifier. The Unifier might well disregard His promises in the face of such a great loss, and then all the Trogen sacrifice in the war would come to absolutely nothing.
“We must fall back to the Darroks!” Dragol roared out. “We must split up the enemy, and protect the Darroks. We will fight them there, blade to blade, but not foolishly!”
“We must go, now! After Tirok,” Gavnar shouted urgently.
“The Midragardans want us to! They want to keep us away from the Darroks. They have the numbers to do this! I tell you, Gavnar, we will fight them! But we will fight them by the Darroks!” Dragol thundered back.
Gavnar snarled openly at him. The thick-headed Trogen screamed back in a near delirium, one that was devoid of any rational consideration. “You coward! You are unfit to lead. All with me, after Tirok! To battle, now!”
Before Dragol could strike the insubordinate Gavanar down, the lower-ranking Trogen warrior broke ranks and urged his Harrak forward. Dragol looked on in sheer disbelief, as all of those under his command were swept up in their heated passions and mutinied, following in the wake of Gavnar. Their feelings had overridden all of their discipline and senses. Caught up in the apex of emotion, and the shadow of the storied Tirok, they had abandoned Dragol.
He looked onward, frozen in incredulity that his fellow Trogens had openly defied his authority. His dismay far overshadowed any rage that he felt towards Gavnar’s tremendous insult. In an instant, he was alone, as the second group of Trogens raced after Tirok’s contingent.
Despite being called a coward, quite possibly the worst accusation that could be rendered from one Trogen to another, Dragol mastered his emotions. As clarity seeped back into his mind, he felt pity towards Gavnar and the other Trogens.
A cold, dizzying feeling then came over him, as fresh doubts tugged inside. Dragol suddenly feared that he had failed a test of himself. The disconcerting moment passed swiftly, as there was only time to react. No matter which way he looked at it, there were more than enough Midragardans to engage the Trogen sky warriors and to continue onward, to assail the now vulnerable Darroks.
Taking a quick look behind him, Dragol saw that the Darrok formation, with a group of archers readied on every carriage, had progressed a little further to the north. Isolated, and with enemies riding upon swift Fenraren, he realized with a sickening feeling that he would be overwhelmed by numbers alone before he could even reach the Darroks, and help to command the defense.
Even as he took measure of his own situation, and the exposed nature of the Darroks, the Midragardans were spreading outward. They flowed into a swiftly expanding array, taking full advantage of their greater numbers in a shape that would soon engulf the sides of the foolhardy Trogens streaking towards them.
They were doing exactly what Dragol had thought they would do. He was about to be caught himself in the widening, airborne jaws, and for all practical purposes he might as well have been dead in his saddle.
He had desired a time for valor, but his keener senses screamed out for intelligent discretion under the circumstances. Dragol had long been trusting of his deeper instincts, which shouted out louder to him than they ever had before.
To remain in place was to die in vain, utterly useless to his clan and his homeland, the victim of one’s outright foolishness, and another’s rebellious disobedience. There was no honor in such a futile death, and he knew that he would never reach the Darroks in time to be of any use to their defense.
There was no other option available to the Trogen warrior than downward. He knew that he only needed to gain some time. There was a little hope that the Midragardan numbers could be worn down enough such that the archers on the back of the Darroks could fend the surviving fighters off. In that way, Tirok’s suicidal charge might produce some good yet.
If Dragol reemerged from the forest, after the Midragardans had been fought off, he could likely make it back to the main encampment, or join the Darroks en route. Once back in the encampment, he would have word of Tirok’s bout of insanity carried to Tragan, who would immediately question why Dragol had not remained in the fight.
Dragol could only hope that Tragan would eventually realize Tirok’s sheer rashness. The fact that the Darroks had been left undefended by the other’s reckless action, and that many had disobeyed Dragol in his own efforts to adhere to Tragan’s firm orders regarding that task, would not likely be well received by the stern Trogen commander.
Even so, the mutiny would probably serve to undermine Dragol’s own future viability as a commander. Yet it was a chance that he would have to take.
The ground below was still fraught with risk, as he was far ahead of the advancing Gallean lines, well within the range controlled by the tribal warriors. He knew that he had to gain some distance from the areas where the Darroks had recently bombarded, or he might be setting down amongst an enraged mass of tribal people, aching for revenge.
He had to risk that danger, nonetheless, if he wanted to have any hope of surviving the day. Death he did not fear, but dying for sheer foolhardiness had to be averted.
Taking a deep breath, he clenched Rodor’s reins, and guided his Harrak into a swooping, diagonal course towards the trees. It carried him farther away from the bombarded area, and also put a little more distance between himself and the oncoming Midragardans.
His mount slowed down considerably as he neared the vicinity of the forest’s upper canopy, gliding smoothly into a level path of flight. Dragol cruised slowly, as he searched anxiously for an open meadow or other break in the trees. In an older forest, such as the one below, there were several places where storms or the passing of time created such holes in treecover. Exhaling a sustained breath of relief, he finally espied such an opening, and angled Rodor for it right away.
The fissure in the sea of trees was large enough for Dragol to comfortably descend through it upon his Harrak, though he maneuvered the steed down as carefully as he could. The leaves of the nearby trees rustled as the Harrak’s broad wings beat hard, clipping some leaves on the edges of a few branches.
The Harrak landed relatively smoothly upon the forest floor, off to the side of a long-rotted, fallen tree, which was now little more than a softening, decomposing mass. The trees ringing the small clearing obstructed much of his view of the skies above. Not knowing when the Midragardan warriors might pass over the place where he had landed, he knew that he had to take immediate cover.
Dragol’s eyes darted about, cursing the deep shadows of the forest. The dimmer depths of the woods encompassing him required a few moments of time for his eyes to adjust from the bright skies that he had left behind.
As his eyes began to pierce the dappled gloom, he was relieved to find that there were no signs of Five Realms warriors present, or any other imminent threats. Dragol had little doubt that the tribesmen would not be in the mood to extend him a warm welcome.
Grabbing the reins to his steed, he strode forward, leading Rodor into the trees. No longer exposed in the open, he turned and lowered into a crouch behind some brush, staring back up to the skies through the clearing.
Though distant, and high in altitude, the winds carried the sounds of the furious, ongoing clash between the Trogens and Midragardans. Another pang of guilt struck him, as part of him wished that he was slashing through the Midragardan warriors, rather than slinking about the forest floor in the middle of the Five Realms. Dragol was not a Trogen who shirked from fighting any opponent, and even if his choice made strategic sense, it still left him conflicted.
His blood boiling with anger and frustration, he reminded himself once again of the undeniable circumstances regarding the situation above. The badly outnumbered Trogen warriors under his command had openly defied his order and authority, and, by doing so, had ultimately opposed Tragan’s firm directives. Disobedience to a chieftain, or a warrior delegated to command, was a great transgression. It was one that Dragol was not guilty of in any way, as he had dutifully honored Tragan’s orders. Gavnar and the others had sorely violated the ages-old tradition, and Dragol knew that he bore no guilt for their senseless choice.
Even so, the grave infraction had been committed by a number of Trogens from the Thunder Wolf clan, among those who had been hovering with Dragol. They had effectively abandoned a chieftain of their own clan, which made it all the more painful and confusing to him.
Dragol was not about to second guess his decision, knowing in his heart that he had made the wiser choice. The sudden mutiny would have just carried him to certain destruction, if he had chosen to follow after the other Trogens by himself. He had known without a doubt that they were about to be swarmed by the much larger Midragardan force, and those under his command should have trusted his judgement.
Their abandonment, and defiance of him, had tempered any regrets that he might otherwise have had. After what they had done, he would never have been able to feel affinity towards any of them again.
Further, if Gavnar and any Thunder Wolves survived the battle, he would have simply challenged all of them to single combat. He would have slain them one at a time, his longblade quenching its thirst on their rebellious blood.
Dragol had been very clear to Gavnar and the others that they would still fight in the Trogen way, under his plan. He was simply not inclined to throw those under his command away in futility. Gaining the most advantageous position for battle was not a wrongdoing, nor was it avoidance. It offered a more propitious fight, fully honorable in nature, and, though the chances were still very slim, it offered the only real prospects for victory.
Jaws clenched within the severe tension that his ruminations invoked, such that his neck muscles bulged, he turned and got back to his feet. Taking the lead, he guided his mount deeper through the trees. He took the creature in a direction that he estimated would be leading away from the main courses of bombardment.
He had to move quickly, as the result of the combat in the sky was a foregone conclusion. It was very possible that enemy riders had seen him descending. In such numbers as they had, he could still find himself casting his life away vainly, even if he took many down with him.
Dying in such a manner would not bring any benefit to the Trogens, or aid their longtime struggle. Survival was the only choice for him to pursue, even if those chances were far from good.
Keeping the reins of the Harrak in his left hand, clenched firmly along his shield grip, he grasped his Trogen longblade in his right. Eyes peeled, peering with rigid scrutiny into the shadows of the forest, he was sensitive to any movements. Nothing of alarm was forthcoming as he continued, and he eventually came upon a wide, shallow stream. In a turn of fortune, the stream’s route continued more or less in the direction that he had chosen. The water flowed calmly and timelessly, as if nothing was amiss in the woods, or above in the skies.
With a little cajoling, Dragol guided his steed into the midst of the shallow water in order to eliminate the existence of a scented trail for potential pursuers. His leather boots sank into the mud of the stream’s bedding, as the cool water soaked through to his skin. The cold liquid almost mirrored the brooding, chaotic thoughts that kept penetrating, and permeating, his tumultuous mind.
His eyes scanned for any rock surface breaking clear of the water, but there was very little to be found. Their scents might be covered, but he had tracked and hunted enough animals to know that the soft mud beneath the soles of his boots, and the clawed feet of his steed, were leaving some very visible signs for anyone, or anything, with perceptive, experienced eyes.
He had to keep going forward, as it was most imperative to get away from the clearing where he had landed. Despite any concerns that he harbored about tracks, he knew that he had to press forward to achieve as much distance as possible.
The sounds of battle overhead soon faded away, as Dragol covered a significant amount of ground. At last, he came to a halt, and decided to address his concerns a little. Using his longblade, he cut off a thin, overhanging branch from a tree perched on the edge of the bank to his right. Securing his Harrak for a moment to the same tree, he doubled back to use the branch to brush the bottom of the stream over a long section of their trail.
He also spared a few moments to make some false tracks of his own at the onset of the cleared segment, giving the appearance that he had climbed out of the stream where the previous signs had ended. The time spent disguising their passage gave him some further peace of mind. Under the weighty circumstances, that slight easement was a great boon to his spirit.
There were still no signs of enemy pursuit, the tribal fighters, or even the allied, invading force, as he methodically worked back to his Harrak and untied it, to resume their sojourn. Dragol began to entertain the notion of risking a climb above the tree line, in order to see if the skies were clear.
Scanning the surrounding trees, he looked for ones that appeared promising for a dedicated climb by a heavy-bodied Trogen. The forest possessed a variety of trees, and there were several old, stout sentinels in view, whose branches would bear his weight capably high above.
Determining upon one such tree, he led the Harrak back out of the water. The mud sucked at his boots as he pulled his legs up from the stream, and strode over the embankment. He drew near to the old oak tree, and was about to tether the Harrak to the lower branch of a smaller tree close by when several bird cries broke the heavy silence of the forest.
Instinctively honing in upon the subtlest aspects of the sounds, he suspected that the bird cries had not been generated by any manner of feathered entities. There was just something a little different in tone about the cries, even though they sounded very authentic.
Hunting a variety of creatures within his own homelands, many of them perilous, he had become very attuned to the nuances of animal and bird sounds. Birds sometimes heralded the presence of a dangerous animal moving in the vicinity, alerting the surrounding forest. The cries reaching Dragol’s ears did indeed proclaim a presence, but they were not testifying to the approach of a forest predator.
The elvish raiders that plagued Dragol’s own homelands used animal cries when they undertook their intrusive forays. Dragol was still alive because he had long ago learned to discern the differences between an Elf mimicking a bird or animal, and the genuine bird or animal itself.
He stroked the neck of his Harrak, working to keep Rodor calm as he led the creature up a little rise to the right, where there was an area of low, thickly-grown brush. When they reached the brush, he found a small space that they could pass through. Once through, he used both hands to tug gently on the reins in a way that prompted the Harrak to lay down flat upon the ground.
Dutifully, as the Harrak had been trained, Rodor obeyed, and Dragol lowered himself down beside the prone creature. Becoming as still as stone, Dragol peered through small gaps in the growth towards the area where the bird calls seemed to be coming from.
His sharp ears picked up a couple of light crackles, as something stepped upon dry, fallen leaves. Using the sounds as a reference, he reoriented his watch along the other side of the stream, expecting some kind of forms to emerge into sight at any moment.
While not perfect, the steps of those approaching were achieved with an extremely skillful silence. Dragol realized that whomever, or whatever, was approaching, they were very adept at moving within a forest environment. As one used to forest lands himself, and highly skilled in traversing them, he greatly respected their demonstrated ability, knowing at once that it would be folly to take them lightly.
“Stay!” Dragol whispered firmly to Rodor, as he lay his shield flat upon the ground. He gave the creature a pat on the flank as he shifted silently away, painstakingly taking step by step in a crouched position.
With slow, deliberate steps, he paced over to a tree possessing an expansive girth. He straightened up to his full height behind the trunk of it, so that he was completely hidden by the tree’s form.
A few more bird calls, a snap of a twig, and another low crunch of a leaf indicated that those approaching had not yet reached the stream. With the utmost care, Dragol brought the edge of his face around the trunk until his peripheral vision could take in the ground beyond the channel of water.
Dragol then got his first look at the enemy tribesmen from the ground level. A small party of Five Realms warriors was moving through the trees, drawing near to the bank of the stream. As far as he could tell, he could make out the forms of about fifteen of the silent, gracefully-moving warriors. They all had a somber, hardened look about them. A particularly muscular, older warrior walked at the forefront of the loose formation, in which each warrior was spread well apart from the others.
Their heads were shaven, save for tufts of hair sprouting from the center, several with the feathers of birds affixed. Many had noses or ears decorated with some kind of small implements that appeared to pierce the flesh.
Most of the warriors had their upper bodies bared, wearing hide leggings and a type of short, buckskin kilt. A kind of leather shoe covered their feet, the top edge turned downward into a flap. They traveled lightly, carrying little more than their weapons and leather pouches, the latter richly embroidered, hanging at their waists from straps running across their chests from the opposite shoulder.
A few of their hand weapons were short-hafted axes and spears. Both had steel affixed to their ends, the former a single edged blade, and the other an elongated, sharp point. Most carried a kind of curving war club, shaped out of a length of wood.
A couple bore shields made of thin rods lashed together by hide thongs. Several had a kind of dagger sheathed in a hide case, woven with designs, hanging down to rest just below their chest from a leather cord worn about the neck.
At first, Dragol perceived that they had the most unusual skin tones of any being that he had ever encountered, until he fathomed that they were covered in body paint. It had been applied in a purposeful symmetry that covered one half of their body in red, and the other in black. Dragol quickly observed that the red and black combination enhanced their ability to blend with shadows and foliage.
As warriors of lands with a low population, Dragol did not have to confront them to know that they were very likely to be capable fighters. Alone, he did not stand much of a chance against fifteen of them, especially in light of the fact that several were also carrying longbows.
The warriors with bows had full quivers at their shoulders, hanging from straps similar to those that held their pouches. The quivers were fashioned from some kind of woven vegetable husks, or bark. It did not take much imagination for Dragol to envision the archers fanning out all around him, picking him off easily from the shadows with well-aimed shafts.
He could tell by their positioning that they were not moving towards a specific destination. The group proceeded as if they expected to encounter opposition with every step that they took. Their weapons were kept at the ready, and their heads remained as still as their rigid gazes.
The arrangement and number of the war party, within an obviously contested area, also told him something more of their nature of war. The tribesmen, as he had guessed, were disposed towards a method of warfare utilizing smaller contingents of warriors.
A group such as the one before him was not structured to clash directly with the much more numerous forces of the Galleans. Instead, the tribesmen could strike swiftly and with cohesion, chipping away at a massed enemy, rather than engaging them openly.
Dragol understood both types of warfare, as the Trogens employed each type in their contests amongst each other, against marauding Elves, and in the few conflicts that had occurred with the Kiruvans to the south.
Understanding the Five Realms’ methods of war and surviving the moment were still two different matters, though, and Dragol had only one real option before him. If discovered, with nowhere to run, and no clearings through which he could take his Harrak upwards, he would have to fight.
He was more than resolved to try and surmount the incredible odds. Determined to face whatever befell him, he edged his longblade up until he felt the cold steel blade close to the right side of his face.
He hoped that the enemy warriors would cross the stream and continue on past him, bringing the tree he was behind into line with the middle of their formation. At the least, if his position was uncovered, he could fall upon them swiftly.
If he could assault the tribesmen by manifesting abruptly within their midst, he just might be able to delay their use of bows, and perhaps slay several before a concerted counterattack could be made. His blade would have to be swung powerfully and true, and he would have to execute his attack with lightning speed. It was a close to impossible chance, but it was still a chance nonetheless.
The muffled sounds of cries echoed in the distance, erupting from somewhere far off to his left. They immediately drew his attention away from the warriors, as a flash of worry over being caught in the middle of a battle breaking out from all sides struck him. A second later, he returned his gaze back to watching the war party, taking into account the remoteness of the sounds.
The faraway noises had brought the warriors to a complete halt. After the warrior at their lead conferred in whispers with the two tribesmen next to him, he called out a couple of the bird cry signals. Almost as one body, the tribal warriors broke into a run, taking swift, loping strides, as they moved off in a hurry towards the direction of the sounds.
With extreme patience, Dragol waited until they had passed far beyond his sight. For a few extra moments, he stared in the direction that the war party had come from, to see if any other groups of tribesmen were coming up behind the first.
Satisfied that the area was clear for the time being, he carefully lowered himself into a crouch, and moved back to where his Harrak had kept a silent vigil. Reaching out, he gave the creature a slow, affectionate stroke on the neck.
“Good, Rodor… very good,” he whispered, as the creature brought its great head around to nuzzle its master.
Dragol then waited behind the cover of the forest undergrowth for a little longer as a precaution, watching and listening carefully. The forest remained still, and ultimately he was satisfied that he could attempt to move forward again.
“Rise!” Dragol whispered sharply, prodding the Harrak to get back up to its feet.
For the size that it was, the creature responded almost without a sound. Its front legs pushed straight up, and then the Harrak got its hind legs underneath, as it leaned forward, rising up smoothly to its full height.
Picking up his shield from the ground, Dragol clutched the reins lightly in his left hand again and started forward. The two resumed their trek on the path that they had been taking before the tribal warriors’ simulated bird calls had suspended their progress. The route would take them away from the place where the war party had passed, and they were also heading in the opposite direction from where the distant shouts had come.
It seemed that Dragol’s ongoing caution had transferred to his steed, as both Harrak and Trogen moved soundlessly through the woodlands. Nothing could be assumed in a chaotic environment where invader and defender were crossing throughout, and furiously contesting the region. The presence of the war party, and the audible cries of distant battle, confirmed that stark reality.
Dragol took each step with great care. It was as if just one mistake, such as a branch snapping loudly enough, could result in the termination of his mortal life.
After passing no more than a league, the hackles on the back of his neck began to rise. He slowed his step gradually, as the uneasy feeling intensified, finally bringing himself to a complete halt.
Dragol’s senses were at the highest level of alertness that he could muster. Physical and instinctive, they conveyed a deeply unsettling dread, that something sentient was observing him. Looking about, he vigilantly surveyed the area around him. The focused scrutiny was to little avail, as nothing could be found to justify the foreboding feelings swirling within him.
Making him worry even more that his mind was now playing tricks on him was the demeanor of his steed. The Harrak, whose sensitive nature was even more acutely refined than his, appeared to be perfectly relaxed, as it followed Dragol’s lead through the forest.
Dragol began to wonder whether the shackles of a full-fledged paranoia had finally been clamped down upon him. He knew those shackles had been threatening to do so for some time. They had teetered at the edges of his existence ever since he had stepped beyond the Trogen lands to take part in this foreign campaign. Cultivated steadily after the sudden immersion into the foreign territories, after spending all of his previous years within his homelands, the mounting climate of distrust and apprehension had quite possibly reaped a bitter harvest.
Moving his head very slowly, he swept his gaze once again across the still surroundings. He spent a few more moments looking cautiously behind him, off in the direction where the enemy war party had been sighted.
There was not even the slightest outward hint of anything amiss among the trees, as gentle breezes swished through their leaves, gently swaying some of the upper branches to and fro. A few small birds chirped merrily from their high perches, apparently unconcerned by anything in the vicinity. Nonetheless, the distinctive feeling of being closely watched did not diminish, in even the slightest.
Restless and troubled, Dragol grudgingly resumed his hike. The Harrak continued to maintain an extremely calm bearing, and Dragol strove to derive some conscious encouragement from the steed’s unalarmed disposition.
Keeping a constant watch about him, the Trogen was nevertheless reluctant to relax his mind fully, for fear of giving some unknown enemy a gate of opportunity through which to strike at him.
As he continued to move farther and farther along, the general feelings of disquiet still did not abate in the least. If anything, the discomfiture increased slightly. Dragol had an inclination that he would not find his mind settled until he was back among his own kind, safely within the encampment outside of the forest’s borders.
As Dragol had done before the encounter with the tribal war party, he started to look for a place where he could surmount the upper heights of a tree, to take a look above the forest canopy at the skies. He also hoped to come across another opening or meadow, as he had a similarly increasing urge to take Rodor up for a brief foray.
Taking the Harrak into the sky would certainly carry Dragol beyond the reach of whatever was causing him such extreme unease. Though he had long been very guarded in his thoughts, ever since he had left the Trogen lands, he did not think that his own mind was deceiving him. The gut instincts that protected him so often, and had just warded him in the skies above the Five Realms, were rarely wrong.
Something was out there among the trees, present within the stillness, and shadowing his every move.
*