*
The day had grown much older, but the main battle lines had not shifted. Framorg, sitting high in the saddle of his Harrak mount, had watched the battle from the onset.
It was a maddening feeling, being situated so close to such a massive battle and having to idly watch it transpire. Framorg often found himself cursing his fortunes, as the Saxan sky riders refused to manifest in the skies.
For the most part, the Trogens had remained out of the battle, except for the occasional messenger dispatched to the Avanoran leadership, which was positioned with the reserve contingent a short distance back from the direct center of the battle lines. Framorg allowed the Trogens to vent some of their frustrations by loosing arrows from the heights towards the massed Saxan ranks. For his own part, he steeled his mind towards a keen observation of the movements within the battlefield. At the least, he hoped that he could gain some further insights into the conduct of war on such an incredible scale.
He could see the three main attacking formations demarcated clearly enough; Ehrengard on the right, Avanor in the center, and Andamoor on the left. The left flank of the invasion forces, and then the right, had already probed the corresponding Saxan flanks.
The rhythmic booming of Andamooran drums, as hosts of warriors surged forward, had sounded like thunder coming up from the ground. The dense masses of Andamoorans looked like human waves, rolling towards a Saxan shore.
A short time later, the chorus of horns blaring from Ehrengard’s hosts on the right sent a tingle down Framorg’s spine. The long, unified blasts shook the air, as if echoing the thunder of the Andamooran drums far down the line.
The roar of the fighting itself carried up into the heavens, as the two sides clashed furiously, on either end of the immense battle line. The swelling tides of sound, coalescing into an incessant roaring, encompassed the Trogen sky riders.
Framorg felt the energy crackling through the chorus of battle, yet he and his riders were still left alone, and idle, in uneventful skies. The invigorating sensations brought on by watching and hearing the titanic battle unfolding beneath them only served to increase the Trogen leader’s agitation.
From the initial stages of the battle, Framorg saw quickly that it would not be an easy fight. The Saxans had drawn masses of cavalry up on the left and right flanks of a long, dense shield wall. They were well positioned to counter any attempts to circle around the edges of their extended line. In the center, positioned a little further back from the ranks of the shield wall, a large reserve force had mustered, presumably the Saxan Prince Aidan and the royal household guard that the Avanoran leaders had oft spoken of.
As utterly massive as the attacking force was, and despite the great strength that Andamoor and Ehrengard had hurled forth, the living wall of Saxans had not yet given way. The main Avanoran force in the center, upon the failures of the left and right flanks to make any kind of headway against the Saxan defenders, had yet to fully engage in combat.
Framorg could not help but respect the valor of the Saxans. Their stalwart courage made him look forward even more to engaging them in the skies. He just wondered how he could get them to come up to fight.
After about another hour had passed, with nothing stirring within the clear skies, Framorg had to grudgingly call for a rotation. As exceptional in endurance as Harraks were, the steeds were not inexhaustible in their energy. The last thing that he wanted to see happen was for fresh Saxan sky warriors to assail his Trogens, right when their Harrak steeds were too depleted to execute the directives of their riders.
At a signal from Framorg, a Trogen to the left, and another to the right, brought up horns and blasted out summons for the sky riders to return back to the encampment. Turning Argazen about, Framorg spurred his steed back over the teeming ranks of the Avanoran force. With a tight clutch upon the reins, he guided the creature sharply downward, heading towards the open space in the midst of the Trogen encampment.
The miniscule figures scurrying about rapidly grew larger as the ground swiftly approached. He pulled up on the reins towards the end, bringing the Harrak to alight upon the ground smoothly, with only a little jarring to his own body.
A Trogen ran up and held the reins for Framorg, keeping his steed steady, as he unfastened the buckles on the straps securing him to the saddle. Bringing his leg around, Framorg dismounted and strode off towards his command tent.
With his feet touching the ground, he could feel the powerful vibrations resonating along the surface from the battle lines just to the east. The feeling fired his blood, as well as his regrets.
He cast his gaze out towards the eastern horizon, watching as a new mass of Trogen warriors ascended the skies upon fresh steeds. Most were arrayed in a compact formation, with a string of stragglers bringing up the rear. The sky riders almost looked like a cloud drifting across the skies, with a few tendrils of vapor trailing behind.
The return of Framorg’s warriors elicited an eruption of activity within the camp, as a great number of Trogens raced to attend to the tired steeds. The animals were led off on their tethers to be fed and cared for without delay, while their riders sought a little food and rest.
A few Andamooran healers, who the Avanoran leadership had insisted were unparalleled in their arts, came forth with the Trogens. With no combat in the sky, no injuries had yet been suffered by the sky riders, and the healers were quickly, and a little abrasively, dismissed.
Framorg was still suspicious of the bearded men in their long, flowing clothes, but he was not about to ignore any possible benefits for his warriors. The Andamooran healers were reputed to be amongst the best healers in the world, filled with knowledge regarding the treatment of wounds and the prevention of them festering into something worse.
The forces from Ehrengard and Avanor, for the most part, shunned the Andamoorans because of the stark religious divides between their lands and Andamoor. With the great importance of his sky warriors, and the fact that the Andamoorans were not welcome in the other camps, Framorg had not hesitated to accept the Andamooran healers’ services when they had been offered.
Framorg could not afford to partake in any rest himself, as the first day of the great battle approached the middle of the day. He had nothing to show for the Trogens’ presence, either in aiding the ground assault, or defending the skies against the still-absent Saxan sky warriors.
Yet he knew that the enemy sky steeds were out there somewhere, and he had to figure out what they were plotting. The full strength of the Saxan Kingdom looked to be arrayed along the opposing battle lines, a notion underscored more than once during his observations hovering far above the rolling plains.
Accompanied by an entourage of ardent Trogen chieftains, who streamed in from the open landing space, Framorg made his way toward his spacious tent. A few others who had been idly waiting joined their number at the sight of Framorg’s return, falling into line behind him.
Framorg’s huge Mountain Bear was not there to greet him this time, having been sequestered farther away on his order. With the unpredictable nature of war, Framorg did not want any mishaps to occur with his precious bear. Under Trogen watch, and removed to an area not trafficked by humans, Barondas would be safeguarded from encounters with Avanorans not aware of the creature’s presence, or association with Framorg.
The brown hide flaps covering the opening were watched over by two very muscular Trogens bearing extensive lances. There was little worry of enemy infiltration, but Framorg wanted no one to disturb his quarters while he was away.
The two guards pulled back the flaps, clearing the opening for him as he approached. Inside the tent, a large brazier in the center had been kept burning, its twisting columns of smoke stretching up and out of the hole in the center of the tent. Other than the light cast around the brazier, the interior was very dim, contrasting sharply with the bright day outside.
The Trogen chieftains ushered in close behind him, as Framorg adjusted his eyes to the relative gloom. He took his place on the other side of the long plank trestle table set near the center. He waited patiently, gazing upon each Trogen that filed into the space, as they took their own places around the table.
Framorg wasted little time in getting started with his address. “The battle proceeds, as you have seen. The skies are ours. They go unchallenged by the Saxans. But we have not made ourselves felt in this battle. We know the enemy sky riders are out there, but no word comes from any of the scouts we have sent. I ask those of you that were not up in the skies just now… has there been any new word?”
A Trogen who had not been among those returning with Framorg answered, “There is still no sight or word of the enemy sky riders.”
“No signs of where they might be?” Framorg asked, his voice carrying a faint edge of exasperation.
“None, yet,” the Trogen replied somberly.
An immediate tension welled up in the room. The continued absence of the enemy sky forces was troubling enough, but to not have even one hint as to their location was unnerving. Framorg glared around at the chieftains, letting them know his extreme displeasure.
“Then there are two tasks at hand. We must find out what has become of them, and we must make our presence felt on this battlefield,” Framorg stated unequivocally.
The front flap of his tent then opened, and a lone figure walked through. Outlined by the light from outside, Framorg could see at once that the figure was not a Trogen. Lean of build, the individual was just barely six feet tall. Irritation surged within Framorg at the unannounced intrusion by a human, though he restrained himself from an open outburst.
As the flap closed, and his eyes readjusted, Framorg identified the human as Renaud de Bracy, a baron of Avanor. The brother of Avanor’s Seneschal Guerin de Bracy, the baron held considerable authority. While not a Lord General of Avalos, Renaud possessed a wide swathe of land within the Querrelan region in the eastern part of Avanor. Several manor estates, a couple of small towns, and a few strategic castles were directly under his control.
His dark locks had a wavy texture to them, cropped neatly where they fell to an even line just above his shoulders. His brow was trimmed into bangs, forming a tight frame around his sharp, thin face, which was adorned with a substantial nose. Renaud had a wide mouth and thin lips that were currently pressed together in anger, as his protruding eyes fixed on Framorg.
The huge Trogen took further umbrage at the brazen attitude of the human, but the man’s stature held back his burning urge to berate the man for his insolent entrance. It was yet another price to pay for the eventual help of the Unifier in the liberation of Trogen lands.
“All are engaged in battle, but what will the Trogens do to break the enemy lines?” Renaud asked coolly.
Framorg bristled at the baron’s inference, as a hot bile bit at the back of his throat. His lips threatened to pull back in a snarl, but he concentrated until they merely twitched in his surging anger.
“The enemy has not yet challenged the skies,” Framorg replied in a steady, deliberate tone, showing his improved ability to speak the Avanoran’s tongue.
Only a few of the others in the room understood even a smattering of the baron’s words. It was probably for the best that they did not. The questioning of a Trogen’s courage was not something taken lightly, and Framorg could not have guaranteed that all in the room could have held themselves back as he had. Had all of them understood the baron, it was more than likely that the man’s head would have been separated from his shoulders with a longblade.
“And the enemy may never challenge the skies, hoping to keep you lingering, waiting for them,” Renaud responded, his eyes sweeping past the faces of the gathered Trogens. “They seek to take you out of the battle, yes?”
“They may be, but caution is sometimes advised,” Framorg responded. He thought of the unending stream of lessons learned in fighting the immensely clever Elven raiding parties that haunted the northwest regions of the Trogen lands. “A trap can be well-disguised, Renaud.”
“If you desire aid in the matter of your Elven oppressors, then you will fight in this battle,” Renaud replied in a haughty manner.
Framorg’s mind turned to the two enormous Darroks that were in an open meadow, just a few leagues behind the encampments. They were currently resting, following an arduous journey, having recently ferried in an Avanoran Lord General with several of his household knights and their squires.
Their main destriers had also been brought with them, albeit with great trouble. The horses had been wide-eyed with fear, kicking and nearly uncontrollable as they were led down a long gangway. Their tails, braided for the long travel, looked to be the only part of the stallions that was unperturbed. A few squires and camp attendants had suffered injuries, some quite severe, while trying to calm the nerve-wracked equines. The idea of transporting ground steeds had not yet been perfected, but the movement of infantry could certainly be accomplished.
“I could strike the enemy heavily with the use of the Darroks, with Avanor’s authority,” Framorg finally replied.
An amused grin arose upon Renaud’s face. “The Darroks? There are only two here, and the Unifier will not want to have Darroks used recklessly. There are not many available to us.”
“You admonish me for not taking a reckless chance with the full sky strength of the Trogens? Then you advise me against using Darroks, in a much wiser manner, with far less risk?” Framorg snapped back, his sharp, confrontational mien causing the Avanoran to take a sudden step backwards.
Several rumbling murmurs broke out among the chieftains in the room. Though they had understood very few of the words between Framorg and Renaud, it was evident that a great transgression had taken place. The baron quickly regrouped, and Framorg saw that the man was not so arrogant as to misread the abrupt change in atmosphere within the tent. The human straightened up, and looked Framorg in the eyes.
“A wise risk? With a Darrok? Tell me how this is so,” he asked Framorg, a little more evenly.
“Have you never used them to carry warriors during a battle?” Framorg stated, as the idea formed more clearly within his mind. “A number of our warriors, fully armed, could be taken forth by the Darroks. They could be flown at a high altitude behind the Saxan lines, where the Darroks would land, setting down a force of Trogen warriors to cause a disruption and distraction in the enemy rear.
“Before the enemy is aware of this use of Darroks, we would be cutting into their soft underbelly. It would give them even more to guard against, and it may spread them thinner. Maybe your Avanorans could break through their shield wall then.”
It was plain that the mocking edge girding Framorg’s last words was not lost on Renaud, as the petulant baron’s face visibly flushed. This time, it was Framorg’s turn to display an amused smile, as his lips curled back to reveal his large, gleaming canines.
Renaud did not try to provoke Framorg any further, evidently seeing some promise in the Trogen’s plan. The Avanoran took a deep breath, regaining his composure as the color in his face returned to a normal state. Framorg noticed that a glimmer of realization flickered in the depths of the human’s eyes, and even the arrogance faded from his expression.
“You have your authority, Trogen. But I warn you, do not lose even one Darrok. Be sure that messages are sent to the reserve area of our forces. I want to be informed of everything that happens,” he retorted, curtly.
“And you shall,” Framorg responded, just as tersely.
Renaud turned, and strode away from the table. The light from the outside engulfed his silhouette for a moment, and then the flaps were set gently back down into place.
Framorg swept his gaze around the room, looking upon some of the best warriors from all the clans dwelling within the Trogen lands. Some of the fiercest warriors from clans such as the Sea Wolves, the Dark Serpents, the Black Tigers, the Thunder Wolves, and the Blood Boars were standing before him, awaiting his initiative. He was not about to be daunted by the attitudes of an arrogant Avanoran lord, and certainly not when it was within the power and abilities of the Trogens to affect the great battle.
As Ondayon had led the latest batch of riders up into the sky, when Framorg had called for a rotation, he decided to choose Goras for his next delegation of authority. Like Ondayon, Goras was another Thunder Wolf who was highly regarded by Trogens of all clans. It was a tragic irony that the Thunder Wolf clan was the only one that still had no living example of their clan’s symbol within their homelands.
The Northern Elves had driven the great Thunder Wolves to extinction long ago, but the Thunder Wolves’ spirit had infused the blood of the clan that had bonded their identity with the majestic beasts. Ondayon and Goras were exceptional warriors, as was another, named Dragol, who was off with the forces ordered to support the Gallean invasion of the Five Realms. All had repeatedly come into his notice, far from a common occurrence, given Framorg’s lofty standards.
In a position where he was temporarily wielding authority over the members of all the various clans, he strived not to favor any one clan over another. Yet he was not about to dismiss remarkable skill and ardor in favor of assuaging the feelings of a particular clan. The Thunder Wolves had simply produced several capable battle leaders, proven and trusted. Regardless of whether the others were expecting him to choose one from their own clan, Framorg always selected the best leader of warriors that was immediately available to him.
“Goras, I will go see to the Darroks, and I will leave it in your stead to command the next rotation, when Ondayon returns,” Framorg ordered, looking at the burly Trogen standing directly across from him.
Goras nodded quietly, as he accepted the charge. Framorg’s eyes slowly looked around the other faces, but he saw no significant reactions in the miens of the others. The complete absence of resentment was a glowing tribute to the reputation that Goras had earned.
Pythora, the member of the Black Tiger clan whose contingent had been among the last to arrive to the muster, before the battle had started, then asked, “Is this attack to take place at once?”
“As soon as our forces are gathered,” Framorg responded firmly.
“What of the night? We could surprise them at night, if the clouds favor us,” Pythora queried.
“Night? When their rear encampment is filled with warriors? Even in the darkest, cloud-filled night, the campfires of an army would make the Darroks visible,” Framorg replied. “And if the enemy sky steeds are hidden near that camp, and have some warning? We would be wasting Trogen lives for no gain. We would likely lose one or both Darroks, and then all of this will be a waste. No, we strike now, at their back, when their army is tired, and arrayed in their shield wall. We can also see their sky steeds coming from a distance now… if they are out there.”
Murmurs of agreement coursed through the room, and Pythora nodded in clear deference to Framorg’s rationale.
“Then our way is chosen,” Framorg continued. “Kayadeon, of the brave Blood Boars, go at once to Eigon. Have him and his ground-fighting brawlers move out at once, to the rear of the camp, where the Darroks are kept. They are to gather with full arms and shields.”
A Trogen to his right inclined his head, thumped his chest twice with his right fist, and briskly marched off, departing through the tent opening.
“Herag, of the Sea Wolves, form fifteen patrols, of no more than five Trogen warriors each. Every patrol with at least one signaling horn. If the enemy sky riders come, make certain the alarm is raised,” Framorg ordered another Trogen, who stood just off to his left.
Herag did as Kayadeon had done, giving a slight bow and striking his chest twice with a closed fist, before leaving to fulfill Framorg’s wishes.
“Goras, to the skies, at the next rotation. I shall join you soon enough. We may yet send a panic through the enemy… a panic that will lead to the breaking of their will. If the Unifier sees that it is the Trogens who have won this great battle for His forces, then we can demand our reward, and free our lands of the Elven menace sooner.”
A raucous cry broke out from the elite Trogen warriors, and their eyes were bright with a fiery desire. Framorg felt the eruption of energy pouring from them, echoes of the dreams of countless thousands of Trogens from across so many long, difficult generations. The end of a tremendous, age-old ordeal was in sight, once they fulfilled the desires of the Unifier.
As the Trogens cheered Framorg, he strode through their midst and continued out the opening to his tent. A number of Trogens outside were looking towards the tent, having heard the excited outcries coming from within. At Framorg’s emergence, they immediately lowered their eyes in respect to the exalted war chieftain.
Framorg sent a couple of them off to procure one of his alternate steeds, a feisty young male Harrak named Gasa. The steed had already been harnessed and saddled, prepared for flying before Framorg had even returned from the skies over the battlefield. It was not a new practice, as a fresh, alternate steed was kept readied at all times for the huge Trogen.
He was not kept waiting long, as two Trogens led his steed into the clearing surrounded by the tents. The muscular Harrak jerked one of the Trogens back with a quick flick of its large head. It growled deeply, glaring hotly at the other walking by its side.
As the tempermental creature was Framorg’s steed, the Trogen holding the tether, after regaining his balance, held his tongue. The Trogen gripped the long leather cord more firmly, as he tugged the steed forward.
“You will not wait much longer to spread your wings, Gasa,” Framorg said to the Harrak, running his hand down the creature’s snout, stopping right above a formidable array of sharp teeth powered by bone-crushing jaw force. It was a very confident gesture, with such a cantankerous male Harrak. “Do not envy Argazen, for you are just beginning your years, Gasa.”
He gave the creature a firm pat on the side of its neck, as he moved alongside its body and prepared to climb up into the saddle. In his presence, the creature seemed to relax, and did not give the other two Trogens any more difficulties.
Framorg placed his left foot into the bronze stirrup, pushing upward as he hoisted himself into the saddle. He noticed that his legs were forced a little wider, as Gasa was a little larger in breadth than Argazen. He secured the iron buckles of the leather straps holding him into the saddle.
With a vibrant cry, he urged Gasa to take flight. The creature spread its wings, flapping them powerfully as it took a couple of hops forward, bounded for a few paces, and then leaped high. The outstretched wings clutched the air, thrusting downward, lifting rider and steed skyward.
Framorg guided Gasa away from the direction of the battlefield, soaring ever higher as they headed towards the west. It was not long before the sounds of the battle, with its cacophony of cries, drums, horns, clashing steel, pounding hooves, and shattering wood, began to fade behind him.
Only a couple of warrior escorts flew alongside him, spread far apart to either side. Despite the light guard, he felt very secure in the open sky. With several patrols already dispatched to the rear and flanks of the main encampments, and those about to be bolstered further by Herag’s forces, the ground that he was flying over was adequately warded.
Eyeing his destination, Framorg began a gradual descent on the Harrak towards a prodigious expanse of flatter ground, whose surface looked to be broken only by a throng of tents, and two small, black hills. The “hills” were the forms of two Darroks resting upon the ground, with their gigantic bodies stretched out lengthwise. A number of Trogens gathered as soon as Framorg’s Harrak drew closer to the soft, billowing grasses and wildflowers blanketing the swathe of ground.
Harnessed and readied for flight, the two Darroks were slumbering lazily, and paid little heed to the three newcomers. Climbing ladders were suspended down their sides, leading up to the timber, railed platforms affixed to their backs by a criss-crossing network of hide ropes and iron buckles.
One of the Trogens from the throng around the landing area stepped forward. A large, fanning emblem, fabricated of serpent scales, hung down from around his neck. Framorg recognized the warrior as Laruga, of the Dark Serpent clan. For a Trogen, he was a little shorter and leaner of build than most, but he had great cunning, and was diligent when given commands.
“War Chieftain Framorg,” Laruga greeted, going into a deep bow, as Framorg unbuckled himself and dismounted Gasa.
He turned towards Laruga, towering over the warrior.
“Are the Darroks prepared to fly?” Framorg asked.
“Yes,” Laruga replied without hesitation. “They are rested enough.”
“They are both to be sent forward, once Eigon’s ground fighters arrive,” Framorg stated. “They will carry Eigon’s warriors as high as you can go, across the Saxan forces. Land the Darroks on the other side of their camp. If you can, land the Darroks far enough that they are just out of sight from the rear of the enemy camp. Eigon is to then lead a raid upon the Saxan encampment. He is to pull back, and you are to return, after striking a heavy blow. Do not wait for the Saxans to gather an overwhelming force.”
Laruga nodded.
Framorg eyed some open cookfires nearby. He walked across the ground towards them, and requisitioned a bowl of pottage, which was quickly provided for him by a Trogen warrior. Once he had obtained a crude wooden spoon, he began to quickly scoop up the contents of the bowl. There would not be many opportunities to get a meal during the first day of a major battle.
When he had eaten a greater portion of the pottage within the bowl, a number of cries called Framorg away from the campfire. He set the bowl down, striding swiftly to meet a familiar Trogen figure. The Trogen warrior was at the forefront of a large mass of armed Trogens that had just arrived, all of them slowing down from running at a modest pace.
A brown-furred cloak flowed from his back, and at his neck he wore a prominent necklace. The latter threaded through five claws, which had likely once belonged to the same Mountain Bear that had possessed the fur of the cloak. Eigon, during his rite of passage, had gone to stay in the thick brush lands where Mountain Bears often came down to snare fish from the streams and rivers cutting through the area.
Most Trogens of the Mountain Bear Clan kept their distance from the great Mountain Bears, contemplating the characteristics of the massive beasts before returning as full-fledged warriors. Eigon’s fate had been otherwise; he had been given the ultimate test, as an old, ravenous male bear had beset him.
In a feat worthy of tales similar to Framorg’s own encounter with the clan’s animal patron, Eigon had fought against the bear, agilely dodging its mauliing swipes and rushes. Seeing a brief opening, he had thrust his spear out, driving the point deep into the bear, earning the claws and cloak that he had worn from that day on.
Something of that raging bear had transferred into Eigon, as he had become a ferocious land warrior, who shunned taking the wings of a sky rider. Eigon was the ideal Trogen to lead any kind of ground raid upon the Saxans.
Over two hundred Trogens behind him were armed with a mixture of lances, longblades, and the long-hafted weapons known as scythens. A few carried strung great bows over their shoulders, the extensive bows not much shorter than the warriors that bore them.
Many carried the tall, rectangular shields, made of stout planks of wood covered with hide, that Trogen infantry typically were equipped with. Most wore cuirasses of toughened hide, to go with either iron helms or hardened leather caps, the latter made of the same kind of boiled hide as that which protected their upper bodies.
The signs of many different clans were in evidence from the pendants, amulets, emblems, and other accoutrements visible upon the various warriors. The members of a similar clan were often grouped together within the broader force. Eagerness shone from the eyes of all of the warriors, as they looked expectantly upon Framorg and Eigon.
Framorg spread his arms wide, as did Eigon, and the two met with a great clench, embracing each other in an exaggerated manner reminiscent of the great Mountain Bears. The dramatic embrace was a special gesture, displaying a high level of respect for a storied, fellow clan member.
“Eigon, it is good to see you again,” Framorg greeted warmly.
“I understand that you are to free us from this torture of idleness,” Eigon replied, in a deep, scratchy voice. Vigor danced within his eyes as he gazed back at Framorg.
“Yes, I am. And you may strike a great blow that turns the entire battle to our favor,” Framorg said.
Eigon’s eyes sparked, and his canines gleamed. “These are good tidings, War Chieftain Framorg.”
“The Darroks will bear you over the battlefield, landing on the other side. Strike at the enemy encampment, and inflict a deep wound upon them, but return before you are overrun with their great numbers. We must not be foolish. We must not needlessly sacrifice Trogen warriors. But let us create great worry among them, and make them stretch their forces thinner.”
As if instinctively, Eigon’s large left hand shifted down to grasp the hide-bound hilt of his longblade.
“I will give them a great wound,” Eigon replied evenly, his voice as iron hard as the blade he wielded.
“Do not let yourself be caught when the enemy becomes aware of what is happening, their numbers will overwhelm any skill or bravery,” Framorg again cautioned his fellow clan member, knowing well how Trogens could be in the heat of a battle.
“The Mountain Bear shows caution on the hunt, even though it is the biggest, and strongest, of predators,” Eigon responded.
Framorg clasped him on the shoulder, pleased with the response. “Then waste no more time, go at once. Go with Laruga, and have your warriors mount the Darroks.”
Eigon gave Framorg a bow, saluted with two thumps to his own chest, and turned to accompany Laruga. Framorg watched as Eigon signaled for the band of infantry to follow him. The mass of Trogen warriors streamed towards the ladders hanging down from the carriages surmounting the massive Darroks.
It took a little while for the warriors to climb up onto the platforms. Once at the ladder’s summit, the Trogens spread out down the length of the vast creatures, so that room could be made for those coming up from below. Once they had taken their places, the warriors began to tie themselves to the carriage using lengths of stout hide rope, most often securing one arm, with a few looping around the waist. Eventually, Eigon’s entire force was standing prepared for going skyward on the backs of the massive pair of creatures. The Trogens on the ground were then ordered to give the creatures a wide berth.
Framorg strode away, achieving a considerable distance himself, as the Darrok handlers were the last to ascend the ladders. The ladders were drawn up behind the handlers, as the latter moved to the front of the carriage to take up the ends of the long reins that the Darroks had been acclimated to. The creatures were impeccably well-trained, though they responded slowly, as they were brought out of their deep slumber.
The Trogens on the platform shifted about, grabbing onto the railings, or one of the teeming mass of tethers and straps that were tied to the wooden structure, as the creatures heaved and lurched ponderously into a standing position. Framorg noticed that a few of the Trogens fell to their knees. It was to be expected, as the infantry rarely felt the sensation of the very surface beneath their feet moving so violently.
The huge nostrils at the end of the Darroks’ elongated heads snorted, as the winged titans shifted and raked at the ground, tearing great clods of earth up as they dug deep furrows. To Framorg, it had always been mystifying as to how the creatures could carry so much weight. Yet watching them in person, it became obvious that the additional weight placed on the Darroks was of little consequence to their ability to fly.
Though he had never inspected the skeleton of a Darrok, he suspected strongly that their bones had the unusual quality of the Harraks. Hollowed out, a Harrak’s bones were very light in weight, but the bone itself was much stronger than that of any other animal that Framorg was familiar with.
The Darroks had very long, lean bodies, with utterly colossal wings attached to an unbelievably powerful musculature. The wings were placed at a point on the creature’s body where another set of legs might otherwise have been located.
The sight reminded Framorg of old legends, which spoke of dragon-kind that were flightless. The creatures of those tales were said to have walked upon the face of the world with three pairs of legs. If the wings of the Darroks were transformed into legs, Framorg could easily envision such creatures of those old stories, standing and breathing right before him.
The combined weight of the Trogens arrayed along the Darroks’ extensive length was not enough to inhibit them from climbing into the skies, but the great beasts still needed a considerable expanse of ground to begin their initial surge.
It was perhaps one of the few limitations, and perhaps vulnerabilities, regarding the Darroks, as they needed ample amounts of space, both to rest and for building momentum whenever they took to flight. The war being pressed in Saxany, and the one engulfing the western edge of the Five Realms, were both fortuitous for such substantial needs. Open grasslands were adjacent to both of the principle invasion sites.
Framorg watched in sheer fascination, as one of the creatures lumbered forward and flared its great wings outward. The ground rumbled with its mighty steps, the shaking reverberations accelerating as the creature built up speed. The wings began beating up and down as it ran faster. After it had crossed a lengthy stretch, the creature at last thrust itself up and forward. The enormous wings pumped up and down with a force and speed that Framorg could barely imagine coming from a creature of such immense size.
The Darrok seemed to hover in place just above the ground, as it began to drift forward in the air. Its wings worked forcefully, the whooshing sounds of their movements resounding through the air. Gradually, the Darrok began to lift higher and higher into the sky.
The vibrations did not leave the ground, as when the first Darrok’s feet had lifted up from the surface, to tuck its legs against its underbelly, the second Darrok surged into motion. Like the first, it also required several moments to gain enough speed to engage in a powerful, launching leap. It also appeared to be suspended just above the ground at first, as its wings fought to gain altitude and momentum.
Once both were airborne, the two Darroks gained height as their handlers steered them towards the west. The handlers made certain that their quest to gain higher altitudes did not carry them recklessly out over the battlefield, just to the east.
It took a fairly long time before the Darroks reached the upper skies. Even then, their forms were still large to the eye. In the lofty heights, the creatures took on a certain grace, flapping only occasionally to maintain their bearings. The beasts seemed increasingly content to glide upon their outstretched wings, conserving their strength as they circled about in a broad arc and started towards the east.
Framorg watched them heading toward the other horizon. It was not much longer before he observed them beginning their descent, far in the distance.
The two Darroks lowering towards the surface, behind the Saxan encampment, represented a part of something much greater. The shadows of dreams were transforming within the embrace of a new light, no longer mere reflections of hopes, but the beginning vestiges of a reality that all Trogens hungered for.
Framorg’s own time had finally arrived, to reach for heights that few Trogens had ever attained. Perhaps he would even go beyond, soaring to uncharted regions for a Trogen. Though he tried to keep it all at the back of his mind, he could not help but remember the great prophecies that were passed on from generation to generation among his kind.
A Liberator would one day rise among the Trogens. A warrior and leader without equal, of an unprecedented spirit, would arrive to break the bindings of enslavement that the Elves had placed upon so many. The Liberator would be a Trogen whose radiant light would drive the baleful darkness of the Elven menace out from their lands.
If Framorg rose within the eyes of Avanor, and could bring the kind of might that he had seen that day on the battlefield to the aid of his own lands, the Elves could not hope to withstand the Trogen clans. Framorg already knew that he had no equals amongst the Trogens in skill of arms or strength, which had been one reason why he was so quickly put forward to be the Supreme War Chieftain of the Trogen clans for the campaign with Avanor.
A light, dizzying feeling came over him, as he wondered whether he might be the Liberator that had been spoken of for so many long years. One Trogen was to be the embodiment of a hope that had been passed from elders to the young, woven into the deepest traditions of their kind.
In some ways, the story was similar to the religion of most of the human kingdoms and lands that Framorg knew of. As the holy men of that religion spoke of their Redeemer, who had come to break the chains of death, so would the Liberator of the Trogens come forward to sunder the bindings of a terrible oppression.
The implications were staggering, when seen in light of the Trogen’s ancient history, and Framorg closed his eyes for a moment to regain his full equilibrium. When he opened them again, the forms of the Darroks had vanished from the western skies. It would not be much longer before the results of Eigon’s raid became known.
Framorg called for Gasa to be returned to him, as there were many other matters to look into. There was little use speculating upon ancient prophecies when the Trogens were in the throes of such a great battle.
Goras would lead the next rotation capably. Herag would have many more eyes watching the perimeter of the region that the invading army occupied. Yet Framorg was not about to rest. He had never been a commander content to wait idly for word to be brought to him. He wanted to see whatever he could with his own eyes. It had always been his way.
*