*
Framorg rarely slept soundly, but the night following the first day of battle had been entirely devoid of rest. There had been a meeting of the various commanders that had lasted well into the night.
His own initiative had been well recognized, as the Trogens had achieved at least a moral victory on the heels of the near disaster that had been incurred on the Andamooran left flank. Framorg did not doubt that his daring maneuver had injected a great wariness into the planning of the Saxans.
The collapse of the Andamoorans had caused a great shift in overall plans, as the Avanoran heavy cavalry had been suddenly diverted to stem the advance of the Saxans against the left flank of the allied forces. From what Framorg could assess, the failure of the Andamoorans was more of a result of robust, spirited Saxan fighting, than it was due to any shortcoming on the part of the northwesterners.
The Andamooran Emir’s pride had still been stung greatly. At the evening’s meeting, Abu Yaqub Battuta had listened quietly to the deliberations with a terse, angered expression upon his face, of kind that could only have been carved by great tensions inside of him. Framorg could understand the eminent man’s look far better than any spoken words could have attested to.
With little purpose in vainly trying to pursue more rest, Framorg decided to take his warriors up into the sky a little earlier than the previous day. He harbored a little reticence, though, as they would be slightly exposed in the moments of time when they would be facing directly into the rising sun’s first rays.
In the cool mists at the edge of morning, Framorg visited for a few private moments with his great Mountain Bear. Barondas was a living embodiment of Framorg’s clan symbol, and the sight of the creature always gave him renewed inspiration. He gazed fondly upon the enormous form of the noble creature, which held a mind-boggling level of strength within its great bulk.
Framorg reflected that he would have to be like a Mountain Bear, if the second day was to be any different from the first. Strong, bold, and fearless, he would have to rise up, and confront all enemies, no matter their number.
He spoke a few words to the massive beast, stroking Barondas’s fur affectionately, and giving it a few hunks of fresh meat that he received from a Trogen warrior who had procured it earlier, upon his order. Giving the creature a final pat on its flank, as the great bear finished off one of the ample pieces of meat, Framorg straightened up, and looked into the sky.
The day’s light had just begun to form a crease on the edge of the eastern horizon, where the dark’s barricades were about to be steadily pushed back by the ascent of the rising sun. The air was peaceful, as Framorg gathered and assembled his main force of Harrak-mounted Trogens.
The large force of Harraks flew out in orderly fashion with Framorg in the lead, as they streaked towards the frontal regions of the battlefield, passing over the assembling, awakening camp.
The main formations on the ground were already arraying for battle, settling into the three distinctive contingents, with the central Avanoran reserve set a modest distance behind the lines at the center. From the sky, Framorg could observe the deploying ranks easily enough, from flank to flank.
Nervous, frantic horn blasts suddenly resounded from the far right of the Trogen formation. Framorg bellowed out a sharp command that brought all of the Trogens to slow their steeds, into a disciplined hover. Framorg spurred Argazen around and darted off down the line of Harraks.
“The enemy sky steeds! They come!” a Trogen called out to him, pointing emphatically.
To Framorg’s great amazement, the Trogen was pointing behind them, to the immediate south, off the right side of their airborne flank. True to the sky warrior’s word, there was a throng of incoming enemy warriors visible in the distance, flying low, and rapidly approaching the outer edges of Ehrengard’s encampment. It was a sizeable war band, but nothing remotely threatening to the masses of Ehrengardian fighters comprising the overall right flank of the allies.
The large force of Trogens in the sky with Framorg reacted quickly. They had just begun to start off to intercept the attack, when something tugged strongly at Framorg’s mind. He snapped his head around, to gaze back down their lines to the direct north.
Instinct governed his action, as much as intuition informed it. In the dimness of the onset of dawn, what he was looking for was hard to see, but the enemy was doing exactly what he might have done, if he were in the same position as them.
Waves of enemy riders saddled upon Himmerosen were skimming just above the tree-line, far behind the Trogens’ position to the left, coming in from the north. It was a much larger force than the one that had begun to divert the Trogen force to the south. The second, more numerous force would soon arrive over the open ground among the three main bodies of warriors, Andamooran, Avanoran, and Ehrengardian, and the powerful, concentrated Avanoran reserve positioned at the middle of the three formations.
“Downward! Do not stop!” Framorg called out with urgency, having full conviction in his rapid judgement.
He reached across and drew out his longblade as he guided his Harrak into an immediate, diagonal descent, building up a blurring speed that caused Framorg to tuck the longblade close into his body for the time being. He could will his steed to go no faster, and watched helplessly as the enemy sky riders swiftly closed the gap with their intended target.
Now behind the three frontal formations, the enemy riders banked sharply towards the west, as if they were one body. They hurtled down in the face of the central Avanoran reserve, clearly the planned destination for the large force, and also the reason for the smaller diversionary group.
Even worse, the sun’s first rays were breaking directly in the faces of the allies. Framorg knew that it was no coincidence. Whoever commanded the enemy forces had timed the attack perfectly, and he could not help but admire the deftness of the strategy, and the precision of the execution.
The enemy sky riders fell upon the reserve ranks of the Avanorans with a vengeance. The claws and bites of their fierce, well-trained Himmeros steeds added to the mayhem, as the first Saxan fighters to make contact thrust their spears down vigorously into the stunned, blinded Avanorans.
Framorg found as he continued to descend that he could not begrudge his admiration for whoever had conceived the enemy’s strike. It was truly a brilliant maneuver, heralding the presence of a very worthy adversary.
The light of the new day was now mercifully at Framorg’s back, but he could see that the Avanoran reserve was in a terrible situation, as they stared directly into the sun. Blinded and thrown into chaos, the Avanorans scrambled erratically to respond to the deadly Saxan storm emerging right out of the sun’s rays.
Framorg clenched his teeth, gripped the hilt of his longblade tightly, and suffered the seemingly endless moments that it was taking to reach the fray. There was little else that he could do. The Saxans had undertaken a daring ruse, and had caught even the Trogens by complete surprise.
*