*
The huge form of Tragan loomed like a mountainous shadow within the dark confines of the central command tent. Sparse glints of light reflected off of his eyes from the couple of small torches set within the enclosed space. Though smoke escaped through the hole in the upper center of the tent, a haze now encompassed the relatively small space.
Dragol and Goras stood silently before him, their eyes lowered and heads tilted in respect before the high commander of the Unifier’s sky warriors. Only Framorg himself, the legendary figure from the Mountain Bear Clan who had been chosen to be the overall War Chieftain of the Trogens, outranked the large Trogen standing before them.
They sensed that the monotony of the sky patrols was about to break, for they had been summoned firmly, urged to return with great haste. It was evident that Tragan was still boiling over the debacle in the skies over the Five Realms, and the loss of so many fine Trogen warriors.
Tragan had been venting about the matter ever since Dragol had been conducted into the tent. Tragan was still filled with resentment that the Darroks were being crewed entirely by Trogens in the first instance.
As Tragan explained it, the Avanorans wished to avail themselves of the far greater strength and stamina of the race of Trogens in comparison to men. The undeniable physical advantages of the Trogens had been a major part of the reason that had compelled the Unifier to use them in the task of manning the Darrok carriages.
Trogens were far more adept at jettisoning the great stores of large stones within the carriages affixed to the creatures’ backs, both in terms of endurance as well as the girth of individual missiles. Enabling larger stones to be selected increased the destruction that could be levied upon the enemy. The average Trogen was able to lift up rocks of such size that two humans cooperating could barely carry.
Avanorans were also relative newcomers to the use of Harraks and the environment of the upper skies, having only adopted them at the Unifier’s insistence, once He had come to power. It was true that Harraks had been imported to Avalos, and that a new population was being bred. It was also true that a new force ridden by Avanorans had been established, and that large numbers of human warriors were even now being trained.
Even so, as a whole, Trogens were still far more prepared and comfortable when undergoing the sensations of flight. The Trogen propensity for enduring physical hardship, and being able to withstand the highest altitudes far easier than humans, had sealed the choice of who would accompany the Darroks as their attendant crews. That choice had now been sorely abused, as the overconfident human Viscount Adhemar had left them so vulnerable.
Tragan’s face had clouded with the blackest of rages as he had described in visceral terms what he would do to the viscount if he ever encountered the Avanoran. Dragol knew that it was best that the viscount remain in Avanor, as he literally would be torn limb from limb if Tragan ever got the man in his grasp.
Finally Tragan proceeded to the reasons for his summons of the two Trogen chieftains. As Dragol and Goras had perceived, their summons to Tragan’s tent involved the changes that would be taking place in the wake of the debacle with the first Darrok raid.
For Goras, Tragan’s wishes were not all that disruptive. Dragol, on the other hand, had to fight against mixed emotions churning within, as he listened to the orders from Tragan. A part of him was firmly bound to duty, and well pleased that the viscount’s error in judgment on the first raid was being resolved with Trogen self-determination. Another part of him met the words of Tragan with chagrin, as he did not wish to be separated from Goras, and the other Trogens in Saxany, so close to the great battle.
“Dragol, you will take your warriors with you to accompany the Darroks, and defend them in their next raid upon the Five Realms. Other chieftains will join you with further sky warriors. No others among this alliance will respect Trogens. We must take control of this task by ourselves, fools that we were to think otherwise,” the Trogen commander iterated acidly, his iron gaze fixated upon Dragol. “This is no order of the Lord Generals… It is mine, and they are not about to disagree. We will see that our brothers receive protection… this time.”
The last words of the Trogen commander were strained and spoken through sharp, clenched teeth. Veins stood out along his thick neck and broad head, as Tragan continued to seethe.
Dragol had seen few Trogens so utterly livid as Tragan had been towards the unescorted mission that had resulted in so many slain Trogens. It had taken all of Dragol’s might, and that of a few others, to restrain Tragan from going to assault one of the Lord Generals who was residing in the nearby Avanoran camp, shortly after the news had reached them.
It pleased Dragol greatly that initiative had been taken by the older Trogen commander, declaring an escort force irrespective of Avanor’s desires. Like many of the higher-ranking Trogens, Dragol had felt scathing discomfort at following orders that he knew had originated from the Unifier’s men.
He also felt deeply honored that Tragan had selected him for the task of protecting fellow Trogens serving upon the great Darroks. There would be no lack of resolve on his part to ensure the safety of the Trogen crews.
Tragan then turned towards Goras, and exclaimed in a thunderous voice. “The attack into the woods begins very soon. You must not allow any enemy to drive our scouts away. You must sweep any defenders from the skies, and you must be the eyes of the ground army. There can be no surprises. We must win this battle fast, so that the army can move through.”
He raised his massive right hand and tightly clenched his fist, his eyes glaring at Goras. “We are to take no prisoners. The enemies of the Unifier are the enemies of us all. This is a war that will gain our land’s long-desired freedom, and the liberation of so many of our brethren held all too long in bondage. For the freeing of our homelands, and our kind, go forth, now! Show them the strength of the Trogens!”
Both dismissed from Tragan’s presence, Goras and Dragol nodded their heads deferentially, and swiftly strode from the inner tent. Outside of the tent, gathered nearby, were a number of veteran Trogen leaders who were anxiously awaiting their instructions.
“We go to the skies, to glories that will be remembered!” Dragol called to them, his gaze fiery with the passion burning within him. “Those with me, will go forth with the great Darroks. Those with Goras, must sweep the skies clear of our enemies. The invasion begins soon. War has come. Rely only on your weapons, your strength, and your fury! The Trogen is alone in this world, as our kind has always been, and it is only you that can speak with your arms and deeds. Speak now, with a thunderous voice!”
A loud, roaring cheer arose from the gathered Trogens, as they shouted their approval of Dragol’s words with feverish intensity. Their eyes flashed with volcanic fires building towards an apex within them. They thrust their great blades and other weapons skyward, and continued their chants and shouts long after, as they thundered their consummate approval.
“Go forth, as this war begins!” bellowed Dragol, thrusting his own longblade furiously into the sky.
Without further reply, the ebullient warriors gathered around them turned and rushed off with vigor. They quickly spread the commands among the various Trogen warriors gathered into the war bands that would be commanded under Dragol and Goras.
An excitable frenzy ensued, as Trogens were soon running everywhere. Nervous Andamooran volunteers saw to the harnesses on the Harraks, as the light Andamooran horsemen currently in the adjoining camp looked on with unmistakable curiosity, from behind their face veils.
Other Trogens, scowling at being unable to immediately join their brethren, worked to aid the departing Trogen warriors with their equipment.
Arrow quivers were filled, extra bowstrings procured, supply packs buckled up, longblades sheathed in scabbards attached to baldrics, great lances and other long-hafted weapons brought forth, and rectangular shields were slung across the broad backs of the Trogen riders. The Harraks growled and pawed at the ground, as the proud creatures sensed the impatience and energy of their riders and masters.
In a brief passage of time, twenty-five Trogens were fully prepared to escort the Darroks with Dragol. Nearly seventy were readied to attend to Goras’ company, all elated as they primed themselves for the beginning of the long-awaited battle for Saxany.
When all of the nearly one hundred warriors were ready and assembled, word was swiftly conveyed to Dragol and Goras. Dragol listened to the updates regarding the disposition of the warriors, as he adjusted a newly acquired segmented iron helm in place, the attached mail aventail drooping down to rest around the sides and back of his neck. With the helm fitted upon his head, secured snugly with a leather chin-strap, Dragol turned towards Goras.
“Neither of us will be held back now,” Dragol said, clamping a huge hand enthusiastically upon Goras’ broad shoulder. As they were the last two to mount their steeds, the gathered warriors silently, and restlessly, awaited their commanders.
“Show them a warrior that is worthy to reside in Elysium, in the High Halls!” Goras urged Dragol with buoyant vigor.
“That both of us shall be worthy!” Dragol countered. “I shall return, and join with you, that we may smash the Saxans together.”
“If I leave any for you,” Goras retorted, rumbling with mirth.
“Then I will show the tribesmen a fury to behold, and I shall return in haste,” Dragol replied, clasping the saddle, setting his booted foot into the bronze stirrup, and lithely mounting his Harrak, Rodor.
“For now, farewell, may the High Gods ride with you!” Goras exclaimed.
Eyes sparkling with a renewed vivacity, Dragol looked around at the throng of eager Trogen warriors around him.
“In honor of the Highest God, it begins!” he roared to a fully deafening acclamation from all the surrounding Trogens, both mounted and not.
Spurring his steed forth, he was the first to leave the ground by the power of the Harrak’s great wings.
With zealous shouts, the envious Trogens remaining on the ground saluted their comrade warriors as they followed in the wake of Dragol up into the sky. Their ascent was like a rising thundercloud, blackened with ominous declarations of an imminent, violent maelstrom, that would manifest in a very short time to come.
Once the full mass of flying warriors had ascended, Dragol and Goras exchanged salutes, before separating to continue onward to their respective destinations.
As the wind whipped about his face, Dragol felt the bobbing and tilting of Rodor as the steed settled into its rhythmic pattern of flight. Dragol breathed a long, cathartic sigh of relief.
He was beginning to feel like a Trogen warrior once again.
*