Dream of Legends fie-2

by Stephen Zimmer

  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 lo
oked 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.