“It is good that we have a place of refuge to go to,” Edmund said, knowing well that their best chance for survival lay firmly with Gunther and his underground friends.
“You have already suffered enough in this battle. You are not healers, and staying here will do you no good. The surviving men need you. Go with the Unguhur now, and I shall return later, when we have covered the entirety of this battlefield,” Gunther said, instructing the Saxans with a steely voice, the tone as commanding as anything that they had ever heard spoken from Aethelstan’s lips.
Despite the fact that the three warriors were able-bodied, Edmund knew what Gunther was truly thinking. Having to comb through the hideous field of war, sifting among their slain comrades and kin, would do nothing more than light the fires of a forge that would create an abundance of razor-sharp nightmares.
Edmund could see the weakened, wavering spirits in the men with him, who looked as if they were now just drifting within their minds. Edmund was already resigned to the reality that the terrible things that he had already seen would be cropping up to mar his dream world, haunting it with morbid visions.
Edmund also knew that the Woodsman had not even begun his mourning for the killed Jaghun, likely akin to the loss of a child for the solitary hermit. Gunther needed some time to himself as well.
A couple of Unguhur moved in to assist the three warriors along their new way, gesturing for the Saxans to follow the ones who were carrying Aethelstan’s litter forward. Gunther remained behind, already returning his attention to the sorrowful tasks at hand. Edmund watched the Woodsman for a few moments longer, over his shoulder, as they moved away.
Gunther was resolutely committed to finding any warriors that yet held breath, saving whatever lives he could. Perhaps a few more bodies were still alive out on that battleground, with each passing moment a threat to the faint flicker of life remaining within them.
Edmund could only thank the All-Father for the heroic efforts of the Woodsman; a recluse who had only wanted to be left alone, and spared from the travails of humankind.
*
DRAGOL
*
Dragol awoke following an uneventful, yet still restless, sleep underneath the camouflage of a swathe of heavy brush. Strong beams of vibrant sunlight cascaded down to warm him, pouring through an opening in the forest’s ceiling of branches and leaves.
Dragol had long ago conditioned himself to be a light sleeper. It was the only way for a warrior to survive within strange, threatening lands. He had roused himself to full consciousness several times during the night, most often due to the passage of various animals through the woodlands.
The movements of fauna were not necessarily a cause for comfort, even if it meant that the source of the shuffles, footfalls, and scrapings was not the tread of an enemy war party. Dragol was far from being familiar with the various types of animals inhabiting the region that he now traversed, and he was not about to underestimate any possible encounters. He had learned enough lessons during the many years spent in the harsh wilderness of his own lands to respect the elements of nature in lands that he had not been in for long.
It did not matter whether the beasts moving through the forest proved to be harmless or not, as any misguided assumption could have lethal consequences. Having come from a homeland containing a variety of very dangerous predators, Dragol knew that threats could come in all manner of sizes and forms.
The threats might not be limited to outright predators either. Many a Trogen had suffered agonizing deaths under the viciously-wielded tusks of a ferocious Blood Boar, after having unintentionally interrupted the robust, bristly creature’s foraging.
Upon awakening, Dragol found that his body was wracked with soreness, and his muscles were stiffened from lying for hours upon the hard, uneven ground. Dirt, leaves, and other debris on the ground had pressed into his side and face, much of it sticking to him as he sat up. He took a moment to brush himself off.
He carefully stretched his limbs for a few minutes. The movements were accompanied by the audible pops of settled joints. He felt the deep extension of his muscles as he limbered up, a highly necessary activity before he could hope to search for some sustenance in a state of preparedness.
The new morning soon brought with it a little good fortune, revealed invitingly in its warming light. It was not long into his morning hike before he made a most welcome discovery, a stroke of sheer luck, something that Dragol had not recently been enjoying in abundance.
He had been moving into an area filled with younger, hardwood trees. The maturing trees had afforded extensive undergrowth to thrive, as the less-dense upper foliage allowed considerable amounts of sunlight through to the forest floor.
Dragol’s path intersected with a narrow stream, which served beneficently in attracting a group of heavy-set birds, with fan-shaped tails. Dragol heard the birds well before he saw them, bringing him to a stop. Putting his shield down on the ground, Dragol quietly approached, taking cover where he could gain a more advantageous view of the creatures.
The birds’ attentions were concentrated upon a few shrubs growing a short distance away from the near bank of the stream. The shrubs were loaded with an abundance of dark berries. Both birds and berries were inviting to Dragol’s stomach, with the birds holding the greater attraction.
Dragol eyed one of the tantalizingly plump birds, a large one that had a distinctive black ruff on each side of the neck. Alone among the others, it had more than one white spot on each of its tail feathers, as opposed to the single spot on the feathers of the others. From his experience with other kinds of birds, Dragol judged the distinguishing characteristics to mark the creature as a male of its kind.
After a painstakingly stealthy, careful approach, Dragol was able to draw very close to the oblivious birds. A brief flash suddenly cut through the air, as sunlight glinted off of a speeding length of metal.
The black-ruffed bird was taken fully unawares, swiftly dispatched by a well-thrown, straight dagger. The force of the throw slammed its body against the ground, before the surrounding birds were even aware of their imminent danger.
The rest of the birds scattered in a flurry of panic, making quite a commotion as they flapped their wings and took off into the woods. The laws of nature would offer them no respite as they fled recklessly, as the forest was filled with a range of predators.
Dragol strode out from his hiding place, and walked over to the felled bird. He pulled his dagger free, congratulating himself on an exceptional throw, as his mouth began to water.
Deciding to risk a small fire, he put his trust into the fact that in a time of war, one singular, thin line of smoke was not likely to attract much attention. Even if it was sighted, it was just as likely to be spotted by Trogen sky riders as it was by any enemy sky riders. Furthermore, neither friend nor foe in the skies would have an easy landing site.
A fire was soon stoked, and a makeshift spit served to help Dragol prepare a most succulent, roasted fowl. As hungry as he felt, it took a lot of discipline to let the fresh, juicy meat cook thoroughly.
The well-cooked meat of the bird, coupled with the crisp, cool water of the flowing brook nearby, filled and renewed Dragol immeasurably. He also treated himself to several handfuls of the berries that had attracted the birds, feeling the almost-ripe fruit burst between his large teeth. While a little sour, the berries were a welcome find.
Once he had finished, his continuation of the journey was delayed a little, so that he could fill a small leather pouch, tied to the belt around his waist, as full as he could with the edible berries. It was not a frivolous task, providing reserves of sustenance just in case his luck in foraging or hunting was not so fortuitous later.
Late in the morning, he left the site of the hunt behind with a wellspring of energy. The simple meal had done much to replenish him, and to lift his spirits, as he searched out routes through the thicker brush.
After walking for about half a league, he came across an op
en space created by a small pond. He looked up into the sky, but saw nothing of interest. After taking a few moments to study the position of the sun, and estimate his bearings, he continued once again towards the south.
He moved slowly, sometimes laboriously, while he was traversing the congested brush. Years of experience derived from living in the midst of the forested mountains of his homeland manifested in Dragol’s soft step, and guarded movements, as he navigated through some challenging swathes of growth. His progress was often slowed considerably, as he diligently pulled foliage back, and guided it back into place, to pass through it without spurring undue commotion.
He ignored the mounting scratches that he received from small thorns, as well as the little briars that occasionally clung to the surface of his clothing. He knew that it would have been much worse had he just blundered his way through. His caution spared him much of the stabbing and prickling of the brush. Yet limiting noise was far more important than any concerns for personal comfort.
Rested with a full stomach, Dragol’s attentiveness was sharper, and it did not wane as he pressed forward. His acute sense of hearing and vision kept vigil for any sign of new dangers, a heightened sense that would not relax until he got himself safely back among his kind. He consistently reminded himself that any lapses, even for a few moments, could spell a violent, instantaneous death.
As had happened before, he began to get the distinct impression that something was watching his movements. He came to a halt, and his eyes darted about, as he thought of the carnivorous Pahyna and the old man, both of whom he had encountered the last times that he had experienced the uneasy feeling.
Irritation rose within him, as he could not believe his ill fortune. This time, if something like the four Pahyna appeared, he would not have a Harrak at his side to divide the attackers.
He kept silent, and admonished himself to keep a still mind. He was not yet certain of the nature of the threat, or even if there was really one to begin with. The ambiguity could create its own menace within the extreme wariness of his mind.
Even so, he was not about to start mistrusting his instincts. He slowly brought his shield from where it had been hanging on his back via the guige strap. He closed his grip firmly on the hilt of his longblade, and quietly drew it.
The sensation of being watched surged and ebbed over the next couple of hours. Sometimes, the feeling seemed to vanish entirely. At other times his hackles rose, to the point where he expected something to come into sight.
All around him, the contour of the terrain began to grow steeper, as the rolling hills turned into sharper inclines, on larger rises that more closely resembled small mountains. The younger hardwood trees gave way to a higher concentration of fir trees, even as the quantity of lower brush declined. He wound his way around the bottom of the taller inclines, noticing that his forward path was slowly rising.
After another couple of hours, Dragol came across a small waterfall, tumbling down from a rocky height off to his right. The water appeared to emerge from within the steep hillside, about a third of a way up the slope, though the source was hidden beyond his sight.
The water flowed downward in a few sparkling, intertwining rivulets that converged together, coursing over the lip of a rock outcropping. Once over the edge, the water broke into a glittering free-fall down into a small pool, collecting within a shallow basin of gray rock.
Skirting the outside of the lower basin, Dragol made his way to the opening of a small cave behind the waterfall. He felt the cool air and light mist touching his skin as he neared the falling water. Having worked up an ample sweat during his extended hike, the feeling was instantly pleasant, and soothing.
The broad part of the cave did not go very deep, narrowing quickly just a few paces inside. The outer part was just big enough for his large form to walk in, without having to lean over to any significant degree.
As he was inspecting the small cave, the impression of being under surveillance from the surrounding woods rose up again. It rapidly reached the point where his senses screamed that some kind of presence was imminent.
Resolutely, he gripped his longblade and shield. He turned, and walked back around the edge of the waterfall to stand on the left side of the basin.
“Who is there?” Dragol called out, with a growling edge to his voice, certain of his gut feelings. “Have you courage enough to stand forth? Come beasts, if you wish to try my blade once again. If not a beast, then announce yourself. You may try my blade as well.”
His eyes became stony, as he waited for the flickers of movement indicating more woodland predators. With the shallow cave and waterfall behind him, and the water basin itself to work with, he was in a better defensive position than he had found himself in before. If there were multiple hunters, they could not attack him from all sides at once.
“It is only I, returning again, though I have no desire to try your blade,” came a familiar voice, speaking in the Trogen language. It belonged to the last individual that Dragol had spoken with. “And I do have the courage to stand forth, make no mistake, though I would hope that you offer friendship instead.”
The tension went out of Dragol’s body, as he lowered his shield and blade. Walking from behind one of the trees beyond the basin was the older, white-bearded man, in the flowing, blue garments and wide-brimmed hat. Dragol watched him stride forward in silence, again struck by the strange, timeless look that seemed to be etched into the man’s features and expression.
Beyond the shadows of the cave, the sunlight bathed the old man’s face underneath the broad brim of his round-topped hat. The light made his long beard and snowy locks of hair shine brightly, as well as making his lone, blue eye sparkle radiantly.
Calm, confident, and relaxed, the old man walked around the rim of the basin towards where Dragol stood. As before, the man moved nimbly, displaying a level of dexterity that belied his seemingly advanced age. He looked up into Dragol’s face as he drew close, his lone blue eye glittering with apparent amusement.
“Is it you that I have felt watching me?” Dragol inquired, a little indignant, and discomfited, at the second unannounced appearance of the strange traveler. “Have you been following me?”
“Like you, I am traveling through these woods. Both of us have our purposes, and neither of us has yet succeeded in our hopes. But no, I have not been following you,” the elderly man replied, with a sincere expression on his face. He smiled amicably. “There are many dangers in these forests, from the war, and from the very fabric of life itself. You have probably felt many different eyes upon you, as you have moved through the trees of these lands, and they belong to living creatures that are in no way tamed. It is good that you are so alert.”
Dragol was utterly perplexed, and was quickly growing weary of the man’s cryptic ways. Trogens were not ones to tarry with riddles for long, becoming swiftly impatient with anything that was less than direct.
With some exasperation, Dragol queried, “Who are you, old man? I want to know! Why is it that you are in these woods?”
He shunned the idea of challenging the old man with violent intentions, as many humans in his position might have done to gain answers. That course of action was far from the Trogen way. Openly striking an unarmed, elderly man would do him great dishonor as a Trogen warrior. The strong sought out the strong, and only the truly weak bolstered themselves by preying upon the weak. It was one significant reason why he, and his fellow Trogens, so loathed the use of Darroks in the war.
His great instincts for threats and dangers from individual beings had never failed him before. He sensed that there was no threat whatsoever forthcoming from this old man. Yet all the same, the Trogen chieftain still wanted some answers.
The man smiled again, with a slight air of joviality. “I am not in these woods because of you, and the tasks that I am on take me away from you… but you have quickly become of great interest to me.”
Dragol frowned, as his eyes narrowed, and he was confounded
as to how he was going to get any answers out of the lone, highly confusing man. There simply had to be much more to the man than what he saw before him.
An old man with one eye, seemingly unarmed, would not fare very well in such dangerous forests. Dragol’s own survival was not guaranteed, no matter how strong he was, and despite the fact that he was armed with a great shield and well-crafted Trogen longblade.
He asked the old man slowly, “What… are your tasks then?”
“I am a seeker now. I have been seeking for some that I know, and others that have come from a faraway place. I have found the ones from afar, and done what I could for them… but I cannot find the ones that I have known for many ages,” the old man answered.
This time, the pleasant expression on the old man’s face faded, replaced by a mien that was decidedly melancholy in nature.
“The ones that I know should have been aiding the fight against the invasion that brought you along with it,” the old man continued.
Dragol did not miss that the man had not hesitated to imply that the forces that the Trogen had arrived with were in the wrong. Dragol could not help but respect the steadfast, direct manner of the old man in that regard.
After another moment, the old man’s face darkened further, and a simmering anger pulsed just under the surface of his pale skin. For some unknown reason, Dragol felt the slightest tinge of fear. Quickly, be batted the feeling down, and inwardly admonished himself for feeling any intimidation from a very aged human.
“As we all have enemies, so I believe one of mine has something to do with the absence of the ones I seek,” the old man finished, in a lower, tense voice.
“And why would I be of interest to you at all?” Dragol asked, after a few moments of uneasy silence had passed. He had no idea what the old man was talking about.
The old man’s features then relaxed, and like the sun breaking free of storm clouds, a white smile came to his face. “If I gave you a direct answer, it would be too easy for you, Spirit of the Dragon.”
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