Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  A horde of Trogens swarmed out of the nearby encampment, immediately attending to the Darroks and the Trogens that had remained upon the carriages. With the Darroks all safely landed, Dragol, Tirok, and the sky riders brought their steeds down a short distance away from the monstrosities.

  Dragol heard the low rumbles and resonant snorts coming from the weary Darroks, and he hoped that their temperaments were as stable as he had heard. He was in no disposition to witness what the imposing giants were capable of if they became irritated enough to lash out.

  It was very evident that the creatures had been pressed very hard, and were in great need of sustenance and rest. He hoped that the former was attended to without delay, and that the latter was adequately provided for in the war planning.

  Rodor was still in moderately good condition when they landed, and the Harrak whined affectionately, turning its head to nuzzle Dragol as he dismounted. At the very least, Dragol could rest assured that Rodor would be well tended. The hardy steed deserved every comfort and provision, in Dragol’s mind.

  He patted the great beast’s side, feeling its calming breathing as he took notice of the slight lather clinging to its stout muzzle. Reaching up, he scratched Rodor behind its upright, triangular ears, which were attentively taking in the flurry of sounds coming from the swirling activity surrounding the creature.

  Dragol continued to scratch and pet his ardent steed, as he concentrated on the feeling of solid ground beneath his leather boots. It was indeed good to be adjusting to being on land again, after long hours spent in the constantly vacillating realm of flight.

  A few Trogens from the camp finally reached Dragol and the other mounted Trogens. One immediately strode up to Dragol, to attend to the steed of the chieftain. Dragol handed Rodor’s tethers off to the Trogen, and gave the warrior some verbal instructions regarding treatment of the outstanding steed. Dragol then walked off towards the main body of the encampment.

  An excited commotion greeted the attacking force upon its return, though it quickly turned towards disappointment. The Trogens streaming from the encampment became quiet and subdued as they beheld the countenances of their dour, frustrated brethren.

  The returning Trogens climbed down the ladders of hemp rope from the carriages, turning with scowling miens, as they headed towards their tents. Some exchanged a few brief words with the Trogens that had emerged from the camp, but a pensive hush soon lingered all around the area.

  Even so, the Trogens moving to attend to the Darroks would go about their routines with pride and diligence. They had all been brought to understand the importance of this new weapon of war. Whether the method of attack that the Darroks enabled was found to be disgraceful, the care of the rare creatures that had been fully entrusted to the Trogens was indeed an honor.

  Avanor had very few of the giant beasts at its disposal, and it was not lost upon Dragol and his kind that the crewing and care of the Darroks had not been given over to humans. The Trogens carried out their duties with the utmost attention, cognizant of the great respect that had been afforded them by Avanor.

  Yet Dragol and other Trogen leaders never forgot that there were also very practical reasons for the arrangement. Trogens could endure for much longer in the thinner environment of the highest altitudes, without showing adverse effects. They had also long demonstrated their great aptitude for handling and breeding what was generally regarded as the greatest of the Skiantha, the Harraks. Therefore, it was not much of a surprise that Avanor had chosen the Trogens to guide and care for the Unifier’s potent new weapons. Trogen crewing of the beasts was to Avanor’s best interests by far.

  More ladders of hempen rope were unfurled from the carriages, as attendants and some of the remaining Darrok crews unloaded supplies and weapons. The loads for the Darroks had been much lighter for the return flight, with the considerable stocks of great stones having been fully discharged during the day’s events. The tired Trogen crews and mounted escorts had disembarked with hearty appetites, which begged to be sated despite the disappointments that the Trogens felt at failing to draw up the tribal defenders from the forests. Dragol’s mouth began salivating as he caught the first scents of roasting meat coming from the encampment.

  Dragol turned his head to idly watch the Trogens working around the Darroks, as he passed them on his way to the encampment. Dragol and those not involved in tasks regarding the Darroks found that it was wise to keep a very wide berth during feeding times.

  Darroks regularly exhibited a voracious appetite, and as a group they were quite capable of consuming a great number of cattle or sheep at one feeding. The Trogens attending to the behemoths took great precautions to avoid accidentally becoming part of the meal during the feeding process, and Dragol did not envy them in the least.

  Dragol twisted and stretched as he walked, gradually working out the deep stiffness in his muscles from the long day endured in the saddle. He removed his iron half-helm, carrying it under his right arm, as he let the cool air of the early evening massage his skin and provide a soothing feeling of relief.

  When he reached the camp’s edge, he glanced up to watch the sky patrols circling the vicinity, still visible in the dimming light. The patrols would keep a vigilant eye on the lands approaching the campsite, even beyond the inevitable transitions from dusk to night.

  He then noticed that Tirok was walking up from behind him, and Dragol acknowledged the fabled Black Tiger Chieftain with a prolonged nod of the head.

  “Another day without much event,” Tirok remarked curtly, as he strode up to stand next to Dragol.

  “No sign of the tribes at all. Not one warrior came up in defense. Where could they be?” Dragol queried in a low, tense voice, unable to suppress the bitter frustration boiling within him.

  Tirok shook his head, the dark look in his eyes showing that he fully shared Dragol’s sentiments. “No signs. Not even one! They hide from us. It can only mean they have few steeds now. They had the courage to come up on the first raid, and their effort was met with success that time. I know it was not cowardice that kept them hidden this day.”

  “They let their villages be destroyed, with no resistance,” Dragol countered.

  “They could not defend the villages against the Darroks. They mean to draw us under the trees. If you had flown low, I am certain that you would have drawn many arrows your way,” Tirok replied.

  “There were times when I sensed their eyes upon us, but I felt that such was only because of my own hopes,” Dragol said.

  “They were there, somewhere under those trees,” Tirok assured Dragol.

  “Then only warriors on the ground can hope to find a warrior’s honor in this attack,” Dragol growled in reply.

  Tirok did not reply, but the look on his face revealed his agreement with Dragol’s conclusion.

  The two quietly looked out over the wide, spacious grassland, and the random copses of trees farther away. They were a few leagues from where the massive forests started to the east.

  Taking his eyes off the darkening horizon, straining to see far away into the depths of the Five Realms, Dragol finally turned back towards Tirok.

  “When the new day comes, I know we shall begin again. We must scout better. Maybe we should think about dropping stones in places other than the villages, even randomly. If we do that, we may find a sign of where they are hiding. We know that the tribes are still in the forests, and they will fight, if they are brought forth.”

  Tirok nodded. “Your words have truth to them.”

  Dragol then said with increasing tension in his voice. “The battle for Saxany will begin soon. The blood of warriors will soon flow as great rivers, from fighters on both sides. Many of our own will gain great glory in Saxany, and only they would be worthy of the feasts of the high gods, and a place in Elysium. It is not that way here. I do not wish to rise each day to stare at trees. It is like we are seeking ghosts.”

  “The ghosts of today may yet turn into warriors tomorrow. We do not kn
ow what they will do,” Tirok replied evenly.

  Dragol looked towards the old Trogen warrior. He relished the thought of intense battle, one that was open and honest, with combatants matching their skills, warrior to warrior. Dragol was plagued with growing anxiety and trepidation at the thought of spending more days like the one that had just mercifully ended.

  It was only through an honorable fight that Dragol could prove the conquest of his fears, and establish the measure of himself. Such determinations could only come through the direct facing of an enemy. The greater the skill of the enemy, the greater the honor that could be gained, and the greater the chance that Dragol could become the warrior that he had set out to become. The tribesmen were said to be fighters of great skill, and if they were, then they could most certainly deliver him this chance; if only they would emerge to fight.

  Dragol hoped that they were truly formidable warriors, by whose overcoming he could take pride and gain genuine honor. If he were to fall, then he hoped that the tribal warrior that bested him would be of such greatness that Dragol’s own death would not prevent him an exalted place in the afterworld.

  His greatest fear, like that of any Trogen, was that he would never be given the truest test to discover what measure of heart, strength, bravery, and skill he possessed. To be denied that opportunity was one of the few terrors that a Trogen warrior could experience.

  It was not the lure of wealth, or the possession of new lands that drove Dragol, or any Trogen warrior. In this, the Trogens were vastly different from the humans that Dragol had witnessed in service to the Unifier.

  Rather, Dragol and other Trogen warriors simply wanted the chance to measure themselves on an individual level. Only in a war, one with a strong and vigorous opponent, could that be achieved beyond doubt.

  Whether the tribal warriors remained similar to ephemeral ghosts, or manifested as worthy opponents, remained to be seen.

  The muscular, towering figure slowly turned his head back towards Tirok. At last, Dragol replied to Tirok’s words. His response came out almost as a menacing growl, as his frustrations flowed within his words. His voice was heavily laden with the swirling fears and aspirations that resided inside of him, and his eyes flashed intensely in the gathering dusk.

  “Then there is only one thing we must do … we must find the tribesmen … and we must bring them to battle.”

  One of the last rays of sunlight glinted off the long canines in the snarling visage of the Trogen warrior. It gave him a particularly feral appearance, which was not far from how he felt, as he pondered the dilemma facing the Trogens accompanying the Darroks.

  The enemy had to somehow be cajoled into coming out to fight, in order for the Trogens to prove themselves true warriors from the Darrok forays.

  Another part of Dragol cried out that the Trogens were simply being used to carry out the will of the Unifier. The thought, no matter how much Dragol wished to dismiss it, tugged darkly at the edges of his conscience.

  Dragol was beginning to realize that it was a disturbance that he would have to learn to live with. He would not be able to fully rest his mind until the Unifier’s assistance manifested to aid the Trogens in their own war and struggle for their homelands.

  Until that day, he would have his misgivings, and he could only hope that the negative feelings did not come to cloud his judgements.

  Tirok continued to silently regard Dragol with an impassive expression, but a steely, resolved look had flared up within the venerated Trogen’s eyes. Dragol knew that there would be no argument from the other Trogen. Tirok was a living embodiment of everything a Trogen could become, and most certainly understood the fires burning so hotly in Dragol. They were core feelings that any genuine Trogen warrior would relate to.

  *

  AETHELSTAN

  *

  Scouts returning to Aethelstan’s camp reported that the enemy force’s current dispositions indicated a strong likelihood of imminent attack.

  Adding to the growing tensions was the reality that there was no easy way of finding out how their fellow Saxan warriors, massed in their many thousands out upon the Plains of Athelney, were faring. Aethelstan and the smaller, second force in the westernmost hills of Wessachia did not even know if the battle out on the plains was underway or not.

  Aethelstan did not have to be reminded of what his warriors were up against, and why they had to stop the invaders in their tracks. He recognized the enemy’s hopes, and what they intended to do if they were able to get beyond Aethelstan’s force.

  The Saxans had no option but to hold their ground and resist, with every last shred of strength that they had available. If the enemy slithered deeper inside their lands, great havoc would inevitably be wreaked upon Wessachia. The rear and the flank of the main Saxan army would be left exposed and vulnerable.

  If the Avanorans were able to successfully exploit such an opening, the results would be simply too disastrous for Aethelstan to even ponder. Everything was at stake, and Aethelstan knew that he could not live with himself if he failed in his effort.

  Things were certainly getting no easier for the Saxan thane, as accumulating word of the enemy’s capabilities reinforced his fears. More word had arrived that the attacking force was well-prepared for all manner of eventualities.

  Segments of siege engines were being carried along with the baggage train of the enemy army. Aethelstan had learned the daunting facts regarding the siege equipment from a particularly brave scout, who had nearly paid with his life to gain the discovery.

  The presence of man-powered, stone-throwing devices and giant crossbows had been confirmed, and it would not surprise Aethelstan if the enemy force also possessed the devastating stone-throwing devices that worked off of counterweights. Aethelstan had heard tales about such incredible weapons, and how they could batter down thick stone walls, reducing them to rubble with no need to sacrifice men in scaling them with ladders. There was no doubt that timber palisades surrounding burhs would be no match for such formidable devices.

  The Unifier’s army coming towards his force, Aethelstan was quickly learning to his chagrin, possessed the capability of shifting its tactics to assault the lightly defended burhs and villages. With the vast depletion of hale fighting men caused by the General Fyrd, such sieges would present little in the way of a challenge to Avanor’s might. Without question, Aethelstan’s modest forces comprised the thin line that would have to hold at all costs.

  During the deeper hours of night, Saxan efforts were much more shielded from the monitoring eyes of the airborne Trogen scouts. Under the cloaking darkness, they had strained to achieve whatever they could, from the setting of lookouts to pickets. The Saxans had labored carefully to disguise the positions, to make them harder to discern in daylight, when the eyes of the airborne enemy scouts would be shadowing them incessantly.

  For his own part, Aethelstan had spent the better part of the previous afternoon and evening taking careful accounts of the strength at his disposal. He had assiduously taken stock of all of those who had been levied from Ealdorman Morcar’s territory, most especially those who were men of experience in arms.

  The final assessment, after all the various musters had been appraised, gave him a little more encouragement. He had discovered that there were a fair number of experienced, trained warriors within the masses summoned up in the General Fyrd.

  Many of them possessed good quality weapons, and even some armor, such as shield and helm. Most of the better-equipped men had periodically served as garrison guards for thanes within their burhs or fortified residences.

  Likewise, the ceorls of greater rank were almost all found to have well-maintained shields, swords, spears, mail shirts, and half-helms. Even more fortuitous, there were also many more ceorls than Aethelstan had initially expected would be available to him.

  Yet once again, the area of concern that had been regularly plaguing his mind came back to the fore. It tamped down all of the welcome discoveries, as it regarded the
greater majority of his entire force.

  The greater proportion of the broad levy was a rabble of common men who had very few good arms, and even less skill. Aethelstan tried to gain a little encouragement from the fact that the northern and eastern territories of the Saxan realm were made up of very hardy, tough men.

  Many hailed from a lineage that had survived the dark times when Midragardans had visited several vicious raids upon the Saxan lands. The Midragardan raiders had made no distinctions in those distant times, as monks, villagers, ceorls, and thanes alike had been beset.

  The villagers had risen many times to meet the seaborne threats, acquitting themselves surprisingly well in many storied instances. They had often shown courage, and they also demonstrated that they were not without their own strengths either.

  There was some hope in that regard for the present time. Many northern Saxans, even simple villagers, were fairly good hunters. Hunting required a degree of diligence and patience, as well as competency with weapons such as the bow. Aethelstan could therefore expect to find at least a few quality fighters among the men of the mass levies, though inexperienced, and modestly armed at best.

  Yet there was much to be concerned about, things that Aethelstan could not afford to deny. In normal times, men of the General Fyrd would have been called forth only to defend their market towns, or immediate villages. The extraordinary circumstances that the Saxan Kingdom now faced called for these levies to leave home and hearth, to march to the front lines far away, to meet a threat that was common to all. Adding to the burden, much of the commoners’ better equipment was old, some being ancient family heirlooms, but it would have to serve them as best it could against the well-armed Avanorans marching upon them.