Dream of Legends

by Stephen Zimmer

  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.

  He had to risk that danger, nonetheless, if he wanted to have any hope of surviving the day. Death he did not fear, but dying for sheer foolhardiness had to be averted.

  Taking a deep breath, he clenched Rodor’s reins, and guided his Harrak into a swooping, diagonal course towards the trees. It carried him farther away from the bombarded area, and also put a little more distance between himself and the oncoming Midragardans.

  His mount slowed down considerably as he neared the vicinity of the forest’s upper canopy, gliding smoothly into a level path of flight. Dragol cruised slowly, as he searched anxiously for an open meadow or other break in the trees. In an older forest, such as the one below, there were several places where storms or the passing of time created such holes in treecover. Exhaling a sustained breath of relief, he finally espied such an opening, and angled Rodor for it right away.

  The fissure in the sea of trees was large enough for Dragol to comfortably descend through it upon his Harrak, though he maneuvered the steed down as carefully as he could. The leaves of the nearby trees rustled as the Harrak’s broad wings beat hard, clipping some leaves on the edges of a few branches.

  The Harrak landed relatively smoothly upon the forest floor, off to the side of a long-rotted, fallen tree, which was now little more than a softening, decomposing mass. The trees ringing the small clearing obstructed much of his view of the skies above. Not knowing when the Midragardan warriors might pass over the place where he had landed, he knew that he had to take immediate cover.

  Dragol’s eyes darted about, cursing the deep shadows of the forest. The dimmer depths of the woods encompassing him required a few moments of time for his eyes to adjust from the bright skies that he had left behind.

  As his eyes began to pierce the dappled gloom, he was relieved to find that there were no signs of Five Realms warriors present, or any other imminent threats. Dragol had little doubt that the tribesmen would not be in the mood to extend him a warm welcome.

  Grabbing the reins to his steed, he strode forward, leading Rodor into the trees. No longer exposed in the open, he turned and lowered into a crouch behind some brush, staring back up to the skies through the clearing.

  Though distant, and high in altitude, the winds carried the sounds of the furious, ongoing clash between the Trogens and Midragardans. Another pang of guilt struck him, as part of him wished that he was slashing through the Midragardan warriors, rather than slinking about the forest floor in the middle of the Five Realms. Dragol was not a Trogen who shirked from fighting any opponent, and even if his choice made strategic sense, it still left him conflicted.

  His blood boiling with anger and frustration, he reminded himself once again of the undeniable circumstances regarding the situation above. The badly outnumbered Trogen warriors under his command had openly defied his order and authority, and, by doing so, had ultimately opposed Tragan’s firm directives. Disobedience to a chieftain, or a warrior delegated to command, was a great transgression. It was one that Dragol was not guilty of in any way, as he had dutifully honored Tragan’s orders. Gavnar and the others had sorely violated the ages-old tradition, and Dragol knew that he bore no guilt for their senseless choice.

  Even so, the grave infraction had been committed by a number of Trogens from the Thunder Wolf clan, among those who had been hovering with Dragol. They had effectively abandoned a chieftain of their own clan, which made it all the more painful and confusing to him.

  Dragol was not about to second guess his decision, knowing in his heart that he had made the wiser choice. The sudden mutiny would have just carried him to certain destruction, if he had chosen to follow after the other Trogens by himself. He had known without a doubt that they were about to be swarmed by the much larger Midragardan force, and those under his command should have trusted his judgement.

  Their abandonment, and defiance of him, had tempered any regrets that he might otherwise have had. After what they had done, he would never have been able to feel affinity towards any of them again.

  Further, if Gavnar and any Thunder Wolves survived the battle, he would have simply challenged all of them to single combat. He would have slain them one at a time, his longblade quenching its thirst on their rebellious blood.

  Dragol had been very clear to Gavnar and the others that they would still fight in the Trogen way, under h
is plan. He was simply not inclined to throw those under his command away in futility. Gaining the most advantageous position for battle was not a wrongdoing, nor was it avoidance. It offered a more propitious fight, fully honorable in nature, and, though the chances were still very slim, it offered the only real prospects for victory.

  Jaws clenched within the severe tension that his ruminations invoked, such that his neck muscles bulged, he turned and got back to his feet. Taking the lead, he guided his mount deeper through the trees. He took the creature in a direction that he estimated would be leading away from the main courses of bombardment.

  He had to move quickly, as the result of the combat in the sky was a foregone conclusion. It was very possible that enemy riders had seen him descending. In such numbers as they had, he could still find himself casting his life away vainly, even if he took many down with him.

  Dying in such a manner would not bring any benefit to the Trogens, or aid their longtime struggle. Survival was the only choice for him to pursue, even if those chances were far from good.

  Keeping the reins of the Harrak in his left hand, clenched firmly along his shield grip, he grasped his Trogen longblade in his right. Eyes peeled, peering with rigid scrutiny into the shadows of the forest, he was sensitive to any movements. Nothing of alarm was forthcoming as he continued, and he eventually came upon a wide, shallow stream. In a turn of fortune, the stream’s route continued more or less in the direction that he had chosen. The water flowed calmly and timelessly, as if nothing was amiss in the woods, or above in the skies.

  With a little cajoling, Dragol guided his steed into the midst of the shallow water in order to eliminate the existence of a scented trail for potential pursuers. His leather boots sank into the mud of the stream’s bedding, as the cool water soaked through to his skin. The cold liquid almost mirrored the brooding, chaotic thoughts that kept penetrating, and permeating, his tumultuous mind.

  His eyes scanned for any rock surface breaking clear of the water, but there was very little to be found. Their scents might be covered, but he had tracked and hunted enough animals to know that the soft mud beneath the soles of his boots, and the clawed feet of his steed, were leaving some very visible signs for anyone, or anything, with perceptive, experienced eyes.

  He had to keep going forward, as it was most imperative to get away from the clearing where he had landed. Despite any concerns that he harbored about tracks, he knew that he had to press forward to achieve as much distance as possible.

  The sounds of battle overhead soon faded away, as Dragol covered a significant amount of ground. At last, he came to a halt, and decided to address his concerns a little. Using his longblade, he cut off a thin, overhanging branch from a tree perched on the edge of the bank to his right. Securing his Harrak for a moment to the same tree, he doubled back to use the branch to brush the bottom of the stream over a long section of their trail.

  He also spared a few moments to make some false tracks of his own at the onset of the cleared segment, giving the appearance that he had climbed out of the stream where the previous signs had ended. The time spent disguising their passage gave him some further peace of mind. Under the weighty circumstances, that slight easement was a great boon to his spirit.

  There were still no signs of enemy pursuit, the tribal fighters, or even the allied, invading force, as he methodically worked back to his Harrak and untied it, to resume their sojourn. Dragol began to entertain the notion of risking a climb above the tree line, in order to see if the skies were clear.

  Scanning the surrounding trees, he looked for ones that appeared promising for a dedicated climb by a heavy-bodied Trogen. The forest possessed a variety of trees, and there were several old, stout sentinels in view, whose branches would bear his weight capably high above.

  Determining upon one such tree, he led the Harrak back out of the water. The mud sucked at his boots as he pulled his legs up from the stream, and strode over the embankment. He drew near to the old oak tree, and was about to tether the Harrak to the lower branch of a smaller tree close by when several bird cries broke the heavy silence of the forest.

  Instinctively honing in upon the subtlest aspects of the sounds, he suspected that the bird cries had not been generated by any manner of feathered entities. There was just something a little different in tone about the cries, even though they sounded very authentic.

  Hunting a variety of creatures within his own homelands, many of them perilous, he had become very attuned to the nuances of animal and bird sounds. Birds sometimes heralded the presence of a dangerous animal moving in the vicinity, alerting the surrounding forest. The cries reaching Dragol’s ears did indeed proclaim a presence, but they were not testifying to the approach of a forest predator.

  The elvish raiders that plagued Dragol’s own homelands used animal cries when they undertook their intrusive forays. Dragol was still alive because he had long ago learned to discern the differences between an Elf mimicking a bird or animal, and the genuine bird or animal itself.

  He stroked the neck of his Harrak, working to keep Rodor calm as he led the creature up a little rise to the right, where there was an area of low, thickly-grown brush. When they reached the brush, he found a small space that they could pass through. Once through, he used both hands to tug gently on the reins in a way that prompted the Harrak to lay down flat upon the ground.

  Dutifully, as the Harrak had been trained, Rodor obeyed, and Dragol lowered himself down beside the prone creature. Becoming as still as stone, Dragol peered through small gaps in the growth towards the area where the bird calls seemed to be coming from.

  His sharp ears picked up a couple of light crackles, as something stepped upon dry, fallen leaves. Using the sounds as a reference, he reoriented his watch along the other side of the stream, expecting some kind of forms to emerge into sight at any moment.

  While not perfect, the steps of those approaching were achieved with an extremely skillful silence. Dragol realized that whomever, or whatever, was approaching, they were very adept at moving within a forest environment. As one used to forest lands himself, and highly skilled in traversing them, he greatly respected their demonstrated ability, knowing at once that it would be folly to take them lightly.

  “Stay!” Dragol whispered firmly to Rodor, as he lay his shield flat upon the ground. He gave the creature a pat on the flank as he shifted silently away, painstakingly taking step by step in a crouched position.

  With slow, deliberate steps, he paced over to a tree possessing an expansive girth. He straightened up to his full height behind the trunk of it, so that he was completely hidden by the tree’s form.

  A few more bird calls, a snap of a twig, and another low crunch of a leaf indicated that those approaching had not yet reached the stream. With the utmost care, Dragol brought the edge of his face around the trunk until his peripheral vision could take in the ground beyond the channel of water.

  Dragol then got his first look at the enemy tribesmen from the ground level. A small party of Five Realms warriors was moving through the trees, drawing near to the bank of the stream. As far as he could tell, he could make out the forms of about fifteen of the silent, gracefully-moving warriors. They all had a somber, hardened look about them. A particularly muscular, older warrior walked at the forefront of the loose formation, in which each warrior was spread well apart from the others.

  Their heads were shaven, save for tufts of hair sprouting from the center, several with the feathers of birds affixed. Many had noses or ears decorated with some kind of small implements that appeared to pierce the flesh.

  Most of the warriors had their upper bodies bared, wearing hide leggings and a type of short, buckskin kilt. A kind of leather shoe covered their feet, the top edge turned downward into a flap. They traveled lightly, carrying little more than their weapons and leather pouches, the latter richly embroidered, hanging at their waists from straps running across their chests from the opposite shoulder.

  A few of their
hand weapons were short-hafted axes and spears. Both had steel affixed to their ends, the former a single edged blade, and the other an elongated, sharp point. Most carried a kind of curving war club, shaped out of a length of wood.

  A couple bore shields made of thin rods lashed together by hide thongs. Several had a kind of dagger sheathed in a hide case, woven with designs, hanging down to rest just below their chest from a leather cord worn about the neck.

  At first, Dragol perceived that they had the most unusual skin tones of any being that he had ever encountered, until he fathomed that they were covered in body paint. It had been applied in a purposeful symmetry that covered one half of their body in red, and the other in black. Dragol quickly observed that the red and black combination enhanced their ability to blend with shadows and foliage.

  As warriors of lands with a low population, Dragol did not have to confront them to know that they were very likely to be capable fighters. Alone, he did not stand much of a chance against fifteen of them, especially in light of the fact that several were also carrying longbows.

  The warriors with bows had full quivers at their shoulders, hanging from straps similar to those that held their pouches. The quivers were fashioned from some kind of woven vegetable husks, or bark. It did not take much imagination for Dragol to envision the archers fanning out all around him, picking him off easily from the shadows with well-aimed shafts.

  He could tell by their positioning that they were not moving towards a specific destination. The group proceeded as if they expected to encounter opposition with every step that they took. Their weapons were kept at the ready, and their heads remained as still as their rigid gazes.

  The arrangement and number of the war party, within an obviously contested area, also told him something more of their nature of war. The tribesmen, as he had guessed, were disposed towards a method of warfare utilizing smaller contingents of warriors.