“All are engaged in battle, but what will the Trogens do to break the enemy lines?” Renaud asked coolly.
Framorg bristled at the baron’s inference, as a hot bile bit at the back of his throat. His lips threatened to pull back in a snarl, but he concentrated until they merely twitched in his surging anger.
“The enemy has not yet challenged the skies,” Framorg replied in a steady, deliberate tone, showing his improved ability to speak the Avanoran’s tongue.
Only a few of the others in the room understood even a smattering of the baron’s words. It was probably for the best that they did not. The questioning of a Trogen’s courage was not something taken lightly, and Framorg could not have guaranteed that all in the room could have held themselves back as he had. Had all of them understood the baron, it was more than likely that the man’s head would have been separated from his shoulders with a longblade.
“And the enemy may never challenge the skies, hoping to keep you lingering, waiting for them,” Renaud responded, his eyes sweeping past the faces of the gathered Trogens. “They seek to take you out of the battle, yes?”
“They may be, but caution is sometimes advised,” Framorg responded. He thought of the unending stream of lessons learned in fighting the immensely clever Elven raiding parties that haunted the northwest regions of the Trogen lands. “A trap can be well-disguised, Renaud.”
“If you desire aid in the matter of your Elven oppressors, then you will fight in this battle,” Renaud replied in a haughty manner.
Framorg’s mind turned to the two enormous Darroks that were in an open meadow, just a few leagues behind the encampments. They were currently resting, following an arduous journey, having recently ferried in an Avanoran Lord General with several of his household knights and their squires.
Their main destriers had also been brought with them, albeit with great trouble. The horses had been wide-eyed with fear, kicking and nearly uncontrollable as they were led down a long gangway. Their tails, braided for the long travel, looked to be the only part of the stallions that was unperturbed. A few squires and camp attendants had suffered injuries, some quite severe, while trying to calm the nerve-wracked equines. The idea of transporting ground steeds had not yet been perfected, but the movement of infantry could certainly be accomplished.
“I could strike the enemy heavily with the use of the Darroks, with Avanor’s authority,” Framorg finally replied.
An amused grin arose upon Renaud’s face. “The Darroks? There are only two here, and the Unifier will not want to have Darroks used recklessly. There are not many available to us.”
“You admonish me for not taking a reckless chance with the full sky strength of the Trogens? Then you advise me against using Darroks, in a much wiser manner, with far less risk?” Framorg snapped back, his sharp, confrontational mien causing the Avanoran to take a sudden step backwards.
Several rumbling murmurs broke out among the chieftains in the room. Though they had understood very few of the words between Framorg and Renaud, it was evident that a great transgression had taken place. The baron quickly regrouped, and Framorg saw that the man was not so arrogant as to misread the abrupt change in atmosphere within the tent. The human straightened up, and looked Framorg in the eyes.
“A wise risk? With a Darrok? Tell me how this is so,” he asked Framorg, a little more evenly.
“Have you never used them to carry warriors during a battle?” Framorg stated, as the idea formed more clearly within his mind. “A number of our warriors, fully armed, could be taken forth by the Darroks. They could be flown at a high altitude behind the Saxan lines, where the Darroks would land, setting down a force of Trogen warriors to cause a disruption and distraction in the enemy rear.
“Before the enemy is aware of this use of Darroks, we would be cutting into their soft underbelly. It would give them even more to guard against, and it may spread them thinner. Maybe your Avanorans could break through their shield wall then.”
It was plain that the mocking edge girding Framorg’s last words was not lost on Renaud, as the petulant baron’s face visibly flushed. This time, it was Framorg’s turn to display an amused smile, as his lips curled back to reveal his large, gleaming canines.
Renaud did not try to provoke Framorg any further, evidently seeing some promise in the Trogen’s plan. The Avanoran took a deep breath, regaining his composure as the color in his face returned to a normal state. Framorg noticed that a glimmer of realization flickered in the depths of the human’s eyes, and even the arrogance faded from his expression.
“You have your authority, Trogen. But I warn you, do not lose even one Darrok. Be sure that messages are sent to the reserve area of our forces. I want to be informed of everything that happens,” he retorted, curtly.
“And you shall,” Framorg responded, just as tersely.
Renaud turned, and strode away from the table. The light from the outside engulfed his silhouette for a moment, and then the flaps were set gently back down into place.
Framorg swept his gaze around the room, looking upon some of the best warriors from all the clans dwelling within the Trogen lands. Some of the fiercest warriors from clans such as the Sea Wolves, the Dark Serpents, the Black Tigers, the Thunder Wolves, and the Blood Boars were standing before him, awaiting his initiative. He was not about to be daunted by the attitudes of an arrogant Avanoran lord, and certainly not when it was within the power and abilities of the Trogens to affect the great battle.
As Ondayon had led the latest batch of riders up into the sky, when Framorg had called for a rotation, he decided to choose Goras for his next delegation of authority. Like Ondayon, Goras was another Thunder Wolf who was highly regarded by Trogens of all clans. It was a tragic irony that the Thunder Wolf clan was the only one that still had no living example of their clan’s symbol within their homelands.
The Northern Elves had driven the great Thunder Wolves to extinction long ago, but the Thunder Wolves’ spirit had infused the blood of the clan that had bonded their identity with the majestic beasts. Ondayon and Goras were exceptional warriors, as was another, named Dragol, who was off with the forces ordered to support the Gallean invasion of the Five Realms. All had repeatedly come into his notice, far from a common occurrence, given Framorg’s lofty standards.
In a position where he was temporarily wielding authority over the members of all the various clans, he strived not to favor any one clan over another. Yet he was not about to dismiss remarkable skill and ardor in favor of assuaging the feelings of a particular clan. The Thunder Wolves had simply produced several capable battle leaders, proven and trusted. Regardless of whether the others were expecting him to choose one from their own clan, Framorg always selected the best leader of warriors that was immediately available to him.
“Goras, I will go see to the Darroks, and I will leave it in your stead to command the next rotation, when Ondayon returns,” Framorg ordered, looking at the burly Trogen standing directly across from him.
Goras nodded quietly, as he accepted the charge. Framorg’s eyes slowly looked around the other faces, but he saw no significant reactions in the miens of the others. The complete absence of resentment was a glowing tribute to the reputation that Goras had earned.
Pythora, the member of the Black Tiger clan whose contingent had been among the last to arrive to the muster, before the battle had started, then asked, “Is this attack to take place at once?”
“As soon as our forces are gathered,” Framorg responded firmly.
“What of the night? We could surprise them at night, if the clouds favor us,” Pythora queried.
“Night? When their rear encampment is filled with warriors? Even in the darkest, cloud-filled night, the campfires of an army would make the Darroks visible,” Framorg replied. “And if the enemy sky steeds are hidden near that camp, and have some warning? We would be wasting Trogen lives for no gain. We would likely lose one or both Darroks, and then all of this will be a waste. No, we strike now,
at their back, when their army is tired, and arrayed in their shield wall. We can also see their sky steeds coming from a distance now … if they are out there.”
Murmurs of agreement coursed through the room, and Pythora nodded in clear deference to Framorg’s rationale.
“Then our way is chosen,” Framorg continued. “Kayadeon, of the brave Blood Boars, go at once to Eigon. Have him and his ground-fighting brawlers move out at once, to the rear of the camp, where the Darroks are kept. They are to gather with full arms and shields.”
A Trogen to his right inclined his head, thumped his chest twice with his right fist, and briskly marched off, departing through the tent opening.
“Herag, of the Sea Wolves, form fifteen patrols, of no more than five Trogen warriors each. Every patrol with at least one signaling horn. If the enemy sky riders come, make certain the alarm is raised,” Framorg ordered another Trogen, who stood just off to his left.
Herag did as Kayadeon had done, giving a slight bow and striking his chest twice with a closed fist, before leaving to fulfill Framorg’s wishes.
“Goras, to the skies, at the next rotation. I shall join you soon enough. We may yet send a panic through the enemy … a panic that will lead to the breaking of their will. If the Unifier sees that it is the Trogens who have won this great battle for His forces, then we can demand our reward, and free our lands of the Elven menace sooner.”
A raucous cry broke out from the elite Trogen warriors, and their eyes were bright with a fiery desire. Framorg felt the eruption of energy pouring from them, echoes of the dreams of countless thousands of Trogens from across so many long, difficult generations. The end of a tremendous, age-old ordeal was in sight, once they fulfilled the desires of the Unifier.
As the Trogens cheered Framorg, he strode through their midst and continued out the opening to his tent. A number of Trogens outside were looking towards the tent, having heard the excited outcries coming from within. At Framorg’s emergence, they immediately lowered their eyes in respect to the exalted war chieftain.
Framorg sent a couple of them off to procure one of his alternate steeds, a feisty young male Harrak named Gasa. The steed had already been harnessed and saddled, prepared for flying before Framorg had even returned from the skies over the battlefield. It was not a new practice, as a fresh, alternate steed was kept readied at all times for the huge Trogen.
He was not kept waiting long, as two Trogens led his steed into the clearing surrounded by the tents. The muscular Harrak jerked one of the Trogens back with a quick flick of its large head. It growled deeply, glaring hotly at the other walking by its side.
As the tempermental creature was Framorg’s steed, the Trogen holding the tether, after regaining his balance, held his tongue. The Trogen gripped the long leather cord more firmly, as he tugged the steed forward.
“You will not wait much longer to spread your wings, Gasa,” Framorg said to the Harrak, running his hand down the creature’s snout, stopping right above a formidable array of sharp teeth powered by bone-crushing jaw force. It was a very confident gesture, with such a cantankerous male Harrak. “Do not envy Argazen, for you are just beginning your years, Gasa.”
He gave the creature a firm pat on the side of its neck, as he moved alongside its body and prepared to climb up into the saddle. In his presence, the creature seemed to relax, and did not give the other two Trogens any more difficulties.
Framorg placed his left foot into the bronze stirrup, pushing upward as he hoisted himself into the saddle. He noticed that his legs were forced a little wider, as Gasa was a little larger in breadth than Argazen. He secured the iron buckles of the leather straps holding him into the saddle.
With a vibrant cry, he urged Gasa to take flight. The creature spread its wings, flapping them powerfully as it took a couple of hops forward, bounded for a few paces, and then leaped high. The outstretched wings clutched the air, thrusting downward, lifting rider and steed skyward.
Framorg guided Gasa away from the direction of the battlefield, soaring ever higher as they headed towards the west. It was not long before the sounds of the battle, with its cacophony of cries, drums, horns, clashing steel, pounding hooves, and shattering wood, began to fade behind him.
Only a couple of warrior escorts flew alongside him, spread far apart to either side. Despite the light guard, he felt very secure in the open sky. With several patrols already dispatched to the rear and flanks of the main encampments, and those about to be bolstered further by Herag’s forces, the ground that he was flying over was adequately warded.
Eyeing his destination, Framorg began a gradual descent on the Harrak towards a prodigious expanse of flatter ground, whose surface looked to be broken only by a throng of tents, and two small, black hills. The “hills” were the forms of two Darroks resting upon the ground, with their gigantic bodies stretched out lengthwise. A number of Trogens gathered as soon as Framorg’s Harrak drew closer to the soft, billowing grasses and wildflowers blanketing the swathe of ground.
Harnessed and readied for flight, the two Darroks were slumbering lazily, and paid little heed to the three newcomers. Climbing ladders were suspended down their sides, leading up to the timber, railed platforms affixed to their backs by a crisscrossing network of hide ropes and iron buckles.
One of the Trogens from the throng around the landing area stepped forward. A large, fanning emblem, fabricated of serpent scales, hung down from around his neck. Framorg recognized the warrior as Laruga, of the Dark Serpent clan. For a Trogen, he was a little shorter and leaner of build than most, but he had great cunning, and was diligent when given commands.
“War Chieftain Framorg,” Laruga greeted, going into a deep bow, as Framorg unbuckled himself and dismounted Gasa.
He turned towards Laruga, towering over the warrior.
“Are the Darroks prepared to fly?” Framorg asked.
“Yes,” Laruga replied without hesitation. “They are rested enough.”
“They are both to be sent forward, once Eigon’s ground fighters arrive,” Framorg stated. “They will carry Eigon’s warriors as high as you can go, across the Saxan forces. Land the Darroks on the other side of their camp. If you can, land the Darroks far enough that they are just out of sight from the rear of the enemy camp. Eigon is to then lead a raid upon the Saxan encampment. He is to pull back, and you are to return, after striking a heavy blow. Do not wait for the Saxans to gather an overwhelming force.”
Laruga nodded.
Framorg eyed some open cookfires nearby. He walked across the ground towards them, and requisitioned a bowl of pottage, which was quickly provided for him by a Trogen warrior. Once he had obtained a crude wooden spoon, he began to quickly scoop up the contents of the bowl. There would not be many opportunities to get a meal during the first day of a major battle.
When he had eaten a greater portion of the pottage within the bowl, a number of cries called Framorg away from the campfire. He set the bowl down, striding swiftly to meet a familiar Trogen figure. The Trogen warrior was at the forefront of a large mass of armed Trogens that had just arrived, all of them slowing down from running at a modest pace.
A brown-furred cloak flowed from his back, and at his neck he wore a prominent necklace. The latter threaded through five claws, which had likely once belonged to the same Mountain Bear that had possessed the fur of the cloak. Eigon, during his rite of passage, had gone to stay in the thick brush lands where Mountain Bears often came down to snare fish from the streams and rivers cutting through the area.
Most Trogens of the Mountain Bear Clan kept their distance from the great Mountain Bears, contemplating the characteristics of the massive beasts before returning as full-fledged warriors. Eigon’s fate had been otherwise; he had been given the ultimate test, as an old, ravenous male bear had beset him.
In a feat worthy of tales similar to Framorg’s own encounter with the clan’s animal patron, Eigon had fought against the bear, agilely dodging its mauliing swipes and rushes. Seeing
a brief opening, he had thrust his spear out, driving the point deep into the bear, earning the claws and cloak that he had worn from that day on.
Something of that raging bear had transferred into Eigon, as he had become a ferocious land warrior, who shunned taking the wings of a sky rider. Eigon was the ideal Trogen to lead any kind of ground raid upon the Saxans.
Over two hundred Trogens behind him were armed with a mixture of lances, longblades, and the long-hafted weapons known as scythens. A few carried strung great bows over their shoulders, the extensive bows not much shorter than the warriors that bore them.
Many carried the tall, rectangular shields, made of stout planks of wood covered with hide, that Trogen infantry typically were equipped with. Most wore cuirasses of toughened hide, to go with either iron helms or hardened leather caps, the latter made of the same kind of boiled hide as that which protected their upper bodies.
The signs of many different clans were in evidence from the pendants, amulets, emblems, and other accoutrements visible upon the various warriors. The members of a similar clan were often grouped together within the broader force. Eagerness shone from the eyes of all of the warriors, as they looked expectantly upon Framorg and Eigon.
Framorg spread his arms wide, as did Eigon, and the two met with a great clench, embracing each other in an exaggerated manner reminiscent of the great Mountain Bears. The dramatic embrace was a special gesture, displaying a high level of respect for a storied, fellow clan member.
“Eigon, it is good to see you again,” Framorg greeted warmly.
“I understand that you are to free us from this torture of idleness,” Eigon replied, in a deep, scratchy voice. Vigor danced within his eyes as he gazed back at Framorg.
“Yes, I am. And you may strike a great blow that turns the entire battle to our favor,” Framorg said.
Dream of Legends Page 57
