Crown of Vengeance fie-1

by Stephen Zimmer

  “I believe that we are all in agreement… even him, as I do not think he will argue,” Gunther commented, looking at the youth with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “One must learn to hold their drink well!”

  As if to emphasize the difference between the veteran and the youth, Gunther imbibed an extended swill of the mead, emptying his nearly full cup. Some traces of foam held onto his beard as he set the cup down. He casually reached over, grabbed the clay pitcher, and filled it up again.

  “Anyone else?” Gunther queried, indicating the pitcher towards the other three remaining conscious guests.

  For the first time that Lee had seen, a ray of pure, joyous mirth emerged through the smile that spread on Gunther’s face. The big woodsman rumbled with laughter and shook his head, regarding the facedown form of Ryan.

  Erin and Lynn laughed heartily, though both indicated that they had taken enough mead for one night, as did Lee. The laughter finally subsided, though it had felt so pleasant, and had relieved a great amount of anxiety in seconds.

  Lee smiled as he looked back to Gunther, his inquisitiveness again coming to the fore. “And you’ve traveled all over many of these lands? That is just amazing.”

  “A vastness of oceans and lands,” Gunther remarked, before adding with a tint of sadness that Lee almost felt guilty for inadvertently evoking, “though I have seen quite enough of it all, and do not have any desire to explore it any further.”

  The group finished their meal, sharing only a few idle bits of conversation before they finally begged leave of Gunther. The woodsman offered to help with Ryan, though Lee politely declined, as he felt that they had imposed quite enough on the man’s hospitality.

  Lynn aided Lee as he worked to get their intoxicated friend to his feet, to help Ryan up the stairs so that he could lie down. Ryan groaned as he was jostled, but roused himself enough so that he was not an entirely dead weight.

  As Lee reached the base of the stairs, he glanced back to where Gunther was still sitting.

  The trance-like look had returned to the man’s face, crossed with flickering light and shadow from the hearth fire. The woodsman had retreated inside of himself again, descending to some safe and distant refuge that he had fashioned within his mind.

  Lee had a thousand questions that he wanted to ask, but one look at the man dissipated any urgency that he felt. He wondered what paths their host had taken in his life, and what far travels he had undergone. Gunther carried the weariness of tragedy and dreams abandoned, still resounding with the echoes of trauma, as well as the sobered countenance of experience.

  He knew that there was much more to the solitary woodsman before his eyes, but his interests would have to wait until a time of Gunther’s own choosing.

  Section VII

  DRAGOL

  The smaller, second invasion force, comprised mainly of Avanoran warriors, had finally reached the outskirts of the borders of the province of Wessachia, in the northwest of Saxany.

  The long column had come to a halt near the headwaters of the substantial Grenzen River, which emerged into its fullness near to the base of the forested hills leading up to the northern Hymaht Mountains.

  The Avanorans had distanced themselves many leagues from the massive army marching towards the Plains of Athelney, but their purpose was no less important. The region and the specific site that they approached had been skillfully chosen, and carefully deliberated. It was the northernmost area along the western borderlands of Saxany that they could seek to pierce without unduly exposing themselves to great vulnerability.

  A corridor of sorts existed towards the east, ferreted out by diligent Avanoran scouts, through which they could launch a penetrating strike deeper into Saxan lands.

  Tents were assembled in a broad encampment that was located close to that of the Trogen sky force and the Andamoorans. Commander, mess, and chapel tents were placed near to the center of the encampment, with the tents of the higher-ranking knights surrounding those, and the dwellings of the common soldiery and camp attendants radiating further outwards.

  Banners signifying the various nobles and officers in charge of the army flew from high poles positioned near to the entrance flaps of their tents.

  While the Avanorans were situating the encampment, a constant cover of sky patrols had been provided under the orders of the Trogen chieftain, Tragan. Regular waves of Trogens upon Harraks returned and departed from the smaller encampment, keeping a constant set of eyes high in the air to watch over the laboring Avanoran army.

  With the exception of the religious volunteers, the Andamooran contingent in the smaller camp had been almost completely emptied out. The entire force of Andamooran light horsemen had been dispatched, to range towards the east and scout far beyond the two camps.

  Their absence from the camp areas was probably for the better, Dragol felt. The fanatical, face-veiled horsemen held little affinity for the Avanorans that they regarded as infidels. The Avanoran warriors continuously eyed the Trogens with looks that did little to hide their distaste for the non-human race, considering the Trogens to be little more than barbarous dog-men.

  More than one Avanoran knight of considerable rank and lineage, gripping a great lance with a billowing pennon, tensed at the sight of the few Trogen chieftains moving among them, on their way to coordinate their efforts with the newly arrived Avanoran lords.

  The Trogen leaders, though restraining themselves from provoking a larger incident, glowered back defiantly at the knights and other human soldiers. Many of the knights would not have been disappointed had the Trogens given in to their urges. More than one knight’s hand clenched the hilt of his sword, with a steely look in his eyes.

  It was fortunate that the overwhelming majority of the Trogens was in the sky, or set apart in their own camp. Only the strictest orders by the Avanoran leaders, and the severe admonishments of Tragan, could hope to keep the peace among the two races.

  The small numbers of Andamooran religious volunteers laboring among the Trogens and their steeds were perhaps the most unfortunate of all. They tried in vain to keep their distance from both groups during the ensuing hours, though not always successfully. Ill-trained and poorly equipped, they tended to the more menial tasks within the Trogen sky steed camp, and were not about to willfully aggravate either the fierce, heavily armored warriors of Avanor, or the massive, aggressive Trogens. The Andamoorans hated and resented all the others, Trogen and Avanoran alike, but were judicious concerning their fate should they provoke either one of the groups.

  There was little doubt that tensions would rise between the incoming Avanorans and the Andamoorans, tensions that could well escalate beyond the state of unease with the Trogens. The Avanorans made no secret that they regarded the Andamoorans as heathens and apostates, the followers of a false prophet. As with the Trogens, only the harsh, disciplined command of the Avanoran lords and officers kept a general order.

  Nonetheless, when the Andamoorans gathered to say their ritualized prayers at sunset that evening, they grouped together on the farthest side of the combined Trogen and Andamooran camp. Their anxiety having considerably risen, they strove to stay far away from any potential Avanoran derision or incitement.

  At the very least, the Trogens left the Andamoorans alone to practice their own beliefs without undue harassment. Dragol had to concede that he respected the ardent zeal of the Andamooran volunteers. He did not believe in their strange deity that supposedly had spoken through some northern prophet, yet he had little doubt that if such a deity existed, that divinity would be quite pleased with such dedicated and loyal followers.

  During the onset of the lavender-hued firmament’s settling, the gloaming period bridging dusk to night, Dragol and Goras found themselves among the few Trogens that were currently being allowed a short respite from the extensive duties of sky patrols. The two leaders had already incurred a very strenuous day, and even their robust, well-trained muscles ached for some needed relief.

  They sat tog
ether under the shelter of Dragol’s tent, secured safely away from the last, direct rays of the dying sun. Their skin was finally cooling off, their upper bodies now finally freed from the hot, encompassing leather cuirasses that had been worn for so many hours on end.

  The two commanders had undergone a vigorous litany of activities since the Avanoran army had arrived at the borders of the Saxan province of Wessachia. Their sky steeds were in little better shape, even though they had each made a change to fresh mounts towards the end of the day.

  “It will not be long before battle is enjoined,” Goras remarked, watching Dragol slowly massage his tired left shoulder with his broad right hand.

  “Not long? At this time, another day is too long,” Dragol grumbled, his short muzzle pulled back into an annoyed sneer. “I am tired of floating around in the sky. Skirmishing with overmatched quarry that we stumble across, or being bled by hidden adversaries that we are not allowed to pursue. We must fight a true battle soon. I hunger to get revenge on those creatures that slew my warriors, and to measure myself on a true day of battle.”

  “You are not wrong to feel such a way, Dragol. There is nothing for us here, but to watch over haughty Avanorans,” Goras replied through clenched teeth, reflecting his overall disappointment with their circumstances. The arrogance of the Avanorans only drove the resentments in the likes of Dragol and the others higher. “And there is little sign of the sky warriors of these Saxans. I would feel less angered were it otherwise. At least there would be a hope to look to.”

  Dragol felt the sympathy that any Trogen would have for another who had long been denied honorable combat. The chance to measure themselves in courage, in strength, and in resolve was held back with each day that passed where there was no true battle.

  The Trogens had heard much of the Saxan sky warriors, who flew upon a breed of Skiantha called Himmerosen. Yet they had not seen any significant sign of them in the region, with the exception of some distant elements that could just as well have been larger wildlife, or mirages created by wishful anticipation.

  Dragol then replied in a voice that was nearly a growl of frustration. He clenched his great left hand into a balled fist, his arm muscles bulging. “It is not the way of a Trogen, the way that we are used here. The way that we are held back. But we will not wait much longer. I promise you! And when we…”

  “Dragol! Look!” Goras said, sharply interrupting Dragol, as his eyes immediately riveted skyward. A couple of gigantic forms crossed over their tent, far above the two Trogens, blanketing the camp in immense, sprawling shadows.

  Looking up into the dimming sky, Dragol was awestruck as he watched the two tremendous shapes that were passing through the sky above them. The bulky, winged behemoths were far from an ordinary sight, even compared to some of the incredible denizens of Dragol’s own homeland.

  If the Trogens had not been told otherwise, the abrupt sight high above would have been great cause for alarm. As it was, Tragan had already informed Dragol and the other Trogen chieftains that the Unifier had prepared new weapons, which had never been used in battle within the world before.

  They had been told to look for, and soon expect, the arrival of sky creatures of unimaginable size. Even with the foreknowledge, the imminent, startling sight of the creatures was breathtaking to behold.

  “The Darroks! Before our eyes!” Dragol exclaimed with excitement. He rose up swiftly from where he had been sitting and moved out from the tent, turning around and looking to the south and west.

  Goras came to stand at Dragol’s right side, in rapt attention as they watched the juggernauts flying onward.

  Despite their enormous presence, the huge beasts were very capable fliers. They had a narrow body in relation to their seemingly measureless wingspan. The Darroks glided quite gracefully through the air, buoyed periodically by relaxed beats of their expansive wings.

  The darkening, velvety sky of the twilight directly over them masked much of the detail of their features, but there was enough visibility to see that the creatures might once have been close kin to dragons.

  Dragol studied their lengthy profile, from their great heads, elongated necks, down to their whip-like, tapering tails. Their sinewy, slender legs ended in horrific claws, all tucked up snugly against their undersides during flight.

  The silhouettes of some type of carriage could be seen affixed from the middle of their backs to the base of their necks.

  The sun was falling below the skyline, and the distant horizon was cast with a rosy hue. It created a majestic ambience that served as a lustrous backdrop for Dragol’s first sights of the mysterious, unusual creatures.

  “Those two are heading towards the main invasion force,” Goras commented in a low voice.

  Indeed, the two giant Darroks were heading away from the borders of Saxany, flying resolutely towards the southwest. The Plains of Athelney were directly in their skyward path.

  A number of other Trogens and Andamoorans had emerged in the interim, many standing around Dragol and Goras with open looks of sheer wonder and astonishment, as they marveled at the passage of the two mammoth, flying beasts.

  Over in the Avanoran camp, a similar, awed standstill had come over its inhabitants, from the greatest knight to the lowest of the paid foot soldiers. An extraordinary, hushed silence had fallen over both camps. All tensions and rivalries had evaporated for the moment, as the collective attention and thoughts of both encampments were consumed with the shared, awe-inspiring experience.

  Though flying at an altitude rarely reached by a Harrak, the forms of the Darroks remained large to the eye. The ultimate size of the creatures was almost impossible for Dragol to even comprehend. He could not believe that something so vast could take flight.

  “But only two?” questioned Goras, his eyes remaining upon the Darrok forms gradually diminishing on the horizon.

  Dragol shook his head slowly. “I do not think that those two are all the Darroks that were sent by the Unifier.”

  They continued watching silently, until the Darroks were just distant specks on the farthest edge of their vision, at the juncture where earth met sky. The bloated, reddish orb of the descending sun’s top crest was still visible, outlining the dark, winged shapes.

  As Dragol turned, he caught Goras’ eyes, and saw the wonderment and fear mixed in the other’s look. “Even two, Goras. Think of two of those, serving the Trogen army against the Northern Elves,” he mused aloud.

  “A great hope, but for another time,” Goras said with a more firm voice, turning to go back to their tent.

  Dragol stared off a few more moments in the wake of the Darroks, finally turning away as the sun disappeared completely. Somewhat reluctantly, he oriented his thoughts towards the tasks at hand.

  There was still much to be done. Night patrols and sentry posts had to be set, equipment prepared and evaluated for the next day, and orders to be reviewed. He was determined to occupy his mind with immediate labors. He knew that he could not think of the struggle against the Northern Elves, at least until the battles in Saxany were won.

  His only relief came from the knowledge that the fight for Saxany had almost arrived, and that the long-awaited, great fight for his own kind lay just beyond that horizon.

  AETHELSTAN

  Aethelstan and the companions with him had traveled on for several leagues underneath the obscuring coverage of the thick woodlands around them. The going had been much slower than they would have liked, but at least they had been somewhat protected from open exposure to the Harrak patrols that occasionally passed through the skies overhead.

  They had made considerable use of the few trails that crossed through the western hills bordering Count Einhard’s land, Annenheim. As they were so rarely used, it took some skill to follow the pathways where the forest growth had begun to reclaim them.

  There was an overriding tension gripping the contingent, with the constant danger of enemy patrols both in the air and upon the ground. On more than one occasion, Aet
helstan had feared that they had been discovered.

  The farther and deeper that they pushed onward, the more all of them felt an increasingly sinking feeling within their guts. The stillness in the trees, air, and on the ground gave off a foreboding sense that all was not well within the western woodlands lying between the Saxan provinces of Wessachia and Annenheim. There was nary a sound from animal, bird, or insect, as if the denizens of the forest had chosen to vacate the woodlands or go into deep hiding.

  The nervousness within the Saxans welled up to the point that several of them flinched at the slightest rustling of wind-blown leaves, or snap of a twig. Even the sound of their own horses clopping on the trail unnerved them. The sense of edginess among the Saxans was such that even Aethelstan began to feel its hindering weight.

  The horses themselves seemed to feel the brooding atmosphere around them. They kept silent as they traveled in the thin column being led by Aethelstan.

  Aethelstan turned towards Cenferth, one of his most loyal and dedicated household warriors, who was riding close behind the great thane. Aethelstan addressed the warrior in a whisper. “What do you make of this oppressive silence, Cenferth? It is too heavy for my liking.”

  The other shook his head, a wary look in his eye. “I do not know, Aethelstan. It could be the quieting of the wilderness lands… as they feel the manifesting of the Unifier’s power… or it may be the presence of the army that you suspect.”

  “I think that it is the army of our enemies, Cenferth. The patrols have not crossed overhead so many times without reason,” Aethelstan stated.

  The layout of the landscape, and the signs of any large Saxan force, would have been well-scouted by then. The sky patrols, Aethelstan feared, were keeping an eye over their own forces more than foraging about for Saxan patrols.

  “Though I wish that it were otherwise, I believe that you are correct,” Cenferth replied.