Dream of Legends fie-2

by Stephen Zimmer

  Swiftly, he withdrew his longblade, quietly stepping forward and standing alongside his Harrak. A surge of adrenaline pushed back a good portion of his weariness, enabling a keener wariness to come forth in its wake.

  As some other shadows moved off to the right, emitting the sounds of more rustlings and scrapes, the Harrak tucked its wings close and squared its body towards the movements. Rodor’s large ears twitched and shifted, as they diligently tracked the sounds.

  The steed’s eyes and nostrils flared, as it picked up the scent of whatever was moving among the trees. A low growl emanated deep from within the sky steed’s throat, as its clawed feet shuffled and scratched the ground. It bared its sharp teeth menacingly, clenched firmly within its extremely powerful jaws.

  Seeing the Harrak’s agitation, Dragol knew that there were serious threats fanning out in the woods around them. His fears were further confirmed just a few moments later, as forms moved in a swift blur to the left and right of his periphery, a little closer than before.

  The worst aspect of it was that he had no idea what the gathering threat was, though he surmised from the sounds and rapid bursts of movement that it was some kind of wild animal. The movements were far too quick to have been executed by any human, or even one of the rat-men from Yanith.

  “Guard,” Dragol whispered forcibly to his Harrak, a command that set the sky steed into a trained combat mode, ready to slash and bite should anything of a foreign nature come upon them.

  He slowly retreated backwards a couple more steps towards the side of his Harrak, feeling its body pressed against his back. Quickly, he spared a glance upward, to see what desperate options might lay above.

  There was no clearing big enough to afford them an easy escape, even if he had wished to try to break through in an outright emergency and risk injury to Rodor. The old trees had grown a sprawling web of thick, strong branches over the years, interlaced and spread out all over, forming a continuous, dense cover. The matter of whether or not Dragol was willing to risk the Harrak’s injury was entirely inconsequential, as the forest canopy was completely impassable, blocking his steed from the safer haven of the sky.

  The forest grew deadly silent, as Dragol steeled his resolve for the coming attack. As if a shadow was coming to life, one of the entities openly walked out of the brush off to the right. It was about the size of a normal wolf, although Dragol could tell right away that there were many differences.

  The creature’s head was flatter and longer than that of a wolf, with eyes set low in its skull. The animal’s open jaws exhibited a set of elongated, thin canines, as it snarled and growled at the Trogen and Harrak.

  The beast had a heavily built, muscular body, walking on shorter, thick limbs that ended in large feet. Dragol could see no claws at the ends of its feet, and it appeared to walk with a more upright, flatter step than other forest hunters, such as wolves.

  Not showing any fear of Dragol or the Harrak, the creature took a few more steps forward, fixing them with its feral gaze. Three other similar forms then issued forth from the surrounding trees, another to his right, one to his left, and one a little behind him.

  There was little use for any further pretenses. A fight for life was about to begin.

  The Harrak had turned toward the two approaching predators off to the right, hissing and growling defiantly towards them. Dragol rotated a little so that he could keep a full eye upon both of the others, as they stepped closer and closer.

  Dragol waved his sword and roared a battle cry at them. Subtleties were forgotten, and would only become a concern again if he survived the impending fight.

  The creatures rushed in from all sides, as Dragol braced himself for the impact. He angled his shield towards the one that had been closing from behind while he prepared to strike at the other with the longblade.

  He heard the raucous cry of his Harrak, just as the two creatures on his side finally reached him. With another loud cry, Dragol brought the longblade chopping down in an incredibly forceful blow, timing the strike perfectly.

  The blade cleaved deep into the creature, burying itself far into the base of its skull. The creature’s momentum carried it a little further, but it flopped down heavily on the ground, killed instantly by the robust blow.

  The creature that he was shielding against thudded heavily into the wooden barrier, its dense body and speed knocking Dragol backwards. He had just a split second between the time that he had lodged his longblade in the flesh and bone of the other creature and the impact of the second. The great force of the collision caused him to lose his grip on the hilt of the longblade, as he tumbled back.

  With a quick glance, he saw that he had almost been knocked into the maelstrom behind him, as the Harrak’s arsenal of teeth and claws were pitted against the snapping, shearing jaws of the two beasts besetting it.

  Just a few feet to his left, the creature that had hit his shield had scrambled back to its feet, and was in the motion of charging in again. Dragol had no weapon in his hand to strike it with, and instead braced his legs, readying to thrust the shield outward.

  As the creature came within a couple feet of him, he put his body behind a strong shove, and smashed the creature in the end of its long snout with the rigid wood of the shield. Rapid yelps and cries of pain erupted from the creature as it stumbled aside, its snout bloodied from the vigorous strike.

  Dragol kept to his feet, and saw that the beast had lost much of its boldness, as it whined and snarled in a mixture of anger and pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the hilt of his longblade was sticking up just a few feet to his right.

  Keeping his eyes largely riveted upon the wounded creature before him, and casting quick glances behind him, just in case one of the other beasts had broken free of the ongoing tumult, he edged over to the body of the fallen beast. Gripping the hilt of the longblade, he placed his right boot on the dead animal’s head, wrenching the longblade free with a forceful yank.

  Now one against one, he squared his shield towards the surviving beast, and stomped forward with his blade raised in his right hand. The creature snarled and backpedaled at his aggressive advance.

  Dragol bellowed another war cry at it, as he surged forward behind the shield and brought his longblade up for a sweeping attack. The beast had evidently had enough of the struggle and Dragol’s surge of aggression, as it whirled, leaped, and bounded off into the depths of the forest.

  Hot with rage, Dragol cursed the fleeing beast and turned around to go to the aid of his Harrak.

  The steed was still fending off the other two remaining predators. Its neck, sides, and flanks had been raked by the attacker’s slashing, snapping teeth, its body rife with seeping wounds, but it had inflicted several gashes of its own upon its two muscular tormenters.

  One creature was positioned in front of the Harrak, and one was edging behind, as the battle had drawn to a temporary stalemate. There was plenty of fight left in the Harrak, as it snapped viciously in the direction of the creature in front of it.

  The Harraks had extraordinary jaw strength, possessing bone-crunching power. The reflexes of the two predators must have been very capable to avoid being caught in the Harrak’s devastating bite.

  Dragol took off at a charge towards his steed, but everything developed at a dizzyingly fast pace. The two beasts moved in near unison upon his steed, to resume their attack.

  The Harrak cried out as the creature behind it clamped its jaws down upon one of its hind legs, tearing at the muscle and flesh. Given a slight opening as the Harrak lurched up in pain, the creature in front of it lunged forward, bringing its jaws down upon one of the Harrak’s forelegs. The two predators intended to cripple the much larger Harrak, and then wear it down in a struggle of attrition.

  Dragol did not hesitate as he neared the engaged predators and his wounded steed. With a raging outcry at the point of attack, Dragol caught the beast at the front of his steed completely by surprise. He slashed down vigorously, empowered with
unrelenting fury as the blade met the exposed back of the creature. It would not aggrieve his steed any further, as the blade cleaved right through its spine.

  Not pausing to evaluate the damage, Dragol unceremoniously ripped the blade free, shifted his grip, and brought it down with all the force that he could muster. The strike impaled the stricken creature, finishing off whatever scant shreds of life that may have lingered within it.

  Once again, Dragol had driven the blade deep, and had to take a couple of moments to free the longblade, stepping on the carcass of the predator. Rearing up, and with the longblade readied again, he turned immediately to see what had become of the last remaining predator.

  Rodor had spun around to face the other creature, but the predator had somehow gotten underneath the Harrak’s lower jaw. It had been able to bring its elongated snout, and long, narrow canines to bear down onto the neck of his loyal steed.

  The image called up an unsurpassed furor within the Trogen warrior. Dragol moved with lightning speed and slew the final creature with one tremendous blow.

  The strike severed the creature’ s head from its neck, though its jaws were still embedded in the throat of his beleaguered steed. Dragol fell forward and pulled the jaws of the dead creature wide, slinging the head aside, so that he could free the neck of his sorely wounded steed.

  To his great dismay and deep anguish, the final predator had delivered a mortal wound to his cherished Harrak, Rodor. The fatally wounded sky steed collapsed on the ground, as its life ebbed rapidly. Time seemed to halt as its sides heaved a couple more times, just before the last breath fled its body.

  To a Trogen sky rider, Harrak steeds were an extension of the rider. A bond of great trust and affection grew between a longtime steed and rider, as each came to know the other’s mannerisms and nuances, as if they were one.

  The steeds carried their riders across the skies at distances above the ground that would allow for no mistakes. In combat the steeds had to fight and respond to the directives of their riders without any room for error, as a stricken steed meant certain death for the rider. Such a close dependence bred a relationship that far surpassed that of most Trogen friendships.

  Rodor had been with Dragol for several years, and the sudden loss of his sky steed wrenched deep emotions from within him. Not inclined to tears of sorrow, the Trogen warrior responded in a great burst of anger and helpless frustration.

  “No enemy maggots will feast upon you, Rodor… not one! Even if it causes the death of me!” Dragol seethed, through tightly clenched teeth.

  Despite every effort to hold back the deepest of his emotions, his eyes misted over hotly, with a burning sadness. He reached out and caressed the muzzle of his loyal, fallen sky steed.

  The overwhelming feeling of emptiness gaping within him prompted some actions that would have seemed to be very ill-advised, especially within a foreign land caught in the chaotic, deadly grip of war. Not even bothering to think of the possible consequences, looking out through eyes white hot, and fueled by several passions, Dragol set about fashioning a makeshift funeral pyre. His sense of caution gave way to recklessness, as he barely paused to worry about the possibility of dangerous wild animals or enemy tribesmen, despite having recently come across both in his journey through the unfamiliar woods.

  In a way, he hoped that the last of the predators came back, so that he could take his time and hack it apart piece by piece, for each injury suffered by Rodor, even the slightest scratch.

  He cleared out a wide space upon the forest floor, setting wood and dry brush around the body of his steed. Dutifully, he removed all of the items that could still be used from the Harrak, leaving its harnessing and saddle on it.

  Dragol retrieved some flint from one of the leather pouches that had been affixed to the harnessing. With a little effort, he started a fire, and watched with a leaden heart as the flames took to life, spreading around the body of his loyal sky steed. Neither the smoke from the fire, though stinging his eyes, nor the pungent scent of burning flesh, which filled his nostrils, could do so much as budge him, as he stared dourly into the depths of the consuming flames.

  His thoughts dwelled upon Rodor’s steadfast loyalty and companionship. Dragol reflected upon a host of adventures that they had shared together, as the smoke wafted up. It was the least of tributes that he could give to a creature that had shared so much of his life.

  “Goodbye, Rodor. Were it possible that we meet again, then I would most gladly,” Dragol murmured, as the flames were finishing up with their appointed task. “Fly high across the Elysian Fields, Rodor… fly free and far, to every horizon.”

  Only when the flames were dying out did the thought finally cross his mind that the smoke from the pyre and scent of the burned flesh might attract unwelcome attention. Feeling as hollow as he ever had before, he mustered his resolve and trudged onward, following the course of the stream along its bank. He was now bearing a couple of leather bags in addition to his weapons, and the progress was slower and more taxing. He had barely proceeded more than one league before he needed to stop and rest for a few moments.

  Leaning up against a tree, he set his shield down to lean against his thigh. He fumbled about in one of the packs for some hard bread and dried meat. In his sorrow, he did not feel hungry, but knew that his body needed something now if he hoped to have enough strength to hunt later.

  The darkness was much thicker now, and the silvery light of the two moons filtered down in thin rays through the overhead canopy. The descending light gave a spectral cast to the environs, though after what he had been through Dragol was not unnerved in the least. He looked at the woods around him, though his mind was far from where he could even appreciate the aesthetic nature of the scene.

  Yet in that moment, a sense of alertness flooded back into his conscious mind, as another feeling of being closely watched surfaced.

  Whether it was due to the great fatigue accumulated through the battle, the ordeals in the forest, and the debilitating, emotional loss of his sky steed, or perhaps some deeper insight, he did not experience the sense of threat that had accompanied his prior feelings. He let the bread and meat fall back into the saddle pouch, and then let it and the other leather pack that he carried fall to the ground. Picking up his shield again, his chest heaved with deep breaths, as he girded his resolve once more.

  He was beyond caring, and felt that he would rather not delay a moment more, and get whatever fight was coming over with. Gripping his Thunder Wolf amulet on the leather cord about his neck, he spoke aloud an oath that he would die well, in a way that would honor the Trogen race.

  Placing the amulet back down to rest upon his chest, he reached down and slid his longblade out of its sheath once again.

  Breathing in a deep draught of air, he shouted loudly into the forest. “Who is it that comes now? I know that you are there. Reveal yourself! Fight me if you will! Beast or man, I do not care!”

  His glistening, sorrowful eyes peered out into the shadows, awaiting a response. After several long moments, in which it seemed as if nothing more would happen, a solitary figure moved out from among the trees just across the brook. The beams of moonlight revealed that the figure was dressed in a flowing cloak that draped the being from the neck nearly to the ground. On the figure’s head was a wide-brimmed, round-topped hat.

  “It is not safe in this area. Especially for a Trogen,” a deep, yet gentle, voice emerged from the being. It was a decidedly non-threatening tone, one that contrasted mightily with everything that Dragol had felt and experienced since deciding to land his steed in the forest. Even more surprising, the words had been spoken fluently in the Trogen language.

  “Who are you?” Dragol queried, utterly surprised at the presence of a stranger, clearly not of his own kind, speaking in the Trogen tongue.

  “One of past, present, and future,” returned the cryptic reply, again in perfectly rendered Trogen. From what Dragol could judge, the individual was a human male.

  �
��Are you of the Five Realms?” Dragol asked.

  “No, for my loyalty is only given to one Kingdom, though my path has taken me through many,” the other stated calmly.

  “Which Kingdom is that?” Dragol asked, his curiosity rising.

  “A Kingdom not of this world, though it still resides in the hearts of many who yet walk the face of this world,” the other replied.

  The figure walked to the edge of the brook, pulling his cloak up as he stepped through the shallow waters to reach the bank on the other side. The strange figure surmounted the bank and stepped towards Dragol, approaching closely enough for the Trogen to make out some further details.

  Underneath the broad brim of the hat was the face of an old man, with thick, flowing locks of white hair, and a copious, white beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. The old man wore a patch covering one eye, while the lone, exposed eye seemed to sparkle, even in the dim environs.

  Despite the outward signs of advanced age on the human, Dragol noticed that the man moved with a certain litheness that belied the elderly appearance. He also had fairly broad shoulders, carried well, in good posture. The man exhibited none of the frailty that old humans usually showed.

  “I have heard of no such Kingdom,” Dragol countered, not knowing what to make of the peculiar figure. His hand remained tight upon the hilt of his longblade, though his instincts still perceived no trace of threat. Nevertheless, he warned the man sternly, “Go no farther.”

  The old man halted, about ten feet away from where Dragol stood. There was no hint of aggression in the man’s posture or face.

  “Why are you in these woods? This is far from those under your command, Dragol,” the old man addressed him, as if they were merely sharing a casual conversation.