Eigon’s eyes sparked, and his canines gleamed. “These are good tidings, War Chieftain Framorg.”
“The Darroks will bear you over the battlefield, landing on the other side. Strike at the enemy encampment, and inflict a deep wound upon them, but return before you are overrun with their great numbers. We must not be foolish. We must not needlessly sacrifice Trogen warriors. But let us create great worry among them, and make them stretch their forces thinner.”
As if instinctively, Eigon’s large left hand shifted down to grasp the hide-bound hilt of his longblade.
“I will give them a great wound,” Eigon replied evenly, his voice as iron hard as the blade he wielded.
“Do not let yourself be caught when the enemy becomes aware of what is happening, their numbers will overwhelm any skill or bravery,” Framorg again cautioned his fellow clan member, knowing well how Trogens could be in the heat of a battle.
“The Mountain Bear shows caution on the hunt, even though it is the biggest, and strongest, of predators,” Eigon responded.
Framorg clasped him on the shoulder, pleased with the response. “Then waste no more time, go at once. Go with Laruga, and have your warriors mount the Darroks.”
Eigon gave Framorg a bow, saluted with two thumps to his own chest, and turned to accompany Laruga. Framorg watched as Eigon signaled for the band of infantry to follow him. The mass of Trogen warriors streamed towards the ladders hanging down from the carriages surmounting the massive Darroks.
It took a little while for the warriors to climb up onto the platforms. Once at the ladder’s summit, the Trogens spread out down the length of the vast creatures, so that room could be made for those coming up from below. Once they had taken their places, the warriors began to tie themselves to the carriage using lengths of stout hide rope, most often securing one arm, with a few looping around the waist. Eventually, Eigon’s entire force was standing prepared for going skyward on the backs of the massive pair of creatures. The Trogens on the ground were then ordered to give the creatures a wide berth.
Framorg strode away, achieving a considerable distance himself, as the Darrok handlers were the last to ascend the ladders. The ladders were drawn up behind the handlers, as the latter moved to the front of the carriage to take up the ends of the long reins that the Darroks had been acclimated to. The creatures were impeccably well-trained, though they responded slowly, as they were brought out of their deep slumber.
The Trogens on the platform shifted about, grabbing onto the railings, or one of the teeming mass of tethers and straps that were tied to the wooden structure, as the creatures heaved and lurched ponderously into a standing position. Framorg noticed that a few of the Trogens fell to their knees. It was to be expected, as the infantry rarely felt the sensation of the very surface beneath their feet moving so violently.
The huge nostrils at the end of the Darroks’ elongated heads snorted, as the winged titans shifted and raked at the ground, tearing great clods of earth up as they dug deep furrows. To Framorg, it had always been mystifying as to how the creatures could carry so much weight. Yet watching them in person, it became obvious that the additional weight placed on the Darroks was of little consequence to their ability to fly.
Though he had never inspected the skeleton of a Darrok, he suspected strongly that their bones had the unusual quality of the Harraks. Hollowed out, a Harrak’s bones were very light in weight, but the bone itself was much stronger than that of any other animal that Framorg was familiar with.
The Darroks had very long, lean bodies, with utterly colossal wings attached to an unbelievably powerful musculature. The wings were placed at a point on the creature’s body where another set of legs might otherwise have been located.
The sight reminded Framorg of old legends, which spoke of dragon-kind that were flightless. The creatures of those tales were said to have walked upon the face of the world with three pairs of legs. If the wings of the Darroks were transformed into legs, Framorg could easily envision such creatures of those old stories, standing and breathing right before him.
The combined weight of the Trogens arrayed along the Darroks’ extensive length was not enough to inhibit them from climbing into the skies, but the great beasts still needed a considerable expanse of ground to begin their initial surge.
It was perhaps one of the few limitations, and perhaps vulnerabilities, regarding the Darroks, as they needed ample amounts of space, both to rest and for building momentum whenever they took to flight. The war being pressed in Saxany, and the one engulfing the western edge of the Five Realms, were both fortuitous for such substantial needs. Open grasslands were adjacent to both of the principle invasion sites.
Framorg watched in sheer fascination, as one of the creatures lumbered forward and flared its great wings outward. The ground rumbled with its mighty steps, the shaking reverberations accelerating as the creature built up speed. The wings began beating up and down as it ran faster. After it had crossed a lengthy stretch, the creature at last thrust itself up and forward. The enormous wings pumped up and down with a force and speed that Framorg could barely imagine coming from a creature of such immense size.
The Darrok seemed to hover in place just above the ground, as it began to drift forward in the air. Its wings worked forcefully, the whooshing sounds of their movements resounding through the air. Gradually, the Darrok began to lift higher and higher into the sky.
The vibrations did not leave the ground, as when the first Darrok’s feet had lifted up from the surface, to tuck its legs against its underbelly, the second Darrok surged into motion. Like the first, it also required several moments to gain enough speed to engage in a powerful, launching leap. It also appeared to be suspended just above the ground at first, as its wings fought to gain altitude and momentum.
Once both were airborne, the two Darroks gained height as their handlers steered them towards the west. The handlers made certain that their quest to gain higher altitudes did not carry them recklessly out over the battlefield, just to the east.
It took a fairly long time before the Darroks reached the upper skies. Even then, their forms were still large to the eye. In the lofty heights, the creatures took on a certain grace, flapping only occasionally to maintain their bearings. The beasts seemed increasingly content to glide upon their outstretched wings, conserving their strength as they circled about in a broad arc and started towards the east.
Framorg watched them heading toward the other horizon. It was not much longer before he observed them beginning their descent, far in the distance.
The two Darroks lowering towards the surface, behind the Saxan encampment, represented a part of something much greater. The shadows of dreams were transforming within the embrace of a new light, no longer mere reflections of hopes, but the beginning vestiges of a reality that all Trogens hungered for.
Framorg’s own time had finally arrived, to reach for heights that few Trogens had ever attained. Perhaps he would even go beyond, soaring to uncharted regions for a Trogen. Though he tried to keep it all at the back of his mind, he could not help but remember the great prophecies that were passed on from generation to generation among his kind.
A Liberator would one day rise among the Trogens. A warrior and leader without equal, of an unprecedented spirit, would arrive to break the bindings of enslavement that the Elves had placed upon so many. The Liberator would be a Trogen whose radiant light would drive the baleful darkness of the Elven menace out from their lands.
If Framorg rose within the eyes of Avanor, and could bring the kind of might that he had seen that day on the battlefield to the aid of his own lands, the Elves could not hope to withstand the Trogen clans. Framorg already knew that he had no equals amongst the Trogens in skill of arms or strength, which had been one reason why he was so quickly put forward to be the Supreme War Chieftain of the Trogen clans for the campaign with Avanor.
A light, dizzying feeling came over him, as he wondered whether he might be the Liberator that
had been spoken of for so many long years. One Trogen was to be the embodiment of a hope that had been passed from elders to the young, woven into the deepest traditions of their kind.
In some ways, the story was similar to the religion of most of the human kingdoms and lands that Framorg knew of. As the holy men of that religion spoke of their Redeemer, who had come to break the chains of death, so would the Liberator of the Trogens come forward to sunder the bindings of a terrible oppression.
The implications were staggering, when seen in light of the Trogen’s ancient history, and Framorg closed his eyes for a moment to regain his full equilibrium. When he opened them again, the forms of the Darroks had vanished from the western skies. It would not be much longer before the results of Eigon’s raid became known.
Framorg called for Gasa to be returned to him, as there were many other matters to look into. There was little use speculating upon ancient prophecies when the Trogens were in the throes of such a great battle.
Goras would lead the next rotation capably. Herag would have many more eyes watching the perimeter of the region that the invading army occupied. Yet Framorg was not about to rest. He had never been a commander content to wait idly for word to be brought to him. He wanted to see whatever he could with his own eyes. It had always been his way.
*
DEGANAWIDA
*
Many leagues had been covered in a forced march, exhausting to those that undertook it, but there could be no thoughts of letting up on the pace. Save for a few of the hardiest warriors, virtually none of the people in the mass movement had ever been put through even a fraction of the exertion that they were made to endure.
The lethal hail of stones from the Darroks in the onset of the attack, and the rapid influx of enemy forces into the forest, made it imperative that the tribes put as much distance as possible between themselves and the western border areas of the Five Realms.
In one of the crueler twists of irony, stopping for extended rests would have meant that the tribal matrons and sachems were willing to unnecessarily risk the deaths of their own people. The onerous decision to coerce the tribal peoples forward, heavily taxing the energy of so many of the elderly, pregnant women, and children, to the edges of their health and strength, was done precisely because of the great love that the tribal leaders had for their people. The danger that pursued them did so with a murderous, merciless intent, and time was of the most critical essence.
Ayenwatha, Deganawida, and Gunnar walked ahead of a column streaming in the opposite direction of the main body of tribal people. They had also marched a very long way, and had only recently come into contact with the teeming horde of refugees heading southeast. At the moment, they were nearing the rear of the mass of refugees. Like the matrons, village sachems, and headmen, Deganawida felt a deep, inner pain within his heart at the sight of the strenuous odyssey occurring all around him.
The last ranks of refugees were entirely comprised of people. The few horses that had been salvaged from the villages were located in the middle to front of the trudging mass, and Deganawida had been relieved to see that most were holding up fairly well.
In a small glimmer of light, the fact that the Five Realms used horses primarily for bearing weighty burdens, and not commonly for riding, had the animals prepared more fully for the hardships that were now being asked of them. They were being made to carry baskets, bark casks, hide packs, and all manner of pouches filled with foodstuffs and other materials.
While the horses were being tested to the limits of their capacity and strength, they were very sturdy animals that did not easily wear down. Even so, Deganawida and the other sachems had insisted that caution be maintained with the animals. With so few horses available, the weary people could not succumb to the inviting temptation to overload the beleaguered creatures.
Even with the demand for conscious wariness, a few of the animals’ burdens still threatened to become unwieldy. Clan matrons and others moved quickly to reprove some of the villagers, and implore them to either carry the excess materials, or to leave the packs and containers behind, if they could not capably bear them.
More troubling, a few of the horses had already been unburdened of their material loads, and the reason had nothing to do with any weaknesses of their own. They were diverted from their tasks to carry the frailest members of the tribes, who could not hope to keep up with the others.
Though there was no hesitation in helping the struggling, aged tribal members, a dangerous quandary faced the tribes, increasing with each horse that was shifted to help a human. The average villager did not have the endurance of a packhorse, nor did they have the strength. Precious supplies were slowly being left behind in the wake of the refugees, food and other items that could well prove vital to the survival of many in the days to come.
The realities facing the tribal people, as Deganawida proceeded along the side of the retreating throngs, were growing worse and worse. Even those that were young and hale were being pushed to the limits of exhaustion. Often, the healthy and hale sacrificed their own strength to help elders or small children unable to move forward on their own power. Their very kindness and sacrifice became the source of mounting threat to them. Such was the extreme ugliness of a time of war.
The uneven ground sometimes added further to the difficulties, becoming tortuous for the people when they moved up inclines. Conversely, downward slopes allowed for a little rejuvenation.
The only significant reprieve allowed to the tribal people was the fact that they were moving through a more ancient part of the forest. The older, long-established trees within that region had woven a dense canopy overhead, preventing sprawling undergrowth from creating even more obstacles to their passage. While the gloom around them did little to raise their downtrodden spirits, it was a small price to pay for not having to navigate through thick brush. The natural cover also enabled their movements to be better screened from the skies above, though few held any illusions that so many people on the march could mask their travel effectively.
All of the tribal people knew that the greatest threat was coming from behind them now. Deganawida had noticed the extreme edginess spread across the faces of those in the rear of the great retreat. Many of them cast regular, anxious glances over their shoulders, as if expecting the enemy to pour out of the trees behind at any given moment.
Seeing Deganawida, Ayenwatha, and the long column of robust Midragardan warriors heading in the other direction brought visible relief to many faces, especially those that appeared to be struggling the most. Deganawida noticed many eyes widen in curiosity and surprise at the sight of the well-armed Midragardans. Gunnar was the first of many hundreds of hardened, sturdy countenances that the tribal refugees set their eyes upon. Shields on their backs, spears and long-hafted axes clutched in strong hands, and strung bows over many a broad shoulder, the Midragardan warriors exuded strength and determination.
Deganawida was glad that the tribal people were being afforded the plenteous sight of Midragard’s rugged warriors. It was one reason why he had them march along a path that took them right by the refugees, in addition to the fact that Gunnar’s warriors would be placed in a good position for responding to any unexpected threat to the tribal people.
Whatever fears Deganawida, Ayenwatha, or any of the other tribal warriors with them harbored, they also kept up strong postures, displaying resolute outward appearances in front of the retreating exiles. Deganawida angled close enough to the tribal people to speak words of encouragement to many. He brought the Midragardan column to a halt towards the rear end of the exodus, to lend some assistance to the last section of refugees laboring to cross over a wide stream.
The fierce-looking Midragardan warriors showed themselves to be extremely gentle with a number of makeshift litters and cradle-boards. They kept the vulnerable, the old, the sick, and the newborn, out of the waist-high waters, as they enthusiastically contributed their strength to the endeavor.
The On
an sachem watched closely as two of the wolf-skins carried the ends of a litter above their heads. They brought an elderly Onan woman, who Deganawida recognized as being from his own village, over to her daughter on the other side.
Another wolf-skin waded through the modest currents as he bore a tightly-wrapped infant affixed to a cradle-board across to an overly relieved mother. Her diminutive stature would have made fording the river with the baby a most difficult task, with so few available to help in the rear of the exodus.
Deganawida did not know much about the wolf-skins, but he did know that they, along with the bear-shirts, were regarded as the fiercest of the Midragardans by far. It had not escaped his notice that the other Midragardan warriors regarded them with an almost mythical reverence. There was something very dangerous about the wolf-skins, though, the hint of a tremendous ferocity lurking just under their brooding visages.
Yet to see them so very gentle in their handlling of the weakest of the tribal people, a people who were not their own, revealed something else about the wolf-skins that contrasted sharply with the fearsome reputation that they carried.
The younger tribal people were awash with gratitude towards the unexpected assistance, being at the bitter end of their physical limits.
Deganawida could not stifle a smile as the young mother emotionally expressed her gratitude to the wolf-skin conveying her baby to her, tears of happiness running down her cheeks. Though the wolf-skin could not understand her words, he was enveloped in her meaning, and the harsh-looking warrior had an awkward, uncomfortable expression upon his face. While the wolf-skins could display a very benevolent aspect in their actions, Deganawida saw that they were not very adept at expressing it.
Deganawida still recognized that it was far from unhelpful that the wolf-skins, and the other Midragardans, exhibited such a toughened exterior. He knew that the sight of the confident demeanors of the Midragardans and tribal warriors would go forward with the refugees. The images of calm, strong faces on the men in the warriors’ column would serve as a kind of reinforcement, and even rejuvenation, for what little strength and resolve that the hungry, sore, and exhausted refugees were drawing upon.
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