Authors: Stephen Zimmer
Just moments later, another few short blasts of a horn filled the air, following the dissonant signals coming from the spotter responsible for determining that an attacking run had been completed.
The newer blasts were signals from Tirok. The other Trogen’s group was located on the farther side of the Darrok formation, though they were situated much closer to the core of the bombardment site than Dragol’s war band was.
Dragol reacted to the distinctive signal by rallying his Trogens around him. With Dragol at their lead, they soared through the skies to position themselves closer to the main formation.
Several were then distpatched from his group, and Dragol looked on as these warriors alighted carefully upon the backs of the Darroks, so that the winged leviathans could ferry them to the next chosen attack site. A portion of the steeds would be kept well-rested, but a small number remained to keep up the escort of the formation on both sides, shadowing the flying titans.
Dragol spurred Rodor forward, drawing up to the frontal areas of the lumbering formation. Leaning forward at the base of the lead Darrok’s neck, where the handlers were located, a very sharp-eyed Trogen named Dagorda, of the Forest Wolverine clan, peered towards the far horizons. Dragol patiently waited, as the keen-eyed Trogen remained motionless, studying the skyline and terrain intensively. Dagorda abruptly straightened up, and called out vigorously, after just a few moments of assiduous scrutiny.
A hulking Trogen standing just to the right of the highly regarded searcher shifted the Darrok’s great reins that he held in his hands. Following Dagorda’s directive, he adjusted the creature’s path towards the next unconformity sighted within the dark, green sea of tree cover.
Though it took a moment, Dragol finally saw what Dagorda had espied. The patch of cleared ground was a good distance away, but Dragol had no doubts regarding its nature.
As they drew closer, it was indeed revealed to be another tribal village site. Extensive areas cleared for crops sat just off of the base of a very large hill, which was surmounted by one of the largest villages that Dragol had yet seen. As with the last village, Dragol saw no signs of life within the crop areas, or amid the village structures.
With a few more signals, all of the warriors that had rested their steeds for a short while lifted off the Darroks to rejoin Dragol and the others. Once regrouped, they all fanned outward, keeping a tight vigil upon the areas being bludgeoned by the new assault.
The villages were being destroyed well beyond any reasonable hope of utilization. A tremendous amount of destruction was also levied upon the areas abundant with nascent growths of crops, which were undoubtedly ruined.
Despite the unobstructed, methodical achievement of Avanor’s objectives, Dragol continued to chafe at the method. The Thunder Wolf chieftain’s hopes of engaging the enemy in an honorable way were fading precipitously, with every new encounter of an abandoned village.
With numerous horn signals echoing far across the forestlands, their massive formation was certainly no secret. With the long span of time spent in the skies over the tribal lands, and the distances that they had covered, Dragol highly doubted that their presence was not well known to the enemy by then. Somewhere underneath the trees, perhaps in a number of locations, the enemy’s eyes were watching them.
As was the growing trend, the enemy warriors had not been engaged that day. The only conclusion that Dragol could come to was that they were intentionally refusing to come up into the skies to challenge the Trogens. Perhaps they did not have enough steeds, as all reports indicated that the tribal warriors were fierce, brave fighters.
Of even further frustration, there was still no sign of the non-combatants of the five tribes either. A couple of false alarms had been raised, brought on by overanxious warriors, perhaps espying a bounding deer herd that had been startled by the formation’s passage. Yet no signs had been found to indicate the whereabouts of the great numbers of villagers undeniably dislodged from their villages. Where they had sought refuge, Dragol and the other Trogens had not an inkling.
To Dragol, it was a very unsettling, increasingly tense atmosphere to endure, fraught with uncertainty. It was not a matter of fear, but rather the inner conflict in Dragol that was sustained by the enemy’s refusal to challenge the Darrok formation.
The day laboriously dragged onward, as the Trogens continued to strike at a couple more of the empty villages, while others such as Dragol continued in their assiduous search for the location of the tribal people’s havens. Many villages and crop fields were ravaged by the time that the ample stores of stones carried upon the Darroks were finally emptied. Yet the day ended to no avail, as far as Dragol was concerned, centered as he was on the declining hopes of encountering the enemy defenders, and meeting them in a clash of arms.
The lack of fighting left a feeling of disgust in Dragol and the fiery Trogen warriors at the end of the day, in addition to the tremendous sense of frustration that was being multiplied with every passing day. It was a gloomy, irritated mood that encompassed the Trogens returning from the skies back to their new encampment, when the day’s raids were declared over.
Anyone viewing the snarling, brooding warriors climbing down from the carriages on the Darroks would not have guessed that they had just dealt another heavy blow to the tribal lands. They would not have suspected that the Trogens had just accomplished all the aims that they had been sent to execute, without losing so much as one warrior in the process.
The encampment itself was located a good distance away from the forests of the tribal lands, as a large expanse of open, treeless ground was necessary for Darroks to take off and land. The swathe of terrain was positioned at the midpoint of the Five Realms’ outermost, western border, within Gallean territory. Open, rolling grasslands spread westward from the edge of the Five Realms, broken up randomly by copses of trees.
The designated site was a superb place to ward the Darroks, as well as being situated favorably for the missions at hand. The encampment was almost impossible to approach undetected, as important an attribute as the fact that it was within relatively easy reach of the enemy targets.
A modest force of Trogens had come loaded with supplies, weapons, and materials to set up the encampment. A broad mass of hide tents, erected in the Trogen style, was now fully arrayed. Armed Trogen sentinels were positioned around the outskirts of the camp, and a couple of small patrols were circling in the skies overhead.
There were no Andamoorans in this camp, only Trogens, which was one thing that gave a small shred of comfort to Dragol’s greatly troubled mind. The Andamoorans seemed to be fairly skilled with their horses, but their strange rituals, which they performed five times each day to their strange god, were thoroughly alien to him. He had found himself becoming increasingly more aware of their hardened stares, and had never been entirely comfortable while in their midst. The feeling was quite mutual, as the Andamoorans were always on edge when he was in their immediate presence.
He was not afraid of them in the least, but it was far more palatable to know that the new encampment was entirely populated by Trogens. It eliminated distractions and tensions that were not necessary in the first place.
Dragol and the other mounted Trogens took their Harraks up off the Darroks and into the sky, as they approached the sprawling grounds. Beyond the encampment was a tremendous length of open ground used for the quartering, launching, and landing of the Darroks. Hovering high above, Dragol and the other Trogens watched as the Darroks slowly descended to land.
The expanse of open ground was great enough that the creatures could come in two at a time, spread far apart from each other. The Darroks making up the second and third rank in the approach were staggered a good distance apart by their handlers, allowing for each of the gargantuan beasts to land without undue risk of collision.
Despite all of the precautions and care, the winged giants still set down somewhat awkwardly, lumbering forward as their four clawed appendages touched down on the solid ground. Dragol noticed that more than a few Trogens on the carriages completely lost their footing, as each of the behemoth creatures alighted upon the ground. The carriages were jarred violently from side to side before the Darroks fully steadied themselves, and Dragol had little doubt that keeping balance was a harrowing task for the carriages’ occupants.
Fortunately, each of the Trogens was secured by a single hide rope that they had tied about their waists, which in turn was tied to the carriage railing. If they lost their grips on the carriage rails in the process of being violently jostled about, they would not get thrown off to the ground, which was a far distance from the back of the titans that they rode upon. It was a method that also helped if the Darroks were caught suddenly within great turbulence while airborne. Dragol noticed a couple such individuals pulling themselves back up, after having been thrown over the side of the railing during the tumultuous landing.
A horde of Trogens swarmed out of the nearby encampment, immediately attending to the Darroks and the Trogens that had remained upon the carriages. With the Darroks all safely landed, Dragol, Tirok, and the sky riders brought their steeds down a short distance away from the monstrosities.
Dragol heard the low rumbles and resonant snorts coming from the weary Darroks, and he hoped that their temperaments were as stable as he had heard. He was in no disposition to witness what the imposing giants were capable of if they became irritated enough to lash out.
It was very evident that the creatures had been pressed very hard, and were in great need of sustenance and rest. He hoped that the former was attended to without delay, and that the latter was adequately provided for in the war planning.
Rodor was still in moderately good condition when they landed, and the Harrak whined affectionately, turning its head to nuzzle Dragol as he dismounted. At the very least, Dragol could rest assured that Rodor would be well tended. The hardy steed deserved every comfort and provision, in Dragol’s mind.
He patted the great beast’s side, feeling its calming breathing as he took notice of the slight lather clinging to its stout muzzle. Reaching up, he scratched Rodor behind its upright, triangular ears, which were attentively taking in the flurry of sounds coming from the swirling activity surrounding the creature.
Dragol continued to scratch and pet his ardent steed, as he concentrated on the feeling of solid ground beneath his leather boots. It was indeed good to be adjusting to being on land again, after long hours spent in the constantly vacillating realm of flight.
A few Trogens from the camp finally reached Dragol and the other mounted Trogens. One immediately strode up to Dragol, to attend to the steed of the chieftain. Dragol handed Rodor’s tethers off to the Trogen, and gave the warrior some verbal instructions regarding treatment of the outstanding steed. Dragol then walked off towards the main body of the encampment.
An excited commotion greeted the attacking force upon its return, though it quickly turned towards disappointment. The Trogens streaming from the encampment became quiet and subdued as they beheld the countenances of their dour, frustrated brethren.
The returning Trogens climbed down the ladders of hemp rope from the carriages, turning with scowling miens, as they headed towards their tents. Some exchanged a few brief words with the Trogens that had emerged from the camp, but a pensive hush soon lingered all around the area.
Even so, the Trogens moving to attend to the Darroks would go about their routines with pride and diligence. They had all been brought to understand the importance of this new weapon of war. Whether the method of attack that the Darroks enabled was found to be disgraceful, the care of the rare creatures that had been fully entrusted to the Trogens was indeed an honor.
Avanor had very few of the giant beasts at its disposal, and it was not lost upon Dragol and his kind that the crewing and care of the Darroks had not been given over to humans. The Trogens carried out their duties with the utmost attention, cognizant of the great respect that had been afforded them by Avanor.
Yet Dragol and other Trogen leaders never forgot that there were also very practical reasons for the arrangement. Trogens could endure for much longer in the thinner environment of the highest altitudes, without showing adverse effects. They had also long demonstrated their great aptitude for handling and breeding what was generally regarded as the greatest of the Skiantha, the Harraks. Therefore, it was not much of a surprise that Avanor had chosen the Trogens to guide and care for the Unifier’s potent new weapons. Trogen crewing of the beasts was to Avanor’s best interests by far.
More ladders of hempen rope were unfurled from the carriages, as attendants and some of the remaining Darrok crews unloaded supplies and weapons. The loads for the Darroks had been much lighter for the return flight, with the considerable stocks of great stones having been fully discharged during the day’s events. The tired Trogen crews and mounted escorts had disembarked with hearty appetites, which begged to be sated despite the disappointments that the Trogens felt at failing to draw up the tribal defenders from the forests. Dragol’s mouth began salivating as he caught the first scents of roasting meat coming from the encampment.
Dragol turned his head to idly watch the Trogens working around the Darroks, as he passed them on his way to the encampment. Dragol and those not involved in tasks regarding the Darroks found that it was wise to keep a very wide berth during feeding times.
Darroks regularly exhibited a voracious appetite, and as a group they were quite capable of consuming a great number of cattle or sheep at one feeding. The Trogens attending to the behemoths took great precautions to avoid accidentally becoming part of the meal during the feeding process, and Dragol did not envy them in the least.
Dragol twisted and stretched as he walked, gradually working out the deep stiffness in his muscles from the long day endured in the saddle. He removed his iron half-helm, carrying it under his right arm, as he let the cool air of the early evening massage his skin and provide a soothing feeling of relief.