Authors: Stephen Zimmer
Flying at a lofty altitude, Framorg looked down with an unmitigated sense of awe. A vast, deadly array of force was spread out over the grassy lands passing underneath their steeds. Thousands upon thousands of tents dotted the open plain, and throughout the multitudinous dwellings a teeming mass of activity was commencing.
It was a cool morning, and an abundance of white cloudcover was rolling in from the horizon. The sharp air was being pushed along by a considerable breeze, which bit into the exposed faces of the Trogen riders. The brawny Harraks handled the mild turbulence well enough, largely gliding through the sky as they afforded their masters an unsurpassable view of the gigantic invasion force.
The lines of three distinct encampments could be discerned from the elevated heights. Each was separated from the other by narrow spaces of open ground, which were constantly being criss-crossed by personnel and beasts.
Framorg’s eyes scanned the ground with wonder. The prominent Trogen war chieftain had never witnessed anything like it, a concentration of numbers and organization far beyond anything that he had ever experienced before. The power gathered upon the Plains of Athelney was staggering to contemplate, and it was not lost on Framorg what kind of power the Unifier had assembled to do His bidding.
While the Trogens had their reasons for fighting within the Unifier’s ranks, Framorg also knew that the Trogens really had no choice. He did not want to think even for a moment of the consequences of rejecting a being that could muster, and send forth, such a colossal force.
He had no doubts that the Saxans were going to discover the terrible cost of bluntly rejecting the Unifier’s overtures. The unceremonious expulsion of the Unifier’s emissaries was soon going to be washed away with torrents of blood.
To the left of Framorg’s current vantage point was the Andamooran force, hailing from lands to the north of Gallea. Situated at the heart of the three primary armies were the Avanorans. Located on the right was the huge army brought from neighboring Ehrengard.
Just to the back of the mammoth Avanoran encampment, covering the area now directly underneath the airborne Trogen contingent, was a concentrated mass of supply wagons and carts. Now idle, they had carried in the vast quanities of food, weapons, and other supplies necessary to sustain the needs of the seemingly innumerable forces. Carried along with foodstuffs and supplies were also several large, timber components of great siege engines, though Framorg knew that such mighty weapons were not yet needed in the invasion campaign. The first battle would be an open clash of arms, and it was likely that once the main Saxan force was crushed, most walled towns and fortresses would throw open their gates, rather than endure the devastation of a prolonged siege.
Great multitudes of draft animals, from clusters of oxen to herds of stout, brawny horses, were grouped together within several areas of the sprawling Avanoran camp. Given leave of their labors at the present, the throngs of animals were grazing calmly under the open sky.
Framorg twisted in his saddle to get a better look at everything, sweeping his gaze all about. His vision traveled farther back, catching a glimpse of the other great assemblage of wagons and tents set well behind the Avanoran warriors. It was enough to evoke a growl from the back of his throat.
The presence of merchants was always disconcerting to Framorg, and time was not dulling the bitter taste that the sight of them invoked. The stark feeling reflected a cultural chasm between Trogens and humans. Framorg did not understand why the Avanorans tolerated such obvious leeches, men who merely followed the army, latching onto it to gain wealth, and were not willing to fight with it. The cowardly merchants always located themselves well out of harm’s way, far to the back of encampments.
To Framorg, it was more than a good thing that the Trogens of his homeland had no such merchants, or even used coinage, a human means of trade that had probably given rise to such a loathsome batch of miscreants. The Trogen warrior knew that his longblade would not have remained dry for long if he ever came across his own kind engaged in such dishonorable pursuits.
As the Trogens passed beyond the masses of carts and wagons, they entered the airspace over a spectacular mass of small field tents, which hosted the bulk of the Avanoran foot-soldiers. A great number of men could be seen gathered around the openings to the tents in pairs and clusters, many heads turning upward to stare at the Trogens as they passed by overhead. Some were grouped around fire-pits, engaged in conversing and eating, while others were sitting more to themselves, attending to personal weapons and other assorted gear.
Blacksmiths and other skilled craftsmen, such as leatherworkers and woodworkers, had set up temporary worksites throughout the teeming masses of tents. Tendrils of smoke wafted up from several such locations, as the artisans labored diligently to repair weapons, armor, or other various elements of equipment.
The Avanoran encampment was a very dynamic sight, crawling with movements of ever more diverse elements. Mounted contingents of men passed down pathways through the midst of the tents, as numerous carts were pulled through by stout draft animals and throngs of foot-soldiers marched out towards the frontal areas. Others were gathered within open, clearly demarcated areas, practicing their skills at arms.
Framorg then looked down upon a few clusters of horses that he could tell were not mere draft animals. A fair number of camp attendants were moving busily about in the midst of palfreys and packhorses, which were quartered in close proximity to the knights that owned them.
Also belonging to the elite knights, the human warriors that Framorg respected the most, were the great war stallions that they rode into battle. Tended to in a much more individual capacity than the other steeds, the muscular war horses were living symbols of the stature of those that possessed them. Dedicated Avanoran squires, assigned to the service of individual knights, cared diligently for the majestic creatures.
It was one area in which Framorg could relate more clearly to the humans, as the better Harrak steeds reflected the level of prestige held by their Trogen riders. Framorg’s own Argazen, a true lord of the skies, had no rival amongst the other Trogen steeds.
Tall banners, some crafted in a half-moon shape, and others more triangular in form, fluttered and snapped proudly in the wind from the tops of long timber poles. A forest of the most prominent ones stood vigil over the much more sizeable central tents, both pavilion and hall-shaped. The prominent tents included the quarters of higher-ranking Avanoran commanders, chapel tents, mess tents, and the field residences of higher clergy accompanying the massive campaign. This area, Framorg well knew, was the true heart of the Avanoran camp.
The land just beyond the front of the Avanoran encampment was watched over thoroughly, for a substantial distance. Small bands of Atagar, accompanied by Licanthers, pickets of Avanoran sentries, and periodic mounted patrols could be seen within a great zone covering at least a couple of leagues past the forward boundaries of the main encampment.
Even the skies over this zone were warded. Around Framorg’s own formation, circling far above the patrols and sentries on the ground, were several groups of Trogens.
The location of the enemy Saxan war camp was far to the edge of the horizon. It was situated well past the eyesight of the camps below, hidden behind the undulations of the rolling grasslands.
Yet even with the fair distance, Framorg and the other riders could make out signs of the sizeable army now blocking the invasion force’s path into the heart of Saxany. Numerous thin columns of smoke rose up from the fires within the distant enemy encampment. They reached towards the sky as if to block Framorg’s way.
To Framorg, the sight was nonetheless a comforting one. There was going to be little worry about drawing the enemy into open battle. The Saxans were gathered in strength, waiting for the onset of the invasion, and clearly intending to meet it with muscle and steel. It was a response that Framorg respected, as it was the one that any Trogen clan would have taken in similar circumstances.
Frustratingly, it was still too far of a distance to get an accurate view of the entire magnitude, or types of forces, that were positioned to resist the impending invasion. Framorg led his escorting contingent of warriors as far forward as he could, but not far enough that he could alleviate his intense curiosity regarding the Saxan camp.
At long last, Framorg reluctantly ordered the signal to be sounded to turn his escorting force around. A Trogen warrior to his right blared out an extended, deep note upon his curving war horn. The formation curled about in a great, arcing path, and reversed course. With a sharp nudge from his heels, Framorg spurred Argazen forward, setting a faster pace for the return.
There were a few different staging areas for Trogen sky warriors located throughout the three principle camps, as the Trogens held responsibility for the skies over all of the Unifier’s forces. Framorg’s own tent was located within a small encampment set just to the northern side of the Avanoran forces, not far from the front edge. It was close to the freshly dug ditches bordering the outermost perimeter of the Andamooran camp, which was positioned to the immediate north of Framorg’s tent.
Another sonorous horn blast emitted from a rider near Framorg’s right side, giving the signal to descend and land. The throng of riders guided their steeds into a sharp, downward approach, angling for the open space of ground set within a ring of Trogen tents. Those in the forefront of the group landed a few moments later, while those coming behind flew just over their heads, alighting a short distance beyond. The staggered landing was orderly and efficient, well-practiced amongst the Trogens.
The instant that the entire contingent was on the ground, Framorg could sense the surge of excitement, confidence, and anticipation running throughout the Trogen camp. A number of Trogens hurried from the tents towards them, gathering around to see the arrival of the great Trogen leader and so many renowned warriors.
At the edges of the clearing, the camp activity continued feverishly, as other Harraks were saddled, and harnesses were adjusted. Trogens moved back and forth on appointed tasks, bearing weapons, armor, sacks of supplies, waterskins, buckets, and any other implement necessary to fulfill their chores. A couple of the gargantuan Gigans lumbered by on the far edge of the clearing, huge war axes carried in their massive hands as they trudged towards the front lines.
A couple of Trogens strode up to attend to Argazen, bowing their heads low in deference as they waited patiently for Framorg to dismount. Without a word, Framorg handed them the reins to his steed.
The Trogen leader walked briskly towards the opening of a long, tall tent that served as his personal headquarters. He could feel the curious, elated gazes from the throng of Trogen warriors watching him approach the tent, on the eve of the great battle.
An extraordinarily massive, brown-furred bear was lounging just outside the entrance, tethered securely with great chains. Upon seeing Framorg, the bear roused itself, and shifted its bulk onto its huge, clawed feet. The exceptional creature ambled over to meet Framorg, lowering its great snout to look into Framorg’s face. The creature’s eyes reflected affection and eagerness.
“Barondas, you are always a welcome sight to my eyes,” Framorg greeted the immense animal as he came to a stop, reaching up with both of his hands to vigorously pat and rub the bear’s enormous head.
The creature had been brought to the west by an Avanoran round ship at great difficulty. Nothing else was acceptable, however, as Framorg was not about to endure a long campaign without such a pure, visible representation of his clan.
He also had a personal obligation to Barondas, as the creature had been orphaned as a cub when Framorg had been attacked by its mother while on a hunt during his youth. Framorg had gained both a companion and a great reputation within his clan, and others, after slaying the raging mother all by himself. It was an incredible act, witnessed by the others of his hunting party. While the killing of a Mountain Bear was born out of the necessity of self-defense, Framorg was not about to abandon the young, lonely cub whose kind were the living symbols of his clan. He had taken the cub that very day, and had raised it dutifully, garnering a growing respect within his clan due to the close bond that he forged with the creature. Having a Mountain Bear had certainly not harmed his own mystique during his rise to becoming the clan’s unanimously acclaimed war chieftain.
Framorg ruffled the fur of the bear’s head, and stroked its muzzle for many moments, speaking soothing words to the beast before finally continuing into the tent.
“Chieftain Framorg!” a huge Trogen greeted him enthusiastically, upon his entrance.
The Trogen that had spoken was standing over a map, the face of which was illuminated by light from a brazier. Inked upon parchment, the map was spread out across the surface of a long, timber plank, supported at each end by broad wooden tuns.
Five other high-ranking sky warriors had evidently been going over the map with the large Trogen prior to Framorg’s entrance. He knew all of them, and which clans they represented. Three were from Framorg’s own Mountain Bear clan, one was from the Sea Wolf Clan, and one came from the Dark Serpent clan. The one that had addressed him was from the Thunder Wolf clan.
All of the Trogens were hardened, veteran warriors, worthy of high command at Framorg’s side. All came to an abrupt silence at his appearance, and respectfully lowered their heads in acknowledgement of his presence.
Framorg slightly bowed his head in reply, and remembered his new pledges. “In the service of the Unifier, for the service of the Trogen clans.”
“The last of the sky warriors who are to fight in this coming invasion have arrived in the camp,” the large Trogen, whose name was Ondayon, announced.
Framorg then inquired, knowing full well who they had all been waiting upon, “And all is well with Pythora?”