Authors: Stephen Zimmer
When he had eaten a greater portion of the pottage within the bowl, a number of cries called Framorg away from the campfire. He set the bowl down, striding swiftly to meet a familiar Trogen figure. The Trogen warrior was at the forefront of a large mass of armed Trogens that had just arrived, all of them slowing down from running at a modest pace.
A brown-furred cloak flowed from his back, and at his neck he wore a prominent necklace. The latter threaded through five claws, which had likely once belonged to the same Mountain Bear that had possessed the fur of the cloak. Eigon, during his rite of passage, had gone to stay in the thick brush lands where Mountain Bears often came down to snare fish from the streams and rivers cutting through the area.
Most Trogens of the Mountain Bear Clan kept their distance from the great Mountain Bears, contemplating the characteristics of the massive beasts before returning as full-fledged warriors. Eigon’s fate had been otherwise; he had been given the ultimate test, as an old, ravenous male bear had beset him.
In a feat worthy of tales similar to Framorg’s own encounter with the clan’s animal patron, Eigon had fought against the bear, agilely dodging its mauliing swipes and rushes. Seeing a brief opening, he had thrust his spear out, driving the point deep into the bear, earning the claws and cloak that he had worn from that day on.
Something of that raging bear had transferred into Eigon, as he had become a ferocious land warrior, who shunned taking the wings of a sky rider. Eigon was the ideal Trogen to lead any kind of ground raid upon the Saxans.
Over two hundred Trogens behind him were armed with a mixture of lances, longblades, and the long-hafted weapons known as scythens. A few carried strung great bows over their shoulders, the extensive bows not much shorter than the warriors that bore them.
Many carried the tall, rectangular shields, made of stout planks of wood covered with hide, that Trogen infantry typically were equipped with. Most wore cuirasses of toughened hide, to go with either iron helms or hardened leather caps, the latter made of the same kind of boiled hide as that which protected their upper bodies.
The signs of many different clans were in evidence from the pendants, amulets, emblems, and other accoutrements visible upon the various warriors. The members of a similar clan were often grouped together within the broader force. Eagerness shone from the eyes of all of the warriors, as they looked expectantly upon Framorg and Eigon.
Framorg spread his arms wide, as did Eigon, and the two met with a great clench, embracing each other in an exaggerated manner reminiscent of the great Mountain Bears. The dramatic embrace was a special gesture, displaying a high level of respect for a storied, fellow clan member.
“Eigon, it is good to see you again,” Framorg greeted warmly.
“I understand that you are to free us from this torture of idleness,” Eigon replied, in a deep, scratchy voice. Vigor danced within his eyes as he gazed back at Framorg.
“Yes, I am. And you may strike a great blow that turns the entire battle to our favor,” Framorg said.
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.