Dream of Legends (33 page)

While Mershad desperately wished that they would meet up reasonably soon with the others, he held out little hope of it actually happening. He knew that it would do him no good to stake his hopes on a swift reunion. With the ferocity of the attack, and their own narrow escape, Mershad knew that the likelihood of rejoining the others anytime soon was very small.

His spirit was weighed down heavily as he ruminated upon his companions’ fate. He closed his eyes, taking several breaths to calm himself, as he thought about Erika, and wondered about the plight she was facing. She might well have been captured, or even be dead, both seeming much more plausible outcomes than the idea that she had escaped. The thought of her dying was gut-wrenching, inflicting a sharp constriction upon his heart.

She was Mershad’s lone friend from his home world. The uncertainty of her fate evoked a helpless, overwhelmed feeling within him. He had to fight back a muster of tears that threatened to burst forth. He wished that he could just know if she had survived, even if that meant that she and the others had been taken captive.

Of the others he had been separated from, he feared for Janus most especially. Mershad had come to see him as a very thoughtful, compassionate individual, one who was barely withstanding a great level of inner torment.

Mershad also felt anxiety over the trusting and kind-hearted Antonio. He even sincerely hoped that Antonio’s surly, abrasive friend, Logan, was unharmed. He admittedly had to trust that there was something good that Logan’s friend could see in the brooding man. Mershad had yet to find much to convince him that Logan was anything other than unfriendly, and largely self-absorbed.

Heading southward, Mershad surmised that Einar must have judged it necessary to take the excessively long passage around the island, and make the huge arc to turn south, so that they could reduce their chances of being seen while escaping.

The Fenraren, for their part, had taken vigorously to the skies, exuberant to be released from their dim confines within the stuffy byre. They flew swiftly and steadily, with league after league of open ocean waters passing far below. From the high vantage, the sea looked like rolling fields of deep blue, a beautiful and daunting vision.

After some time, Einar guided the group into a more modest pace, and gradually the quartet fanned out a little, such that they flew in a staggered line. Mershad turned his attention to his immediate companions, shivering a little from the touch of the chilly, high-altitude winds.

Mershad was barely in a position to observe it, but he was nonetheless shaken by what he beheld on Derek’s face. As Mershad looked on, glistening moisture in Derek’s eyes broke open with a single tear that escaped, only to be blown off a moment later by the beating winds.

Likewise, Mershad fathomed that the Midragardan warriors that had known Einar would probably have been troubled at his expression. At the lead of the group, Sigurd’s brother stared forward with a hollow look. Einar’s face was almost completely hidden, deeply obscuring a few tears that ran down from his own eyes, to be cleared away by the cold, rushing air. Pulling close to even with Einar’s steed, for a few moments, Mershad caught an unobstructed glimpse of the man’s sorrowful visage. He tactfully looked away, before Einar realized that Mershad had observed the Midragardan’s grief.

Mershad could sense the immense sorrow shaking both of the stalwart men to the core. Their postures remained stiff, and they kept their faces forward.

Glancing over towards Kent, Mershad quickly looked away, as he saw the sheer misery spread upon the young man’s face. Both Kent and Derek had just been separated from their friend Janus, a relationship that Mershad knew was much closer than was his own with Erika.

It was abundantly clear that the hearts and minds of Mershad, Derek, Kent, and their Midragardan guide had been left behind, with the unknown fates of those that they cared for. There was not even a sliver of a feeling of joy present at having escaped the island attack.

Mershad shifted in his saddle, adjusting into a more comfortable position. It was very early in the journey, but he could already feel the first signs of soreness, as well as a little stiffness beginning to form in his lower back. He did not even want to begin to think about how his body would feel at the end of their lengthy journey.

He tightened his grip upon the leather reins of the sky steed, though the action was more for his own reassurance. The creature was dutifully keeping pace with Einar’s steed, staying close abreast, or allowing the other a slight lead.

Mershad slowly allowed himself to grow numb in thought, caught in the melancholic grasp of his current disposition. Without focusing on anything in particular, he stared ahead, to the far horizons, the winds whistling in his ears.

Midragard lay somewhere beyond the edge of sight. It offered a pledge of refuge to the three rattled exiles. Midragard would be an entirely new land for Mershad, Derek, and Kent, filled with a host of new sights and people. Based upon the impressions that Mershad held of the Midragardans that he had already encountered, he felt very good about their prospects within the new land.

With everything that had already happened to them, Mershad recognized that it was best to at least have a little shard of encouragement to hold onto, as they headed into a highly uncertain future.

*

Dragol

*

Dragol, accompanied by his war band, joined up successfully with the Darrok formation, as it flew towards the lands of the Five Realms. Dragol and his warriors had kept to a hard-pressed pace to reach the rendezvous zone. They had greatly taxed their Harraks in the process, but their robust steeds were more than equal to the arduous task.

At last, the paths of the two flying contingents finally intersected, the Darroks heading east, and the others coming up from the south. The spirits of Dragol’s warriors were all buoyed at the first sight of the looming monstrosities approaching through the skies.

Excited shouts rang out, as Dragol yelled out final commands. The war band spurred their steeds forward, for one final burst, covering the remaining distance between the two formations hurriedly. To a distant observer upon the ground, the Harraks would have appeared like little more than small flies buzzing near the flanks of some mammoth beast, as they drew up in the air over the largest Darrok, leading the incoming formation.

At close proximity, Dragol’s mind was teetering on the edge of becoming overwhelmed by the sheer size of the Darroks. He had seen them from the ground level, in the encampment inside Saxany’s borders. He already knew well enough that they were like nothing that he had ever encountered before.

Now that he was actually approaching one of the juggernauts, he was struck with a very unsettling sense of disbelief that such massive creatures could possibly remain airborne. The only thing that he could think of in comparison were the dragons in some of the oral tales told in his youth. Even regarding those barely-remembered tales, he had never gotten the sense that the dragons were of the size of the winged behemoth that he was now guiding his Harrak towards.

The elongated back of the great creature was narrow in proportion to its own form, but wide for the size of a Trogen. It carried a platform constructed of timber that ran from its neck to just behind its vast wings. The platform was fitted with a railing, and the entire construct was secured by a plethora of harness ropes that snaked down the creature’s sides to its underbelly.

Currently, the platform was occupied by only a few figures, a mixture of Harraks, men, and Trogens. The sight of the Harraks upon the back of the Darrok was a firm assurance to Dragol that the grave oversights leading to the debacle of the first raid were not happening again. Dragol and his war band were further living proof of that.

Landing upon the moving Darroks was a bit of a challenge. Trogen sky riders had a sense of alighting upon moving objects, as they had gained skills in setting down upon sea borne watercraft, whether long galleys or the bulkier, sail-driven transports used by humans.

Yet despite their prior training, the mastery of such a manner of landing was truly dependent upon a keen awareness and sensitivity with their steeds, borne upon years of flying experience. Not unlike the elite horsemen of the Sunlands, or those on the steppes to the east of Kiruva, the veteran Trogens developed a very close bonding over time between steed and rider. It was one that enabled Trogen and Harrak to move as one mind and body, as if one was merely the extension of the other.

After keeping a steady pace with the Darrok, becoming more attuned to the giant’s speed, Dragol guided Rodor downward, to land smoothly upon an open swathe of the platform. He had timed the movement of the Darrok and his own Harrak to near perfection. There was only a little disorientation, as his steed tucked its wings in and touched down upon the platform, the Darrok lurching up for a moment following a mighty down-flap of its huge wings.

Behind Dragol, one after another, the other Trogens landed with little trouble. As if it were some kind of cue, the humans upon the Darrok mounted other Harraks, and began to take off in the wake of Dragol’s landing. In Dragol’s eyes, the humans simply wanted to depart, now that their escorting task was finished. They clearly did not want to waste a moment more than was necessary, and Dragol caught the hard glares in several of their eyes, before the Avanoran riders departed the platform.

Dismounting from his own saddle, Dragol gave a gentle pat to his Harrak, stroking Rodor softly on the side of its thick-furred neck. It was an affectionate gesture, meant to show gratitude to the creature for its tremendous exertion. Rodor rubbed its head against Dragol, exhibiting some lather about its mouth, as its sides heaved. As fiery as Dragol tended to be while on a war campaign, he embraced the close relationship with his flying steed. It was something that grew naturally between an adept rider and a capable steed, extending a proper respect to the creature that enabled a Trogen warrior to take to the skies.

Not infrequently, such a relationship was the very difference between life and death in the volatile environment of sky combat. Riders and steeds attuned well to each other’s temperaments and tendencies held a distinct advantage in such an atmosphere.

“Dragol?” inquired the deep, gravely voice of another Trogen, walking up from behind him.

“I am Dragol … of the Thunder Wolf clan…,” Dragol started to reply in the way of introduction, turning towards the speaker.

His eyes widened in reflex as he beheld the particular Trogen to whom the resonant voice belonged. The Trogen was an older warrior, a little shorter of height, and somewhat broader of build, than Dragol. His great rank was outwardly indicated by the thick, braided tassels, woven of long hairs from a Harrak, hanging down from the upper, central tip of the iron half-helm that he wore atop his large head.

At his side was a single-edged longblade of the Trogen style, though it was unlike most Trogen longblades in that the weapon exhibited some ornamentation. It bore a silver gilt pommel of a triangular shape, which only Trogens of very elite status tended to have. Similarly, the grip of the weapon was fashioned of bone, the origin of which Dragol could not tell.

The Trogen’s leather cuirass had what looked to be deep black claw marks painted across his chest, as if the massive paw of a predatory beast had raked him. A thin neck ring of silver displayed what looked to be several individual claws, or talons, affixed to its length in the front. They were all symbols and decorations representing a very capable, accomplished warrior in the Trogen realms, one whose reputation was well-known throughout all Trogen lands.

The warrior’s skin was drawn a little tighter, and appeared much more weathered, than did Dragol’s. Some noticeable strands of gray could be seen within the warrior’s cascading locks of hair, which descended to the middle of his back. A few small scars of various lengths, collected from violent past encounters, graced his face. Though many years older than Dragol, his distinctive gray eyes were as alert and vibrant as any warrior in their physical prime.

“I am Tirok of the Black Tigers. You are very welcome here, Dragol of the Thunder Wolves,” the older Trogen greeted him warmly. “Your name has reached my ears before. They say that strong blood flows in you.”

Tirok had not needed to introduce himself, and Dragol was incredibly flattered that the vaunted Trogen warrior had openly indicated foreknowledge of him. The two clamped their right hands down strongly upon the other’s left shoulder, in the Trogen manner of greeting a respected comrade.

“I have heard many great tales of Tirok, chieftain of the honored Black Tiger Clan. Your victories are celebrated among the Thunder Wolf Clan. It is a deep honor to fight at your side,” Dragol stated deferentially, with no small degree of enthusiasm.

He had known that there would be a Trogen of high rank accompanying the Darroks, but he had never expected it to be one of the most exalted warriors of all of their clans.

“Come with me … I would speak with you now, as there is a little time before we bring these winged titans to rest upon the ground,” Tirok said, a slight grin parting his lips to reveal his still-sharp canines. He gestured for Dragol to walk with him. “I would like to know more of you, Dragol of the Thunder Wolf Clan, before we go together into battle … and that will be happening soon enough.”

The two warriors strode over to the wooden railing warding the perimeter of the large carriage. Dragol removed his helm, and let the robust breezes strengthened by the Darrok’s flight run through his thick, coarse locks of hair. His heated skin, suddenly freed from the confines of the helm, cooled rapidly under the soothing touch of the winds. His sweat-matted hair was buffeted, as if the strands were eager to stretch themselves out. The feeling was refreshing and invigorating, and he took a deep breath of the crisp air.

The vapors of some low clouds were scudding by just above them, while the lands under the Darroks spread far and wide underneath the oncoming violet light, heralding the transition of day to night. Dragol could tell that the air was markedly thinner at the level of the Darroks, than at the usual heights that Trogens rode their Harraks. Yet their altitude was still well below the dangerous levels where one could no longer draw a healthy breath. As it was, the journey was still being undertaken at a pace and altitude that was tolerable to the body of a Trogen.