Dream of Legends (34 page)

The scene underneath and around them was breathtaking and expansive, a view rarely afforded to any of the denizens living within the world of Ave. The entire world seemed quiet and still, and nothing moved near the tops of the abundant forest growths below. It was as if the Trogens and Darroks were the only elements of creation moving through time itself.

Though it was far from being a hard level of exertion for the Darroks, Dragol quickly assessed that they were covering a significant distance with alacrity. It would not be very long before they reached their destination, and were able to rest for the night.

The atmosphere contrasted sharply with the troubled mindset churning within the chieftain from the Thunder Wolf Clan. Even so, Dragol was not so buried in his concerns that he was entirely incapable of admiring the magnificent vistas revealed to his eyes. He was always inspired by the grandeur of the natural world. There were many such views afforded to him within his homelands, ones that he often indulged, and the current one was incredible to behold.

Yet at the present, he was not as stirred as he might otherwise have been, as his focus had grown quite singular. He could think of little else other than to be well underway in the struggle to conquer the Five Realms, as it was a necessary obstacle on a much greater quest.

The sooner that the Unifier’s wars could be resolved, the sooner that the Trogens could gain aid for the greatest struggle of their own kind: to free their lands from the oppressions and persecutions of the Northern Elves.

“A whole world, all falling under the power of the Unifier,” Tirok muttered, peering out across the vast lands. “Maybe that is what was always needed in this world … a greater power, a power that no land, or race, can deny. One that has authority over the affairs of the world.”

He glanced towards Dragol, his eyes narrowing. His voice then lowered, to a level that could be heard only between Dragol and himself. His expression was unreadable, giving no hint as to his purpose.

The old Trogen chieftain asked Dragol slowly, in a very deliberate tone, “What do you think of this war? The one that we fly to now, the one that you have just come from, which is not truly our war? Our clans have agreed to fight in this war, in return for a promise. That is why we are here. A promise. With that promise fulfilled, this war becomes a part of our own struggle.

“But if the promise is not fulfilled, then this war was never a part of our own struggle. Do you think this promise will be broken? Will this war be a part of our struggle as well? Or will this war be something that is not part of our struggle, making it a terrible, dishonorable war for us, the moment we know the promise would not be fulfilled.”

Dragol’s eyes ran past the massive wings of the Darrok, looking towards the other Darroks that were flying just a short distance behind them. He could see the numerous Trogens and Harraks standing about idly upon the other carriages.

He paused a few moments before answering, gathering his thoughts carefully. A part of him wondered why the old, legendary Trogen would ask him such direct, weighty questions. He knew that they were not casually voiced, as Tirok was not the kind to engage in useless banter.

Dragol’s reply came out low and even, as he held Tirok’s steady gaze. “It is almost a reality, this victory the Unifier seeks. It is close to His grasp. So many lands fight for Him. He will win this war, with or without Trogens fighting for Him. If we did not fight, we would know without doubt that no help would come for our own plight … and maybe even bring harm to our kind.

“If we fight … we may hope for help. And the Unifier may fulfill the promise. Then our own lands would no longer be denied. The past will be set to rights, and our kind will have back what was ours in the beginning. We have never asked for anything more.

“But if we did not fight, we could expect only failure in all of our hopes. It is because we fight, that we have hope. I think we had little choice. There was only one path for the Trogens to take in this war,” Dragol finished, keeping his gaze locked to the older Trogen.

Tirok continued holding his eyes to Dragol’s gaze without blinking. There was a flicker of amazement that crossed Tirok’s expression, ever so brief, but still undeniable. Dragol got the impression that Tirok approved of the younger Trogen’s answer.

“Your words speak very true, Dragol. There is wisdom in them. You would make a wise Great Chieftain in the Thunder Wolf Clan. Soon there will be no resistance to the Unifier. The Unifier can then help us. We cannot know if the promise will be fulfilled, until that time comes, but we will have done our part. We may soon be able to fight the final, great war of our kind, and free those held long in bondage.”

“And then no more wars? A part of me wonders … maybe that is not a good path,” Dragol mused, looking downward, towards the thick forests that stretched on and on, covering the low, rolling landscape.

The other Trogen turned towards Dragol with a look of understanding. As Tirok, Dragol, and all Trogens had had instilled in them from their earliest youth, wars were the most effective means of measuring a Trogen’s courage, resolve, and skill. A world without wars could only result in Trogens that were untested, unproven, and whose honor could never be known or measured. It was not a world that would be easy to contemplate for any Trogen, and certainly not one that Dragol could really grasp himself.

“No, maybe it will not be,” Tirok concurred in a solemn voice. “Maybe our kind will weaken in the absence of war. You have seen the men of Theonia.”

“The riches thin their blood … even those that claim to be warriors,” Dragol rumbled, exhibiting the significant disgust that he harbored for the Theonians.

He had heard wisps of reports that the Unifier had been forced to undertake great measures to help protect a Theonian port town. Though few Trogens could be spared on the verge of the onslaughts against the Five Realms and Saxany, some Trogen warriors had evidently been diverted to assist in the protection of the port city of Thessalas.

It was all because the Theonians could not fight off a rebellion started by a rabble of semi-nomadic people who were far inferior in wealth and weapons. If anything, the reports indicated that the Theonians had been rapidly crumbling prior to the Unifier’s intervention. In Dragol’s eyes, the Unifier should have allowed the Theonians to be crushed. It was what they truly deserved, having given over the strength of their persons and honor for mere vanities, trinkets, and baubles.

“A wealthy Trogen may forget what it is to be a Trogen,” Tirok added provocatively. He glanced towards Dragol, with a look that showed that such a possibility was one of the very few things that the old Trogen truly feared. “May it never be so, even were great material wealth to come into our possession.”

“It would be a dangerous path for our kind to follow. This age we have been given, we must grab and pull to ourselves, with an iron grip,” Dragol stated resolutely, taking a another deep, cleansing breath of the cool, early evening air. He clenched his fist, and gestured towards the horizon, as if he meant to strike out at the future itself. “Another day may come, when what we fear may come to pass…. There is little we can do once we leave this world and go to the eternal dwellings of our fathers in Elysium.

“It is nothing to worry about today. We must do everything to break the hold upon our lands. Even if it is fighting for others, as we do now. The Unifier is the first to offer to help our kind. No other, even the Kiruvans who have long bordered our lands, have ever offered such aid to us. Our part in this war is the risk we have taken. I will descend with fury on those that stand in the way of ending the long suffering that our kind has endured. We do not seek to conquer, only to regain what was stolen from us, and to free many of our brethren who live in slavery.”

A searing flame surged within Tirok’s gaze. He appeared visibly moved by Dragol’s words, and was not the only one affected by the declarative affirmation.

The Thunder Wolf warrior had reminded himself what was best about their kind. He had spoken of it during a time when all of the experience and wisdom gained through the years, even that gleaned from periods of folly, had called so many questions to mind.

Though often hidden from Dragol, such moments reminded him that he was deeply conflicted about having entered a war that even had a small chance of becoming a war without justification to the Trogens. If the Unifier did not fulfill His promise to the Trogens, once they had shed their blood in His service, this war would become precisely what he most loathed; a war that was dishonorable, and wholly unpalatable, to any worthy Trogen.

A race of beings fierce in war, and a race that derived great value from the experiences of war, Trogens were not ones to fight a war without strong reasons, based upon legitimate needs for their kind. Whether an imminent threat, or a path to liberation, such as in the current instance, war had to be pursued for an honorable reason.

Ages spent living under horrific strains within their own homelands had rendered the Trogen kind vulnerable to risking a reasonless war. It was not a small worry for Dragol to wrestle with, and he saw that the matter was little different for Tirok.

Tirok turned towards Dragol after another short period of silence. He spoke with a rising voice, one that was buoyed by his clearly rekindled spirit. “And if there will be no more wars, when we are no longer here to show our kind an honorable way, then it is we who must now be the greatest of our kind. We must leave a legacy that will last throughout the long ages to follow.”

A broad grin broke out upon Dragol’s face, showing his own large, sharp teeth. Encountering Tirok had been a most unexpected end to his long day of flight, but it certainly was a most welcome one. Dragol’s eyes burned with a barely-restrained intensity, and he felt an exhilarating mixture of reverence, awe, and pride that he was being treated as both a comrade and a peer by the renowned Tirok, the Great Chieftain of the noble Black Tiger Clan.

“Then such a legacy we will leave,” Dragol stated proudly, and with great conviction, as the winds brushed across his face.

SECTION III

*

Mershad

*

Mershad’s body was permeated with soreness, thoroughly chafed from the prolonged saddle ride, as the group finally reached the outskirts of Midragard. Becoming more attuned to the two companions from his home world, he could see that neither had been immune to the harsh effects of the lengthy journey. Kent’s grumbling had increased significantly over the past few hours, while Derek’s unwavering, stoic demeanor was a telltale sign of the discomforts that he was enduring.

While Mershad was aware that they were all enraptured by the electrifying sensations and spectacular views afforded by the high altitude, open-air flight, he knew that his companions were anything but upset that the journey’s end was finally within reach. As for himself, he was more than ready to feel the reassuring presence of solid ground lying directly beneath his feet.

The lands of Midragard initially appeared as a sprawling haze on the far horizon, the sight instantly raising the spirits of their stalwart Midragardan guide, Einar. Prior to that moment, Einar was shrouded in a deep, brooding silence, even during the few times when the group had landed for the night, to rest themselves and their hard-pressed steeds.

The first such respite had taken place at a small farm and homestead, situated upon an island that was not much bigger than the one that they had escaped from. Mershad and his comrades had consumed a little food, and then had barely gotten a few hours rest when Einar had brusquely pressed them onward, much to the protest of their generous hosts. Kent had shared the reluctance, as the farmstead’s occupants were more than willing to share ale and meat with their visitors. He had held his tongue, which did not surprise Mershad, even as boisterous as Kent had shown himself to be, as Einar’s blackened mood stifled any arguments on the matter.

A couple of layovers later, they had caused much more of a commotion within a market town that was located on a sizeable island, which they had learned was not all that far from Midragard itself. The great jarl of that large hall, a demonstrative, haughty man named Atli, had nearly come to physical blows with Einar at being denied a good tale and the opportunity for some time spent with the exotic foreign travelers.

The surly giant of a man was held back only by the slim thread of a fact that Einar was taking them directly to King Hakon, at the king’s firm request. Mershad was relieved that things had not worsened. Even though Einar was a strong man, the glittering, crazed look that flared within the jarl’s eyes heralded the presence of a very dangerous individual. Had the argument broken down into a melee, Mershad was not all that certain that Einar would have emerged in a condition capable of continuing their flight together.

The air had cooled precipitously as they proceeded deeper southward. At Einar’s behest, the party had all been provided with fur-lined cloaks for the last stretches of travel.

Mershad had encountered some trouble donning his own cloak, fumbling with the pin of the bronze ring-brooch, as he worked to clasp the woolen cloak at his right shoulder. He had no difficulty motivating himself to pull the cloak more snugly about his body within the brisk, icy winds that they encountered when climbing up into the airy heights. He found himself pulling the front of his tunic up like a makeshift mask for his face, his skin having become slightly numb with the incessant flow of chilly air against it.

Mershad had no choice but to set his mind firmly against the cold as they continued onward. Eventually, and mercifully, he found himself becoming more inured to the chill. He was settled well into that state on the afternoon that the outskirts of Midragard had drawn into sight.

The hazy, shadowy forms spanning the distant horizon were soon revealed to be a great land front. The broad boundary was marked by an expansive stretch of high crags, cliffs, and mountains, their continuity broken up by deep channels and rivulets that cut far into them from the sea.

The Fenraren and their riders were no longer the lone occupants of the air, as a number of seabirds flew about in the skies all around them. A few curious gulls shadowed Mershad’s party from a safe distance, loosing excited cries, as if extending the incoming party a boisterous welcome. The sight of the birds and the land brought a smile to Mershad’s face, raising his attentiveness to take in the full spectrum of their approach.

Their avian visitors continued to glide and dart around the Fenraren, as if providing a kind of escort. The winged steeds paid the seabirds little heed, and were not distracted in the least by their sustained chorus of squawks and cries. The Fenraren kept their loose formation and did not react, other than to growl whenever one of the birds drifted too near.

“There!” Einar suddenly yelled out to the party, pointing downward with a burst of enthusiasm, of a kind that had not been present during the entire journey.

Mershad looked down to see a number of shapes darting swiftly along the surface of the water, their small, triangular dorsal fins the only part of their bodies that cleaved the ocean’s surface. The porpoises moved with a swift, elegant grace, powerfully cutting through the water as they swam in a unified cluster.

Not long after they sighted the porpoises, a massive explosion of spray denoted the presence of a behemoth that had just surfaced for breath. Mershad looked down in sheer wonderment, as the huge fin whale descended towards the depths once again, its enormous tail briefly lifting out from the water, and coming down with a thunderous splash. Another fin whale, a monstrosity well over seventy-five feet in length, surfaced just a moment later, replenishing its own breath and sending a fountain of water soaring into the air before submerging to join its oceanic companion.

Soon after, Mershad sighted a pod of around fifteen whales, of a markedly different type with distinctly rounded heads. On average, they were only a fourth of the size of the great fin whales.

“Now they have the right idea,” Einar exclaimed loudly, as an assortment of skerries came into view, breaking up the blue of the ocean. The small, rocky islands were scattered all across the surface of the water, rendered in a wide array of irregular shapes. “What I would not give to just lie around, and indulge myself in as much herring as my belly could hold!”

Einar’s eyes were fixed upon a host of life forms that had taken occupancy of the skerries, basking in the open sun on the broad rock surfaces. A few of the seals flopped into the water as Mershad gazed down on them.

“Best they be careful though,” Einar then added, gesturing off towards the right.

A few tall, ebony dorsal fins protruded far out of the water, mixed with ones of a lower profile. They were spaced well apart, and attached to massive bodies lurking just beneath the waves. The killer whales were large, some being nearly thirty feet in length. The pack of predators were still a good distance away from the main concentration of seals, but Mershad did not doubt that the bulky hunters were well aware of the seals’ territory.

A series of high escarpments met the sea a short distance beyond the end of the staggered array of skerries. The expanse of cliffs was riddled with crevices, ledges, and nooks, where a host of seabirds had made their homes. Vegetation was scanty around the first series of cliffs and mountains, with very sparse tree growth visible. Lichens clung to rock facings, coating them with a deep green.

Still at their lead, Einar turned his steed to the left, so that their course shadowed the cliff facings. The jagged facades defiantly withstood the ocean and its crashing waves, which boomed thunderously into their bases. The passage of the Fenraren stirred up a number of the cliff-side denizens, stoking the seabirds’ more cautious, protective instincts around their nesting sites. A few throaty rumbles and bared teeth from the Fenraren prevented the seabirds from becoming overly bold in warding their nests.

The quartet soon passed into a more mountainous area, where regal fjords reached deeper into the landmass. The fjords, mountains, and other natural elements were incredible to behold. Mershad glimpsed thickly forested valleys nestled among the towering heights. Flashes of vibrant gold broke up the rich green blanketing the valleys, exposing meadows gilded in golden, floral brilliance. The group had continued by a few gleaming channels, before a particularly broad channel beckoned to them, from up ahead to the right.

“The Silver Fjord!” Einar shouted. “This is where we pass into the heart of Midragard!”

Einar guided them down from the upper heights, turning them to the right as they descended through the air over the center of the great fjord. The wide, sparkling waters indeed looked like a silvery pathway, as the great fjord reflected the light of the sun with a jewel’s splendor.

The steep, elevated heights flanking the fjord looked foreboding and uninhabitable. Yet not everything within the confines of the fjord and its bordering rises was inhospitable. Once flying down the length of the fjord, Mershad espied some relatively narrow stretches of flatter, greener land hugging the water’s edge, some of the expanses reaching a little farther back than others.

On more than one of the larger swathes, Mershad observed the rectangular structures and cleared land that indicated the presence of modest farmsteads. Clusters of sheep and cattle grazed idly out in the open air, taking little notice of the group as they passed overhead.

The first signs of ships then began to come into sight, as Mershad beheld some vessels pulled up onto the shorelines of the farmsteads, and a few out upon the fjord waters. The forms of the ships became increasingly clearer to the eye, as Mershad’s group descended lower. Some were simply very small rowing vessels, while others were longships, provided with both a mast and square sail.

Mershad looked farther ahead, and was instantly struck by the sheer magnitude and beauty of the majestic fjord. Tree growth had increased substantially, conifers such as spruce and pine rising up from the steep slopes, some clinging tenaciously to sparse holds along the minimal rocky ledges and crevices.

The resplendent waters continued forward between two particularly massive mountains, just a short distance ahead. The great rises flanked the water, looking like mirror images of each other.

“The Great Helms! You can see why they are named so,” Einar called to Mershad and the others, gesturing towards the two towering rock formations, which did resemble the profile of the conical helms worn by the Midragardans. “Old tales say great giants that are the offspring of gods stand beneath them to this day, awaiting the final battle of Ragaras-Narok.”

Mershad had almost no idea of what Einar was referring to, but was fascinated by the claim nonetheless. The huge mountains were certainly of a size capable of containing giants, if such beings even existed.

The party was then blessed with an unfettered view of the gorgeous scenes spread all around them, as the sun broke out fully from the scudding clouds far overhead. The clear skies allowed for dramatic effects from the sun’s radiance, as the mountains along the fjord broke the beaming rays up. Striking contrasts were created instantly, as the greater portion of a mountain’s facing on one side was left draped in shadow, while the areas opposite it, across the fjord, were bathed in an abundance of golden light.

More than once, the quartet passed by dazzling waterfalls that tumbled and cascaded with silvery grace down the facings of towering escarpments. Some falls looked like long staircases carved into the sides of the lofty mountains, while others poured over the lips of high ledges, to plummet great distances into pools far below.

A few of the great mountains were still crowned in pure white, their summits reaching high enough that snows could continue to resist the onset of spring.

Einar drew the Fenraren even lower as they passed down the Silver Fjord, until Mershad was able to make out the faces of the people on the ships and settlements that they encountered along their path. The water and land collaborated to form a dizzying array of offshoots, nooks, and crannies, but Einar had no trouble in navigating the seeming maze, as they kept faithfully to the main channel of the fjord.

The Silver Fjord twisted and turned as it drove ever deeper into the Midragardan lands. Mershad sat back in his saddle, wholly content to relax, and take in the surrounding sights. He noticed that the traffic on the water was picking up considerably, with a much greater frequency of boats visible.

He also noticed that the mountains were gradually lowering in height, some more aptly described as great hills. His suspicions that they were approaching a larger settlement, or series of settlements, were confirmed not long afterwards. Expecting a larger estate or a small town, Mershad realized that he had greatly underestimated in his conjecture, as a very large market town loomed into sight. An expanse filled with edifices, the market town was spread out ahead of them, from the left side of the fjord.

A vast, semi-circular earthen rampart and timber palisade shielded the market town’s landward side. A ditch and moat paralleled the course of the rampart, reinforcing the protective elements. The curving outer wall was pierced by three main gates, providing access into the town. Each gate was provided with timber bridges that spanned the exterior ditch and moat. Stout wooden towers of a square profile were perched atop the gates. Armed warriors stood upon the upper platforms of the towers, overseeing the principle entrance and exit points of the large market town.

An amalgam of packhorses, pedestrians, and carts could be seen in the process of approaching, or departing from, the market town. Many were moving along the earthen pathways running across the neighboring lands up to the market town, and all manner of traffic was entering and exiting through the three main gates. The town itself was awash with vibrant activity. Narrow streets surfaced with wooden planking were lined on the sides by a variety of timber-built structures. Low fences demarcated larger plots of land, upon which multiple buildings had been erected.

The fjord’s waters around the market town teemed with numerous ships, of a great range of sizes. The area was itself provided with a kind of palisade, which formed a large crescent extending far out into the water from the town’s edge.