Dream of Legends (58 page)

Turning his head, he looked back over his shoulder. He saw that the Darroks had covered quite a distance as he and Tirok waited, having drifted much farther to the north in the intervening time. The Trogen archers on their backs must have gauged that they had ample time to respond to attacks, as a small level of bombardment had resumed. Dragol watched the Darroks for a few moments, as several rivulets of dense rock were unloaded and sent towards the ground below.

Dragol surmised that the Darrok crews must have discovered an inviting target, though he knew that all of the Trogens involved would rather be with Tirok and Dragol.

Loud outcries jerked his attention back around towards the front.

“Fenraren! Midragardans!” an excited shout loudly proclaimed, from just to his right.

Dragol stared back out towards the living cloud coming from the east. It had drawn close enough for him now to make out the triangular ears and elongated muzzles of the storied Fenraren from Midragard. The morning sun glinted off the iron helms of their riders, and he could hear their exuberant shouts, as they streaked towards the Trogens with deadly intent.

The sight thrilled him, as Midragardans were no cowards, and were certainly the manner of fighters that brought great merit to those that overcame them. Dragol’s grip on his longblade tightened, as an adrenalized feeling washed over him. At last, he was being set free.

Yet his rush of excitement did not overwhelm his sensibilities. Ominiously, Dragol could clearly see that there were several ranks of mounted Midragardans flying tightly behind the others that had formed the main cloud outline from a distance. The Midragardans had taken a direct approach, on a roughly even line with the Trogens, holding a formation that had effectively masked their true numbers.

Tirok’s spoken concern was now a very grim reality. The Midragardans did indeed have them heavily outnumbered.

Dragol swiftly glanced over to Tirok, whose eyes were narrowed as he studied the enemy sky riders, now that they were close enough to scrutinize.

In Dragol’s mind, it would be much better to have the support of the archers on the back of the Darroks. There would be some risk of a few Trogen sky warriors being hit by the arrows, but the enemy cloud would be divided up, and prevented from easily concentrating. A chaotic melee, in Dragol’s judgement, would serve the Trogens much better. It would reduce the advantage of far superior numbers, and allow the Trogens to chip away at the Midragardan force, piece by piece.

“You see the numbers they have. What do you say?” Dragol asked Tirok. “Should we hasten to the Darroks?”

The more he thought about the situation, the more Dragol realized that they must not abandon the Darroks. The Midragardans were great enough in number that they could engage all the riders in the sky, and still have a considerable number to spare for sending after the Darroks.

The last thing that needed to happen was to have the Trogens in the sky separated from the Darroks. Dragol scanned the oncoming force, and a part of him felt that such an idea was very likely within the minds of the enemy’s leaders. One force would engulf Dragol and Tirok’s group, while another would race after the Darroks.

Tirok’s knuckles whitened as he firmly gripped the shaft of his long lance, lowering the broad, socketed blade at its end. The traces of a crazed look were spreading in his dark eyes. Tirok had long been renowned as a living maelstrom in battle, and Dragol was undoubtedly witnessing the calm before the storm.

“Midragardans … a day to remember arrives. Not too many! We will fight them!” Tirok rumbled in a low, growling voice, his face taking on a dangerous hue, as his eyes flashed fiercely.

Consumed by the searing heat of the moment, given a chance to match arms with skilled riders upon the legendary Fenraren of Midragard, Tirok raised his war shield and shouted a bellowing war cry. With a dig of his heels to the sides of his mount, he spurred his Harrak forward, into the airborne semblance of a charge.

Before Dragol could do anything to stem the outright madness, and temper the older warrior’s battle rage, the multitude of Trogens directly under Tirok followed suit. They drew their longblades, or adjusted the grip and position of their lances, before roaring their own war cries and hurtling forth towards the oncoming Midragardans upon their Fenraren.

Those under Dragol’s direct command looked towards him with shock and disbelief, as if they could not believe he was not following after the legendary Tirok.

The second warrior in command, a burly Trogen of the Sea Wolf clan named Gavnar, whose face was streaked with scars gained from many fights, cried out in dismay, “We must charge! Dragol, Tirok has moved!”

Dragol held up on the reins of his Harrak. He was bold, passionate, and eager, almost without rival, but he was also no fool. Nor was he suicidal. The insanity that had suddenly gripped Tirok had transferred to the sorely outnumbered Trogen ranks, beckoning to take all of them on a path to what would undoubtedly be their doom, and leave the Darroks unprotected.

If the Darroks were isolated, the Unifier’s prized creatures could be overcome, and Dragol did not want to think of what the consequences would be if that happened. The Avanoran leaders had been very clear about the vital importance of the Darroks to the Unifier. The Unifier might well disregard His promises in the face of such a great loss, and then all the Trogen sacrifice in the war would come to absolutely nothing.

“We must fall back to the Darroks!” Dragol roared out. “We must split up the enemy, and protect the Darroks. We will fight them there, blade to blade, but not foolishly!”

“We must go, now! After Tirok,” Gavnar shouted urgently.

“The Midragardans want us to! They want to keep us away from the Darroks. They have the numbers to do this! I tell you, Gavnar, we will fight them! But we will fight them by the Darroks!” Dragol thundered back.

Gavnar snarled openly at him. The thick-headed Trogen screamed back in a near delirium, one that was devoid of any rational consideration. “You coward! You are unfit to lead. All with me, after Tirok! To battle, now!”

Before Dragol could strike the insubordinate Gavanar down, the lower-ranking Trogen warrior broke ranks and urged his Harrak forward. Dragol looked on in sheer disbelief, as all of those under his command were swept up in their heated passions and mutinied, following in the wake of Gavnar. Their feelings had overridden all of their discipline and senses. Caught up in the apex of emotion, and the shadow of the storied Tirok, they had abandoned Dragol.

He looked onward, frozen in incredulity that his fellow Trogens had openly defied his authority. His dismay far overshadowed any rage that he felt towards Gavnar’s tremendous insult. In an instant, he was alone, as the second group of Trogens raced after Tirok’s contingent.

Despite being called a coward, quite possibly the worst accusation that could be rendered from one Trogen to another, Dragol mastered his emotions. As clarity seeped back into his mind, he felt pity towards Gavnar and the other Trogens.

A cold, dizzying feeling then came over him, as fresh doubts tugged inside. Dragol suddenly feared that he had failed a test of himself. The disconcerting moment passed swiftly, as there was only time to react. No matter which way he looked at it, there were more than enough Midragardans to engage the Trogen sky warriors and to continue onward, to assail the now vulnerable Darroks.

Taking a quick look behind him, Dragol saw that the Darrok formation, with a group of archers readied on every carriage, had progressed a little further to the north. Isolated, and with enemies riding upon swift Fenraren, he realized with a sickening feeling that he would be overwhelmed by numbers alone before he could even reach the Darroks, and help to command the defense.

Even as he took measure of his own situation, and the exposed nature of the Darroks, the Midragardans were spreading outward. They flowed into a swiftly expanding array, taking full advantage of their greater numbers in a shape that would soon engulf the sides of the foolhardy Trogens streaking towards them.

They were doing exactly what Dragol had thought they would do. He was about to be caught himself in the widening, airborne jaws, and for all practical purposes he might as well have been dead in his saddle.

He had desired a time for valor, but his keener senses screamed out for intelligent discretion under the circumstances. Dragol had long been trusting of his deeper instincts, which shouted out louder to him than they ever had before.

To remain in place was to die in vain, utterly useless to his clan and his homeland, the victim of one’s outright foolishness, and another’s rebellious disobedience. There was no honor in such a futile death, and he knew that he would never reach the Darroks in time to be of any use to their defense.

There was no other option available to the Trogen warrior than downward. He knew that he only needed to gain some time. There was a little hope that the Midragardan numbers could be worn down enough such that the archers on the back of the Darroks could fend the surviving fighters off. In that way, Tirok’s suicidal charge might produce some good yet.

If Dragol reemerged from the forest, after the Midragardans had been fought off, he could likely make it back to the main encampment, or join the Darroks en route. Once back in the encampment, he would have word of Tirok’s bout of insanity carried to Tragan, who would immediately question why Dragol had not remained in the fight.

Dragol could only hope that Tragan would eventually realize Tirok’s sheer rashness. The fact that the Darroks had been left undefended by the other’s reckless action, and that many had disobeyed Dragol in his own efforts to adhere to Tragan’s firm orders regarding that task, would not likely be well received by the stern Trogen commander.

Even so, the mutiny would probably serve to undermine Dragol’s own future viability as a commander. Yet it was a chance that he would have to take.

The ground below was still fraught with risk, as he was far ahead of the advancing Gallean lines, well within the range controlled by the tribal warriors. He knew that he had to gain some distance from the areas where the Darroks had recently bombarded, or he might be setting down amongst an enraged mass of tribal people, aching for revenge.

He had to risk that danger, nonetheless, if he wanted to have any hope of surviving the day. Death he did not fear, but dying for sheer foolhardiness had to be averted.

Taking a deep breath, he clenched Rodor’s reins, and guided his Harrak into a swooping, diagonal course towards the trees. It carried him farther away from the bombarded area, and also put a little more distance between himself and the oncoming Midragardans.

His mount slowed down considerably as he neared the vicinity of the forest’s upper canopy, gliding smoothly into a level path of flight. Dragol cruised slowly, as he searched anxiously for an open meadow or other break in the trees. In an older forest, such as the one below, there were several places where storms or the passing of time created such holes in treecover. Exhaling a sustained breath of relief, he finally espied such an opening, and angled Rodor for it right away.

The fissure in the sea of trees was large enough for Dragol to comfortably descend through it upon his Harrak, though he maneuvered the steed down as carefully as he could. The leaves of the nearby trees rustled as the Harrak’s broad wings beat hard, clipping some leaves on the edges of a few branches.

The Harrak landed relatively smoothly upon the forest floor, off to the side of a long-rotted, fallen tree, which was now little more than a softening, decomposing mass. The trees ringing the small clearing obstructed much of his view of the skies above. Not knowing when the Midragardan warriors might pass over the place where he had landed, he knew that he had to take immediate cover.

Dragol’s eyes darted about, cursing the deep shadows of the forest. The dimmer depths of the woods encompassing him required a few moments of time for his eyes to adjust from the bright skies that he had left behind.

As his eyes began to pierce the dappled gloom, he was relieved to find that there were no signs of Five Realms warriors present, or any other imminent threats. Dragol had little doubt that the tribesmen would not be in the mood to extend him a warm welcome.

Grabbing the reins to his steed, he strode forward, leading Rodor into the trees. No longer exposed in the open, he turned and lowered into a crouch behind some brush, staring back up to the skies through the clearing.

Though distant, and high in altitude, the winds carried the sounds of the furious, ongoing clash between the Trogens and Midragardans. Another pang of guilt struck him, as part of him wished that he was slashing through the Midragardan warriors, rather than slinking about the forest floor in the middle of the Five Realms. Dragol was not a Trogen who shirked from fighting any opponent, and even if his choice made strategic sense, it still left him conflicted.

His blood boiling with anger and frustration, he reminded himself once again of the undeniable circumstances regarding the situation above. The badly outnumbered Trogen warriors under his command had openly defied his order and authority, and, by doing so, had ultimately opposed Tragan’s firm directives. Disobedience to a chieftain, or a warrior delegated to command, was a great transgression. It was one that Dragol was not guilty of in any way, as he had dutifully honored Tragan’s orders. Gavnar and the others had sorely violated the ages-old tradition, and Dragol knew that he bore no guilt for their senseless choice.

Even so, the grave infraction had been committed by a number of Trogens from the Thunder Wolf clan, among those who had been hovering with Dragol. They had effectively abandoned a chieftain of their own clan, which made it all the more painful and confusing to him.

Dragol was not about to second guess his decision, knowing in his heart that he had made the wiser choice. The sudden mutiny would have just carried him to certain destruction, if he had chosen to follow after the other Trogens by himself. He had known without a doubt that they were about to be swarmed by the much larger Midragardan force, and those under his command should have trusted his judgement.