Dream of Legends (59 page)

Their abandonment, and defiance of him, had tempered any regrets that he might otherwise have had. After what they had done, he would never have been able to feel affinity towards any of them again.

Further, if Gavnar and any Thunder Wolves survived the battle, he would have simply challenged all of them to single combat. He would have slain them one at a time, his longblade quenching its thirst on their rebellious blood.

Dragol had been very clear to Gavnar and the others that they would still fight in the Trogen way, under his plan. He was simply not inclined to throw those under his command away in futility. Gaining the most advantageous position for battle was not a wrongdoing, nor was it avoidance. It offered a more propitious fight, fully honorable in nature, and, though the chances were still very slim, it offered the only real prospects for victory.

Jaws clenched within the severe tension that his ruminations invoked, such that his neck muscles bulged, he turned and got back to his feet. Taking the lead, he guided his mount deeper through the trees. He took the creature in a direction that he estimated would be leading away from the main courses of bombardment.

He had to move quickly, as the result of the combat in the sky was a foregone conclusion. It was very possible that enemy riders had seen him descending. In such numbers as they had, he could still find himself casting his life away vainly, even if he took many down with him.

Dying in such a manner would not bring any benefit to the Trogens, or aid their longtime struggle. Survival was the only choice for him to pursue, even if those chances were far from good.

Keeping the reins of the Harrak in his left hand, clenched firmly along his shield grip, he grasped his Trogen longblade in his right. Eyes peeled, peering with rigid scrutiny into the shadows of the forest, he was sensitive to any movements. Nothing of alarm was forthcoming as he continued, and he eventually came upon a wide, shallow stream. In a turn of fortune, the stream’s route continued more or less in the direction that he had chosen. The water flowed calmly and timelessly, as if nothing was amiss in the woods, or above in the skies.

With a little cajoling, Dragol guided his steed into the midst of the shallow water in order to eliminate the existence of a scented trail for potential pursuers. His leather boots sank into the mud of the stream’s bedding, as the cool water soaked through to his skin. The cold liquid almost mirrored the brooding, chaotic thoughts that kept penetrating, and permeating, his tumultuous mind.

His eyes scanned for any rock surface breaking clear of the water, but there was very little to be found. Their scents might be covered, but he had tracked and hunted enough animals to know that the soft mud beneath the soles of his boots, and the clawed feet of his steed, were leaving some very visible signs for anyone, or anything, with perceptive, experienced eyes.

He had to keep going forward, as it was most imperative to get away from the clearing where he had landed. Despite any concerns that he harbored about tracks, he knew that he had to press forward to achieve as much distance as possible.

The sounds of battle overhead soon faded away, as Dragol covered a significant amount of ground. At last, he came to a halt, and decided to address his concerns a little. Using his longblade, he cut off a thin, overhanging branch from a tree perched on the edge of the bank to his right. Securing his Harrak for a moment to the same tree, he doubled back to use the branch to brush the bottom of the stream over a long section of their trail.

He also spared a few moments to make some false tracks of his own at the onset of the cleared segment, giving the appearance that he had climbed out of the stream where the previous signs had ended. The time spent disguising their passage gave him some further peace of mind. Under the weighty circumstances, that slight easement was a great boon to his spirit.

There were still no signs of enemy pursuit, the tribal fighters, or even the allied, invading force, as he methodically worked back to his Harrak and untied it, to resume their sojourn. Dragol began to entertain the notion of risking a climb above the tree line, in order to see if the skies were clear.

Scanning the surrounding trees, he looked for ones that appeared promising for a dedicated climb by a heavy-bodied Trogen. The forest possessed a variety of trees, and there were several old, stout sentinels in view, whose branches would bear his weight capably high above.

Determining upon one such tree, he led the Harrak back out of the water. The mud sucked at his boots as he pulled his legs up from the stream, and strode over the embankment. He drew near to the old oak tree, and was about to tether the Harrak to the lower branch of a smaller tree close by when several bird cries broke the heavy silence of the forest.

Instinctively honing in upon the subtlest aspects of the sounds, he suspected that the bird cries had not been generated by any manner of feathered entities. There was just something a little different in tone about the cries, even though they sounded very authentic.

Hunting a variety of creatures within his own homelands, many of them perilous, he had become very attuned to the nuances of animal and bird sounds. Birds sometimes heralded the presence of a dangerous animal moving in the vicinity, alerting the surrounding forest. The cries reaching Dragol’s ears did indeed proclaim a presence, but they were not testifying to the approach of a forest predator.

The elvish raiders that plagued Dragol’s own homelands used animal cries when they undertook their intrusive forays. Dragol was still alive because he had long ago learned to discern the differences between an Elf mimicking a bird or animal, and the genuine bird or animal itself.

He stroked the neck of his Harrak, working to keep Rodor calm as he led the creature up a little rise to the right, where there was an area of low, thickly-grown brush. When they reached the brush, he found a small space that they could pass through. Once through, he used both hands to tug gently on the reins in a way that prompted the Harrak to lay down flat upon the ground.

Dutifully, as the Harrak had been trained, Rodor obeyed, and Dragol lowered himself down beside the prone creature. Becoming as still as stone, Dragol peered through small gaps in the growth towards the area where the bird calls seemed to be coming from.

His sharp ears picked up a couple of light crackles, as something stepped upon dry, fallen leaves. Using the sounds as a reference, he reoriented his watch along the other side of the stream, expecting some kind of forms to emerge into sight at any moment.

While not perfect, the steps of those approaching were achieved with an extremely skillful silence. Dragol realized that whomever, or whatever, was approaching, they were very adept at moving within a forest environment. As one used to forest lands himself, and highly skilled in traversing them, he greatly respected their demonstrated ability, knowing at once that it would be folly to take them lightly.

“Stay!” Dragol whispered firmly to Rodor, as he lay his shield flat upon the ground. He gave the creature a pat on the flank as he shifted silently away, painstakingly taking step by step in a crouched position.

With slow, deliberate steps, he paced over to a tree possessing an expansive girth. He straightened up to his full height behind the trunk of it, so that he was completely hidden by the tree’s form.

A few more bird calls, a snap of a twig, and another low crunch of a leaf indicated that those approaching had not yet reached the stream. With the utmost care, Dragol brought the edge of his face around the trunk until his peripheral vision could take in the ground beyond the channel of water.

Dragol then got his first look at the enemy tribesmen from the ground level. A small party of Five Realms warriors was moving through the trees, drawing near to the bank of the stream. As far as he could tell, he could make out the forms of about fifteen of the silent, gracefully-moving warriors. They all had a somber, hardened look about them. A particularly muscular, older warrior walked at the forefront of the loose formation, in which each warrior was spread well apart from the others.

Their heads were shaven, save for tufts of hair sprouting from the center, several with the feathers of birds affixed. Many had noses or ears decorated with some kind of small implements that appeared to pierce the flesh.

Most of the warriors had their upper bodies bared, wearing hide leggings and a type of short, buckskin kilt. A kind of leather shoe covered their feet, the top edge turned downward into a flap. They traveled lightly, carrying little more than their weapons and leather pouches, the latter richly embroidered, hanging at their waists from straps running across their chests from the opposite shoulder.

A few of their hand weapons were short-hafted axes and spears. Both had steel affixed to their ends, the former a single edged blade, and the other an elongated, sharp point. Most carried a kind of curving war club, shaped out of a length of wood.

A couple bore shields made of thin rods lashed together by hide thongs. Several had a kind of dagger sheathed in a hide case, woven with designs, hanging down to rest just below their chest from a leather cord worn about the neck.

At first, Dragol perceived that they had the most unusual skin tones of any being that he had ever encountered, until he fathomed that they were covered in body paint. It had been applied in a purposeful symmetry that covered one half of their body in red, and the other in black. Dragol quickly observed that the red and black combination enhanced their ability to blend with shadows and foliage.

As warriors of lands with a low population, Dragol did not have to confront them to know that they were very likely to be capable fighters. Alone, he did not stand much of a chance against fifteen of them, especially in light of the fact that several were also carrying longbows.

The warriors with bows had full quivers at their shoulders, hanging from straps similar to those that held their pouches. The quivers were fashioned from some kind of woven vegetable husks, or bark. It did not take much imagination for Dragol to envision the archers fanning out all around him, picking him off easily from the shadows with well-aimed shafts.

He could tell by their positioning that they were not moving towards a specific destination. The group proceeded as if they expected to encounter opposition with every step that they took. Their weapons were kept at the ready, and their heads remained as still as their rigid gazes.

The arrangement and number of the war party, within an obviously contested area, also told him something more of their nature of war. The tribesmen, as he had guessed, were disposed towards a method of warfare utilizing smaller contingents of warriors.

A group such as the one before him was not structured to clash directly with the much more numerous forces of the Galleans. Instead, the tribesmen could strike swiftly and with cohesion, chipping away at a massed enemy, rather than engaging them openly.

Dragol understood both types of warfare, as the Trogens employed each type in their contests amongst each other, against marauding Elves, and in the few conflicts that had occurred with the Kiruvans to the south.

Understanding the Five Realms’ methods of war and surviving the moment were still two different matters, though, and Dragol had only one real option before him. If discovered, with nowhere to run, and no clearings through which he could take his Harrak upwards, he would have to fight.

He was more than resolved to try and surmount the incredible odds. Determined to face whatever befell him, he edged his longblade up until he felt the cold steel blade close to the right side of his face.

He hoped that the enemy warriors would cross the stream and continue on past him, bringing the tree he was behind into line with the middle of their formation. At the least, if his position was uncovered, he could fall upon them swiftly.

If he could assault the tribesmen by manifesting abruptly within their midst, he just might be able to delay their use of bows, and perhaps slay several before a concerted counterattack could be made. His blade would have to be swung powerfully and true, and he would have to execute his attack with lightning speed. It was a close to impossible chance, but it was still a chance nonetheless.

The muffled sounds of cries echoed in the distance, erupting from somewhere far off to his left. They immediately drew his attention away from the warriors, as a flash of worry over being caught in the middle of a battle breaking out from all sides struck him. A second later, he returned his gaze back to watching the war party, taking into account the remoteness of the sounds.

The faraway noises had brought the warriors to a complete halt. After the warrior at their lead conferred in whispers with the two tribesmen next to him, he called out a couple of the bird cry signals. Almost as one body, the tribal warriors broke into a run, taking swift, loping strides, as they moved off in a hurry towards the direction of the sounds.

With extreme patience, Dragol waited until they had passed far beyond his sight. For a few extra moments, he stared in the direction that the war party had come from, to see if any other groups of tribesmen were coming up behind the first.

Satisfied that the area was clear for the time being, he carefully lowered himself into a crouch, and moved back to where his Harrak had kept a silent vigil. Reaching out, he gave the creature a slow, affectionate stroke on the neck.

“Good, Rodor … very good,” he whispered, as the creature brought its great head around to nuzzle its master.

Dragol then waited behind the cover of the forest undergrowth for a little longer as a precaution, watching and listening carefully. The forest remained still, and ultimately he was satisfied that he could attempt to move forward again.

“Rise!” Dragol whispered sharply, prodding the Harrak to get back up to its feet.

For the size that it was, the creature responded almost without a sound. Its front legs pushed straight up, and then the Harrak got its hind legs underneath, as it leaned forward, rising up smoothly to its full height.