A smaller Avanoran force, which was a modestly sized army in itself, would soon be breaking off from the teeming masses to head directly through the region where Dragol was now standing. The Avanorans’ unimpeded passage, and the crucial matter of determining their most advantageous route of travel, were squarely upon the shoulders of Dragol and the other Trogens.
Dragol understood that this second, offshoot force was integral to the overall invasion campaign. Its task was to penetrate the Saxan lands in such a way that the forces assembling for the defense of the Saxan Kingdom, against the main thrust of the invasion, could be outflanked, and then cut off from their own main route of escape.
The Trogen leader saw the simple brilliance in the plans envisioned by the powers in Avanor. The great hammer that was the primary invasion force would smash the defenders against the anvil formed by the smaller force.
Given what he thought of humankind, Dragol sometimes found himself wondering as to why the Saxans were so resolved to fight. He did not doubt that they were well aware of the immensity of the force that was being sent against them.
Most other human-ruled lands had capitulated to, or placated, Avanor without a battle having ever taken place. Why the Saxans were among the very few exceptions remained a question, though it made Dragol respect them more than those lands that had acquiesced and surrendered their ultimate sovereignty so easily.
It was in such moments of rumination that he acutely remembered his own troubled homelands, and the age-old, relentless struggles of the Trogens against the Elven menace.
The Trogens’ long-established nemesis held numerous advantages in the great conflict between the two races, but no matter how powerful the Elves were, no worthy Trogen would ever capitulate in the fight. The Trogens had suffered terribly for ages, but as a whole they still remained unconquered. Every last Trogen would resist until the Trogen population held captive within Elven lands was freed, and the shadow of the Elves’ persecution was fully removed from Trogen lands.
Seen in the light of his own kind’s struggle, Dragol could certainly relate to the spirited, defiant response of the Saxans. Their great resolve against insurmountable odds made him respect them all the more, which was precisely why his burden in the present moment was made that much more difficult. In the pure core of his heart, he wanted to extend honor to the Saxan dead as well as his own.
“Get the Harraks heading back to the camp, with the best weaponry and mail that can be taken from here. Take an escort of five warriors, and press with all haste to the encampment. The rest of us will set off to search after these unknown scavengers,” Dragol stated to the other Trogen.
“It shall be done,” the Trogen answered, lowering his golden eyes and giving a slight bow of the head.
Dragol then personally selected the five warrior escorts that would return with the confiscated swords, helms, and mail shirts. All were exceptional fighters, which would help offset the lack of numbers in the returning party. The Saxans had not yet appeared upon their own breed of sky steeds, to challenge the Trogens in the skies over their lands, but Dragol was not about to become reckless in carrying out his charges.
The orders were promptly carried out. The pack-bearing Harraks were soon loaded up to capacity with the remaining weapons, both Trogen and Saxan, and any other prominent items that could be salvaged and denied to the enemy.
Accompanied by the six Trogen warriors, the small group of Harraks was spurred forward and off of the ground. The contingent flew off at a slow pace, laden with the confiscated items.
Dragol watched their departure for a few moments, and then brought his eyes back to his immediate surroundings. He gnashed his teeth in bitter regret as his eyes came across the body of a particular young Trogen warrior that had fallen the previous day. He knew the warrior well, who had been one of his personal favorites.
The dead warrior’s amulet, set with large claws from the great forest wolverines for which his clan was named, had already been retrieved. Small personal items, especially those things that related to a warrior’s clan affiliation, had been immediately taken so that the warriors could be honored and remembered at a later time. Items such as the amulet would be passed on with great reverence, to be held with pride by others in the clan that the slain warrior had belonged to.
Dragol simply wished that he could set fire to the bodies of the brave Trogen warriors, as well as to those of the equally courageous enemy fighters. None of them deserved to have their remains be food for carrion. All of the slain fighters deserved a welcome place in Elysium.
Yet he knew that he could not allow their bodies to be consumed by flame. The smoke from the open fires would signal to the enemy for leagues around. It would mark the vital territory for a wary enemy, one that could adjust and more capably prepare for the approaching incursion.
In war, even the slightest change in timing or advantage could become critical to the outcome.
Dragol tore his eyes away, and with a loud cry he summoned the other Trogens back to their steeds. He mounted his stalwart, dutiful Harrak, which had remained in place for him where he had left it. He took up the creature’s reins after buckling the straps that secured him to the low saddle.
Dragol, with fifteen other riders gathered about him, gave another resonant shout. At the signal, the steeds surged forward in a staggered line, sprang upward, and ascended into the air on the strength of their powerful wings. The Trogens headed off in the direction of the forest, almost immediately reaching its border following the take-off from the ground.
Dragol skimmed with the others a short distance above the surface of the trees, his eyes watching closely for any signs of movement. He signaled to the others to be as quiet as possible. The group glided in relative silence over the woodlands as they headed southward, the wind whistling by their heads as they cut through the air. Rodor bumped and rocked lightly as they shadowed the border of the forest, and Dragol settled into his saddle, acclimating to the familiar sensations of air travel. With little turbulence, there was not much to distract him from the search.
Dragol hoped to sight, and then close in upon, their quarry soon. He did not like having to deviate from the main tasks facing the Trogen warriors.
The amount of territory that could be covered from the sky was substantial, and would easily encompass any distance achieved by a party on foot. Whoever had visited the battle site had a full day’s lead, though, and the Trogens only knew of the initial direction that they had taken.
Some luck would be needed, but Dragol was not overly worried. Unlike the dilemma that the Trogens had faced at the end of the previous day’s fighting, which had forced them to depart for the evening, there was plenty of daylight remaining this time.
Whether sooner or later in the day, Dragol was confident that the unidentified visitors to the battle site would eventually be discovered.
LOGAN
The pleasant aromas of succulent meats permeated the air, as the seven exiles feasted upon the ample bounty provided for them by Deganawida and the village. The prodigious feast was attended by a substantial number of the villagers within the large, open longhouse that it was held in.
The meal itself was quite varied, with the predominant element being a kind of corn meal porridge that was prepared with oils and deer meat. A good-sized quantity of turkey was provided, the meat being the result of a recently successful hunt.