Goras finally drew to a halt about two paces from Dragol.
“Goras,” Dragol finally stated, in a low and restrained voice. The anger continued to seethe within him, and it took an effort not to rage further at the fates that had allowed such a dismal day to pass. “It is by the fortune of Elysium I even returned… My heart burns for vengeance… Trogen blood was spilled in a terrible way.”
The other’s face grew taut, and his eyes narrowed, as a perplexed look rose upon his face. Even with their elongated faces, forming something closely akin to a canine’s muzzle, the Trogens were able to display expressions that held some similarities with those of humans.
“What has happened?” Goras inquired. His initial enthusiasm was swiftly replaced by pensiveness.
Dragol continued to temper the fires threatening to erupt inside of him, as he related the events of the recent past with his longtime comrade and fellow member of the Thunder Wolf Clan. He started the telling with the successful destruction of the Saxan border patrol, continuing on up to the forest ambush from the unusual, dog-like beasts. He spoke at length regarding the presence of the exceptionally skilled archer, who had carried a bow whose range far exceeded those normally seen among the Saxans. Most importantly, Dragol iterated his firm desire to return to the area in force, to seek revenge.
Goras’ own anger was stoked as Dragol described everything, the visible signs revealing it to have swelled steadily during the tale. His eyes narrowed further as Dragol continued, and his snout began to wrinkle. Before long, he was baring his sharp teeth, as his lips turned back into a snarl. His long canines glinted in the light of the night moons.
Goras nodded slowly as Dragol spoke of his desire for vengeance. When Dragol fell silent, he uttered through clenched teeth, “We will take to the ground, and avenge this treachery. We will find this archer who cowers among the trees. We will hunt these other beasts down, until their skulls decorate our tents!”
Dragol held up a massive hand. “I would like that… more than anyone. I lost Haza, who has flown with me for many years. His blade was mighty, and his heart very loyal. His spirit finds Elysium now. He did not deserve the kind of death he received… torn apart by beasts, and given no chance to fight them!”
He had to pause for a moment, a low growl emitting from the back of his throat as his fury almost tore through again. Had Haza been on a great hunt, and found himself locked in mortal combat with a formidable quarry, the manner of his death would have been more acceptable. Standing on his two feet, blade in hand, and willfully engaging a mighty predator was one matter. To die from an ambush was another, as it had robbed Haza of a moment to consciously muster courage, to willingly face an end worthy of a Trogen warrior. The beast had been upon Haza before he could even begin to react.
Slowly and with effort, Dragol regained his composure.
“But we cannot go in where we do not know the enemy’s strength, or we shall repeat the folly of today,” Dragol conceded, as reason came to the fore. “We will need to speak to those from Ehrengard, and find someone who lives near their eastern border with Saxany.
“We must know about those strange beasts, and see if any know of this archer. He was no common man. I am sure of that. Then, we may go and see that our blades are bathed in the blood of these beasts… and that this archer can no longer hide from us.”
“Then let us send some patrols to seek these answers,” Goras suggested. “Since we have arrived in these lands, I have seen no creatures such as you describe.”
“A question that demands an answer,” Dragol agreed.
“I know you are greatly tired, Dragol, and in need of food and rest. We can send patrols out, after you have eaten,” Goras stated.
“Still the accursed dried fish, and hard bread?” Dragol rumbled, loathing the answer that he knew would be forthcoming.
“Yes, and not even in good amounts. It could not feed the scrawniest of humans well, even these puny Andamoorans… It barely gives them the strength to clasp the ground each day in their futile prayers. But I will make sure you receive more rations, and some cheese as well,” Goras said with a reluctant tone to his voice.
“And the cheese will be like eating rocks too… as this foul, rotten bread is. I think we should soon send hunting parties out, as well as patrols and scouts. Maybe even make these weak Andamoorans earn the right to be in a camp with Trogen warriors,” Dragol muttered, flustered at the notion of the meager palette. His eyes flashed in a feral manner as he looked back up to Goras, his sharp teeth unveiled within his sneer. “Perhaps we should really make use of these Andamoorans.”
“What I would not give for some juicy meat, and a thick draught of ale” Goras said, a half-smile forming in response to the dark implication of the other’s statement. He glared as a couple of the robed, turbaned Andamoorans walked by a short distance away from them. “I fear both those Andamoorans would not have enough meat on their bones to satisfy one of us.”
Their banter was the substance of a dark jest. Both Goras and Dragol knew fully well that they would never have eaten the meat of human or humanoid, unless in an act of absolute survival. They also knew that the Andamoorans were not so sure of that.
“You are right,” Dragol replied, chuckling darkly. The two Andamoorans took notice that the two huge Trogens were staring intently at them. They picked up their pace and hurried onward, their heads lowered.
“You should eat now. Then we will send patrols forth,” Goras insisted.
“And what would Tragan think of that?” Dragol said, posing the most pertinent question.
Goras and Dragol had considerable authority as patrol leaders, but Tragan of the Blood Boars was the commander of the entire Trogen force within the scouting camp.
Even among the most abrasive of the Trogens, his strident attitude was legendary. Yet it was not without purpose. Tragan was not one to frivolously make unnecessary sacrifices, or risk losing resources. He ran an efficient camp, marked by an extreme of discipline, challenging even to the toughest of the Trogens in the force.
In truth, it had been Tragan’s absolute directives, derived from Avanor’s wishes, that had prevented many Andamoorans from receiving severe beatings from highly vexed Trogen warriors.
Goras grimaced, knowing at once the danger that Dragol was indicating. “Then curse him, if he would be such a lackey of the Unifier. Sometimes I believe he would run this camp like a prison, to please his new human masters. But if he would not avenge Trogen deaths? He protects the human weaklings infesting this camp. What does that say to you, Dragol?”
Dragol abruptly shot up an arm, palm spread open, to cut Goras off before he said anything further. “Do not speak such words aloud in this camp. Tragan will allow no challenge. You know that. And you know that we are here, fighting and eating our rock-bread, so that we can free our entire race from the vile Elves. Many times I have to remind myself of that, it is true… but we must hold to that.”
A hot look flared up in Goras’ eyes, as Dragol mentioned the core concerns of the Trogens fighting for the Unifier. They did not fight out of any great feeling of loyalty to the Unifier, or even because they really believed in the strange vision of the Unifier’s emerging world.
The allegiance had happened because the Unifier had resolved to help the Trogens end their long-time oppression at the hands of the Elves, in return for their ardent service as warriors. The Unifier had promised to eventually bring about an end to the long plight of the Trogens, which would liberate the great numbers of Trogens living in abominable slavery within Elven territory.
Dragol, Goras, and all Trogens knew readily that no other race or powerful individual in the world had ever openly offered to aid the Trogens against their ages-old nemesis. The decision by the Trogens’ Clan councils to send substantial forces forth, and ally with the Unifier in the ongoing wars, had been swift and acceptable by all.