Dream of Legends (8 page)

“Dragol, you will take your warriors with you to accompany the Darroks, and defend them in their next raid upon the Five Realms. Other chieftains will join you with further sky warriors. No others among this alliance will respect Trogens. We must take control of this task by ourselves, fools that we were to think otherwise,” the Trogen commander iterated acidly, his iron gaze fixated upon Dragol. “This is no order of the Lord Generals … It is mine, and they are not about to disagree. We will see that our brothers receive protection … this time.”

The last words of the Trogen commander were strained and spoken through sharp, clenched teeth. Veins stood out along his thick neck and broad head, as Tragan continued to seethe.

Dragol had seen few Trogens so utterly livid as Tragan had been towards the unescorted mission that had resulted in so many slain Trogens. It had taken all of Dragol’s might, and that of a few others, to restrain Tragan from going to assault one of the Lord Generals who was residing in the nearby Avanoran camp, shortly after the news had reached them.

It pleased Dragol greatly that initiative had been taken by the older Trogen commander, declaring an escort force irrespective of Avanor’s desires. Like many of the higher-ranking Trogens, Dragol had felt scathing discomfort at following orders that he knew had originated from the Unifier’s men.

He also felt deeply honored that Tragan had selected him for the task of protecting fellow Trogens serving upon the great Darroks. There would be no lack of resolve on his part to ensure the safety of the Trogen crews.

Tragan then turned towards Goras, and exclaimed in a thunderous voice. “The attack into the woods begins very soon. You must not allow any enemy to drive our scouts away. You must sweep any defenders from the skies, and you must be the eyes of the ground army. There can be no surprises. We must win this battle fast, so that the army can move through.”

He raised his massive right hand and tightly clenched his fist, his eyes glaring at Goras. “We are to take no prisoners. The enemies of the Unifier are the enemies of us all. This is a war that will gain our land’s long-desired freedom, and the liberation of so many of our brethren held all too long in bondage. For the freeing of our homelands, and our kind, go forth, now! Show them the strength of the Trogens!”

Both dismissed from Tragan’s presence, Goras and Dragol nodded their heads deferentially, and swiftly strode from the inner tent. Outside of the tent, gathered nearby, were a number of veteran Trogen leaders who were anxiously awaiting their instructions.

“We go to the skies, to glories that will be remembered!” Dragol called to them, his gaze fiery with the passion burning within him. “Those with me, will go forth with the great Darroks. Those with Goras, must sweep the skies clear of our enemies. The invasion begins soon. War has come. Rely only on your weapons, your strength, and your fury! The Trogen is alone in this world, as our kind has always been, and it is only you that can speak with your arms and deeds. Speak now, with a thunderous voice!”

A loud, roaring cheer arose from the gathered Trogens, as they shouted their approval of Dragol’s words with feverish intensity. Their eyes flashed with volcanic fires building towards an apex within them. They thrust their great blades and other weapons skyward, and continued their chants and shouts long after, as they thundered their consummate approval.

“Go forth, as this war begins!” bellowed Dragol, thrusting his own longblade furiously into the sky.

Without further reply, the ebullient warriors gathered around them turned and rushed off with vigor. They quickly spread the commands among the various Trogen warriors gathered into the war bands that would be commanded under Dragol and Goras.

An excitable frenzy ensued, as Trogens were soon running everywhere. Nervous Andamooran volunteers saw to the harnesses on the Harraks, as the light Andamooran horsemen currently in the adjoining camp looked on with unmistakable curiosity, from behind their face veils.

Other Trogens, scowling at being unable to immediately join their brethren, worked to aid the departing Trogen warriors with their equipment.

Arrow quivers were filled, extra bowstrings procured, supply packs buckled up, longblades sheathed in scabbards attached to baldrics, great lances and other long-hafted weapons brought forth, and rectangular shields were slung across the broad backs of the Trogen riders. The Harraks growled and pawed at the ground, as the proud creatures sensed the impatience and energy of their riders and masters.

In a brief passage of time, twenty-five Trogens were fully prepared to escort the Darroks with Dragol. Nearly seventy were readied to attend to Goras’ company, all elated as they primed themselves for the beginning of the long-awaited battle for Saxany.

When all of the nearly one hundred warriors were ready and assembled, word was swiftly conveyed to Dragol and Goras. Dragol listened to the updates regarding the disposition of the warriors, as he adjusted a newly acquired segmented iron helm in place, the attached mail aventail drooping down to rest around the sides and back of his neck. With the helm fitted upon his head, secured snugly with a leather chin-strap, Dragol turned towards Goras.

“Neither of us will be held back now,” Dragol said, clamping a huge hand enthusiastically upon Goras’ broad shoulder. As they were the last two to mount their steeds, the gathered warriors silently, and restlessly, awaited their commanders.

“Show them a warrior that is worthy to reside in Elysium, in the High Halls!” Goras urged Dragol with buoyant vigor.

“That both of us shall be worthy!” Dragol countered. “I shall return, and join with you, that we may smash the Saxans together.”

“If I leave any for you,” Goras retorted, rumbling with mirth.

“Then I will show the tribesmen a fury to behold, and I shall return in haste,” Dragol replied, clasping the saddle, setting his booted foot into the bronze stirrup, and lithely mounting his Harrak, Rodor.

“For now, farewell, may the High Gods ride with you!” Goras exclaimed.

Eyes sparkling with a renewed vivacity, Dragol looked around at the throng of eager Trogen warriors around him.

“In honor of the Highest God, it begins!” he roared to a fully deafening acclamation from all the surrounding Trogens, both mounted and not.

Spurring his steed forth, he was the first to leave the ground by the power of the Harrak’s great wings.

With zealous shouts, the envious Trogens remaining on the ground saluted their comrade warriors as they followed in the wake of Dragol up into the sky. Their ascent was like a rising thundercloud, blackened with ominous declarations of an imminent, violent maelstrom, that would manifest in a very short time to come.

Once the full mass of flying warriors had ascended, Dragol and Goras exchanged salutes, before separating to continue onward to their respective destinations.

As the wind whipped about his face, Dragol felt the bobbing and tilting of Rodor as the steed settled into its rhythmic pattern of flight. Dragol breathed a long, cathartic sigh of relief.

He was beginning to feel like a Trogen warrior once again.

*

Deganawida

*

The Grand Council had been convened, and for perhaps the first time since the very genesis of the Five Realms, it would not be held within a longhouse of the Onan. The damage from the attack had been too extensive on the Place of Far Seeing, and the longhouse harboring the Sacred Fire had been destroyed. There were no alternate structures left standing in a condition that could house the traditional fifty Great Sachems.

The remains of the village stood in a dismal pall under the cloud-saturated, ash-gray sky as dawn broke. The wreckage was like a lifeless corpse, once filled with the spirit of a vigilant and thriving people. The surviving Onan villagers had taken refuge within the deeper forest, aided by a diligent, tireless contingent of Onan warriors, and the calm resolve of the clan matrons.

The Onan were not alone in the upheaval. Most other villages across the lands of the Five Realms had also been abandoned, their future destruction all but conceded.

A good distance from both the village and the places where the villagers were encamped, close to the bank of a broad stream, the tribal sachems gathered in tense silence, ruminating on the dire situation.

The sachems of the Gayogohon and Onyota, the Younger Brother tribes of the great confederacy, sat together on one side of the gathering. The sachems of the Kanienke, Onan, and Onondowa, the Older Brother tribes of the confederacy, sat just opposite them.

Deganawida was greatly relieved that the Great Sachems from the other tribes had acted upon his warnings without delay, as few of the others had yet endured direct attacks upon their villages. It was a testament to the great respect that they and their village headmen, and other sachems, had for Deganawida. The Great Sachems had responded swiftly to attend the Grand Council, even as their villages were simultaneously emptied out.

A numerous force of scouts had been sent towards the western borders of the tribal lands, to patrol and search out any signs of the expected enemy intrusions. If the enemy decided to move, the sachems knew that word would have to be delivered with the greatest of haste.

The environment for the latest Grand Council was far different from what they had known before, yet it was still a surrounding that was both familiar and a part of them.

The sounds of the gentle, constant flow of water that filled the air had a soothing quality, as the broad stream coursed over the lip of a wide rock a short distance from where they were gathered. The water fell several feet down to where it resumed its forward journey once again.

The liquid sibilance was intertwined with the cracks and pops of wood within the fire that had been built in the center of the gathered sachems. Under the overcast skies, the mass of flickering red flames glowed in reflection upon their worry-ridden visages.

A welcome relief to all, the wood had been set aflame directly from the Sacred Fire. Tradition held that the Sacred Fire had been continuously tended and kept burning from the very beginning of the Five Realms, all the way to the present age.

The Sacred Fire had always been housed within a Grand Council Longhouse, located within a specially designated Onan village. It had always been carefully transferred whenever villages had been moved, and had become a deeply revered symbol of the spirit of tribal unity.

Several of the great boulders that had rained down upon Deganawida’s village during the Darrok attack had smashed right through the center of the roof of the special Grand Council Longhouse. The barrage had brought the elm poles and bark panels crashing down upon the meticulously tended, and long-sustained, fire. The Grand Council Longhouse had been leveled in the torrent of direct impacts.

Where rampant fires had swiftly merged in some of the other communal longhouses, the rock, dust, and other debris had nearly smothered the Sacred Fire. A few tribal warriors had acted very rapidly, seeing what was happening, reacting with a desperate urgency. They lighted torches and even some large scraps of wood from the dying fire, hurrying onward with the cluster of small flames to start a more stable fire far beyond the base of the village’s hill.

The other sachems had reacted with anguish and dismay at the dire news of how dangerously close the Sacred Fire had come to being extinguished, regarding it as a very dark omen. The air was thick with their brooding anxiety, and no amount of talk from Deganawida would easily allay their apprehensions.

It was almost indisputable that the Unifier had chosen that particular village of the Onan for a very precise reason: to be the first major target of the assault upon the tribal lands. The fact that the Sacred Fire was kept there, a symbol at the heart of all the tribes, was not lost on the other Great Sachems.

Taking place as the attack had during the night, the sachems also sensed that the Dark Brother had likely had a part in guiding the attack, or in identifying the village. That thought was very troubling, all the sachems knew that their longtime nemesis was both merciless and unpredictable. If the Dark Brother was openly aiding the Unifier, then it promised much more tragedy to come.

Those that had listened to tales of the brutal attacks from the night sky, from the mouths of those that had endured and barely survived them, were stricken to an even greater extent with a paralysis of worry. Deganawida could see the powerful grip of anxiety taking hold upon their faces.

As much as they could, the Great Sachems labored to hold onto the traditions of the Grand Council. The circumstances surrounding them were nearly overwhelming, as they started the meeting very early in the day to address the many matters at hand. They desired to gain every moment that they could when the powers of the Dark Brother were believed to be at their most reduced.

The Grand Council had passed through the early rituals, including the sharing of the symbolic tobacco pipe that was reverently passed among the tribes’ Great Sachems. The convocation offered open prayers of thanksgiving to the Creator for the formation of their confederacy. Much was rendered in the form of solemn songs and chants, the singing evoking the deep emotions resonating within the tribal sachems.

The great wampum belt of the Five Realms, made of highly treasured colored shells, was prominently displayed. The rectangular belt had five images fashioned upon it. A prominent image of a white tree resided in the center of the sacred belt, symbolic of the Tree of Peace. It heralded the spirit of the Great Law, which had brought such harmony amongst the five tribes.

Two pine trees, each made up of stacked white triangles, stood upon either side of the larger tree image. All four pine tree images and the Tree of Peace depiction were set against a purple background.

The group of trees represented the endurance of the five tribes and their fellowship with one another, with the central image specifically representing the Onan as the Keepers of the Sacred Fire.

Oral tradition held that the mysterious, seemingly divine founder of their confederacy, who had vanished from among them unexpectedly, had bequeathed that very belt to their ancestors when the first Grand Council was formed. That patron Wizard had long been gone from sight, but the belt still remained, even in the wake of the recent, devastating tragedy.