Stephen Zimmer - Crown of Vengeance

As Lee reached the base of the stairs, he glanced back to where Gunther was still sitting.

The trance-like look had returned to the man’s face, crossed with flickering light and shadow from the hearth fire. The woodsman had retreated inside of himself again, descending to some safe and distant refuge that he had fashioned within his mind.

Lee had a thousand questions that he wanted to ask, but one look at the man dissipated any urgency that he felt. He wondered what paths their host had taken in his life, and what far travels he had undergone. Gunther carried the weariness of tragedy and dreams abandoned, still resounding with the echoes of trauma, as well as the sobered countenance of experience.

He knew that there was much more to the solitary woodsman before his eyes, but his interests would have to wait until a time of Gunther’s own choosing.

Section VII

The smaller, second invasion force, comprised mainly of Avanoran warriors, had finally reached the outskirts of the borders of the province of Wessachia, in the northwest of Saxany.

The long column had come to a halt near the headwaters of the substantial Grenzen River, which emerged into its fullness near to the base of the forested hills leading up to the northern Hymaht Mountains.

The Avanorans had distanced themselves many leagues from the massive army marching towards the Plains of Athelney, but their purpose was no less important. The region and the specific site that they approached had been skillfully chosen, and carefully deliberated. It was the northernmost area along the western borderlands of Saxany that they could seek to pierce without unduly exposing themselves to great vulnerability.

A corridor of sorts existed towards the east, ferreted out by diligent Avanoran scouts, through which they could launch a penetrating strike deeper into Saxan lands.

Tents were assembled in a broad encampment that was located close to that of the Trogen sky force and the Andamoorans. Commander, mess, and chapel tents were placed near to the center of the encampment, with the tents of the higher-ranking knights surrounding those, and the dwellings of the common soldiery and camp attendants radiating further outwards.

Banners signifying the various nobles and officers in charge of the army flew from high poles positioned near to the entrance flaps of their tents.

While the Avanorans were situating the encampment, a constant cover of sky patrols had been provided under the orders of the Trogen chieftain, Tragan. Regular waves of Trogens upon Harraks returned and departed from the smaller encampment, keeping a constant set of eyes high in the air to watch over the laboring Avanoran army.

With the exception of the religious volunteers, the Andamooran contingent in the smaller camp had been almost completely emptied out. The entire force of Andamooran light horsemen had been dispatched, to range towards the east and scout far beyond the two camps.

Their absence from the camp areas was probably for the better, Dragol felt. The fanatical, face-veiled horsemen held little affinity for the Avanorans that they regarded as infidels. The Avanoran warriors continuously eyed the Trogens with looks that did little to hide their distaste for the non-human race, considering the Trogens to be little more than barbarous dog-men.

More than one Avanoran knight of considerable rank and lineage, gripping a great lance with a billowing pennon, tensed at the sight of the few Trogen chieftains moving among them, on their way to coordinate their efforts with the newly arrived Avanoran lords.

The Trogen leaders, though restraining themselves from provoking a larger incident, glowered back defiantly at the knights and other human soldiers. Many of the knights would not have been disappointed had the Trogens given in to their urges. More than one knight’s hand clenched the hilt of his sword, with a steely look in his eyes.

It was fortunate that the overwhelming majority of the Trogens was in the sky, or set apart in their own camp. Only the strictest orders by the Avanoran leaders, and the severe admonishments of Tragan, could hope to keep the peace among the two races.

The small numbers of Andamooran religious volunteers laboring among the Trogens and their steeds were perhaps the most unfortunate of all. They tried in vain to keep their distance from both groups during the ensuing hours, though not always successfully. Ill-trained and poorly equipped, they tended to the more menial tasks within the Trogen sky steed camp, and were not about to willfully aggravate either the fierce, heavily armored warriors of Avanor, or the massive, aggressive Trogens. The Andamoorans hated and resented all the others, Trogen and Avanoran alike, but were judicious concerning their fate should they provoke either one of the groups.

There was little doubt that tensions would rise between the incoming Avanorans and the Andamoorans, tensions that could well escalate beyond the state of unease with the Trogens. The Avanorans made no secret that they regarded the Andamoorans as heathens and apostates, the followers of a false prophet. As with the Trogens, only the harsh, disciplined command of the Avanoran lords and officers kept a general order.

Nonetheless, when the Andamoorans gathered to say their ritualized prayers at sunset that evening, they grouped together on the farthest side of the combined Trogen and Andamooran camp. Their anxiety having considerably risen, they strove to stay far away from any potential Avanoran derision or incitement.

At the very least, the Trogens left the Andamoorans alone to practice their own beliefs without undue harassment. Dragol had to concede that he respected the ardent zeal of the Andamooran volunteers. He did not believe in their strange deity that supposedly had spoken through some northern prophet, yet he had little doubt that if such a deity existed, that divinity would be quite pleased with such dedicated and loyal followers.

During the onset of the lavender-hued firmament’s settling, the gloaming period bridging dusk to night, Dragol and Goras found themselves among the few Trogens that were currently being allowed a short respite from the extensive duties of sky patrols. The two leaders had already incurred a very strenuous day, and even their robust, well-trained muscles ached for some needed relief.

They sat together under the shelter of Dragol’s tent, secured safely away from the last, direct rays of the dying sun. Their skin was finally cooling off, their upper bodies now finally freed from the hot, encompassing leather cuirasses that had been worn for so many hours on end.

The two commanders had undergone a vigorous litany of activities since the Avanoran army had arrived at the borders of the Saxan province of Wessachia. Their sky steeds were in little better shape, even though they had each made a change to fresh mounts towards the end of the day.

“It will not be long before battle is enjoined,” Goras remarked, watching Dragol slowly massage his tired left shoulder with his broad right hand.

“Not long? At this time, another day is too long,” Dragol grumbled, his short muzzle pulled back into an annoyed sneer. “I am tired of floating around in the sky. Skirmishing with overmatched quarry that we stumble across, or being bled by hidden adversaries that we are not allowed to pursue. We must fight a true battle soon. I hunger to get revenge on those creatures that slew my warriors, and to measure myself on a true day of battle.”

“You are not wrong to feel such a way, Dragol. There is nothing for us here, but to watch over haughty Avanorans,” Goras replied through clenched teeth, reflecting his overall disappointment with their circumstances. The arrogance of the Avanorans only drove the resentments in the likes of Dragol and the others higher. “And there is little sign of the sky warriors of these Saxans. I would feel less angered were it otherwise. At least there would be a hope to look to.”