Stephen Zimmer - Crown of Vengeance

Dragol felt the sympathy that any Trogen would have for another who had long been denied honorable combat. The chance to measure themselves in courage, in strength, and in resolve was held back with each day that passed where there was no true battle.

The Trogens had heard much of the Saxan sky warriors, who flew upon a breed of Skiantha called Himmerosen. Yet they had not seen any significant sign of them in the region, with the exception of some distant elements that could just as well have been larger wildlife, or mirages created by wishful anticipation.

Dragol then replied in a voice that was nearly a growl of frustration. He clenched his great left hand into a balled fist, his arm muscles bulging. “It is not the way of a Trogen, the way that we are used here. The way that we are held back. But we will not wait much longer. I promise you! And when we…”

“Dragol! Look!” Goras said, sharply interrupting Dragol, as his eyes immediately riveted skyward. A couple of gigantic forms crossed over their tent, far above the two Trogens, blanketing the camp in immense, sprawling shadows.

Looking up into the dimming sky, Dragol was awestruck as he watched the two tremendous shapes that were passing through the sky above them. The bulky, winged behemoths were far from an ordinary sight, even compared to some of the incredible denizens of Dragol’s own homeland.

If the Trogens had not been told otherwise, the abrupt sight high above would have been great cause for alarm. As it was, Tragan had already informed Dragol and the other Trogen chieftains that the Unifier had prepared new weapons, which had never been used in battle within the world before.

They had been told to look for, and soon expect, the arrival of sky creatures of unimaginable size. Even with the foreknowledge, the imminent, startling sight of the creatures was breathtaking to behold.

“The Darroks! Before our eyes!” Dragol exclaimed with excitement. He rose up swiftly from where he had been sitting and moved out from the tent, turning around and looking to the south and west.

Goras came to stand at Dragol’s right side, in rapt attention as they watched the juggernauts flying onward.

Despite their enormous presence, the huge beasts were very capable fliers. They had a narrow body in relation to their seemingly measureless wingspan. The Darroks glided quite gracefully through the air, buoyed periodically by relaxed beats of their expansive wings.

The darkening, velvety sky of the twilight directly over them masked much of the detail of their features, but there was enough visibility to see that the creatures might once have been close kin to dragons.

Dragol studied their lengthy profile, from their great heads, elongated necks, down to their whip-like, tapering tails. Their sinewy, slender legs ended in horrific claws, all tucked up snugly against their undersides during flight.

The silhouettes of some type of carriage could be seen affixed from the middle of their backs to the base of their necks.

The sun was falling below the skyline, and the distant horizon was cast with a rosy hue. It created a majestic ambience that served as a lustrous backdrop for Dragol’s first sights of the mysterious, unusual creatures.

“Those two are heading towards the main invasion force,” Goras commented in a low voice.

Indeed, the two giant Darroks were heading away from the borders of Saxany, flying resolutely towards the southwest. The Plains of Athelney were directly in their skyward path.

A number of other Trogens and Andamoorans had emerged in the interim, many standing around Dragol and Goras with open looks of sheer wonder and astonishment, as they marveled at the passage of the two mammoth, flying beasts.

Over in the Avanoran camp, a similar, awed standstill had come over its inhabitants, from the greatest knight to the lowest of the paid foot soldiers. An extraordinary, hushed silence had fallen over both camps. All tensions and rivalries had evaporated for the moment, as the collective attention and thoughts of both encampments were consumed with the shared, awe-inspiring experience.

Though flying at an altitude rarely reached by a Harrak, the forms of the Darroks remained large to the eye. The ultimate size of the creatures was almost impossible for Dragol to even comprehend. He could not believe that something so vast could take flight.

“But only two?” questioned Goras, his eyes remaining upon the Darrok forms gradually diminishing on the horizon.

Dragol shook his head slowly. “I do not think that those two are all the Darroks that were sent by the Unifier.”

They continued watching silently, until the Darroks were just distant specks on the farthest edge of their vision, at the juncture where earth met sky. The bloated, reddish orb of the descending sun’s top crest was still visible, outlining the dark, winged shapes.

As Dragol turned, he caught Goras’ eyes, and saw the wonderment and fear mixed in the other’s look. “Even two, Goras. Think of two of those, serving the Trogen army against the Northern Elves,” he mused aloud.

“A great hope, but for another time,” Goras said with a more firm voice, turning to go back to their tent.

Dragol stared off a few more moments in the wake of the Darroks, finally turning away as the sun disappeared completely. Somewhat reluctantly, he oriented his thoughts towards the tasks at hand.

There was still much to be done. Night patrols and sentry posts had to be set, equipment prepared and evaluated for the next day, and orders to be reviewed. He was determined to occupy his mind with immediate labors. He knew that he could not think of the struggle against the Northern Elves, at least until the battles in Saxany were won.

His only relief came from the knowledge that the fight for Saxany had almost arrived, and that the long-awaited, great fight for his own kind lay just beyond that horizon.

Aethelstan and the companions with him had traveled on for several leagues underneath the obscuring coverage of the thick woodlands around them. The going had been much slower than they would have liked, but at least they had been somewhat protected from open exposure to the Harrak patrols that occasionally passed through the skies overhead.

They had made considerable use of the few trails that crossed through the western hills bordering Count Einhard’s land, Annenheim. As they were so rarely used, it took some skill to follow the pathways where the forest growth had begun to reclaim them.

There was an overriding tension gripping the contingent, with the constant danger of enemy patrols both in the air and upon the ground. On more than one occasion, Aethelstan had feared that they had been discovered.

The farther and deeper that they pushed onward, the more all of them felt an increasingly sinking feeling within their guts. The stillness in the trees, air, and on the ground gave off a foreboding sense that all was not well within the western woodlands lying between the Saxan provinces of Wessachia and Annenheim. There was nary a sound from animal, bird, or insect, as if the denizens of the forest had chosen to vacate the woodlands or go into deep hiding.

The nervousness within the Saxans welled up to the point that several of them flinched at the slightest rustling of wind-blown leaves, or snap of a twig. Even the sound of their own horses clopping on the trail unnerved them. The sense of edginess among the Saxans was such that even Aethelstan began to feel its hindering weight.

The horses themselves seemed to feel the brooding atmosphere around them. They kept silent as they traveled in the thin column being led by Aethelstan.

Aethelstan turned towards Cenferth, one of his most loyal and dedicated household warriors, who was riding close behind the great thane. Aethelstan addressed the warrior in a whisper. “What do you make of this oppressive silence, Cenferth? It is too heavy for my liking.”