Free Dream of Legends by Stephen Zimmer Page B

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