Light of Elliana: Book One—Of Tears & Darkness

Chapter Six: When War Calls

Morgan could only watch as her enemy withdrew. Bellowed commands faded, as the enemy force disappeared into distant gathering shadows. Unfortunately, as far as the markswoman was concerned, the filth had acted too quickly. She hadn’t even begun to cool the heated anger welling inside of her.

Princess Morgan worked at clearing away her recurring memories, as she and her bay mare Fenore picked their way downhill. Morgan was raging at her inability to strike her enemy a harder blow, even as she mourned the loss of her friends. Silently, she noted many men and Centaurs were waiting for her below, and she knew she wasn’t ready for pleasantries.

Morgan’s attempts to calm down weren’t working as planned. Her discovery of a burned-out logging camp and slaughtered loggers had deeply shaken her. She had been deep in the forested Western Barrier Mountains, which separated Etmindor and Caralon. Princess Morgan had determined enemy raiders had used the Old Hermit Trail. It was a narrow, precipitous mountain trail that wound through crags to both countries. No army would risk traveling upon its deadly pathway, as it had claimed many lives. However, a smaller raiding party could traverse it with great care.

Perhaps a mile due south from the trail’s beginning in Caralon, Morgan had discovered the enemy’s old campsite. She had also found two people she had been hoping to hunt a great stag with, in the next few days. Her discovery of the Royal Hunt Master Erik Koening and his son Peter had proven to be almost more than she could bear. The markswoman had found them hanging from spears, and it was apparent the enemy had taken their time. Erik, the Royal Huntsman, had taken Morgan under his wing when she was fourteen, seeing natural talent with a bow where no one else had. Between his tutoring and the love and care heaped upon her by her father, the princess had thrived.

Alone, she had retrieved both of their bodies and had given them a proper burial. Morgan blinked away tears forming in her eyes, knowing full well she was losing the battle to calm down. She recognized Prince Donovan from Kandalare, Capital City of Etmindor. Both he and King Tarran had visited her father last year to celebrate her father’s birthday.

The last year had been kind to Prince Donovan, for his body was already looking lean and powerful. Even though his dark brown hair was too long, Morgan’s gaze measured every inch of his frame. Suddenly, she realized what she was doing and felt her attempts to control her rage begin to crumble.

“It seems I owe you my life, Princess Morgan. I wish to thank you for your incredible shot,” Prince Donovan said in admiration. He stepped for- ward with hand out-stretched, which the markswoman promptly ignored. “Why are you letting them escape? I would have all of them put to

death,” Morgan said in a voice filled with venom.

“There are no places to cross this river for many miles. There’s no way we can reach them now,” Donovan said calmly and lowered his hand.

“They killed my Hunt Master and his son. Of course, this means nothing to you,” Morgan ranted angrily.

One broad-shouldered Centaur with sandy hair stepped forward to confront her. His blue eyes and posture betrayed his anger. “The enemy has destroyed the town of Drennard, and they have killed King Tarran’s brother as well. Everyone who lived there is now dead. Still, it matters not- for they are well beyond our reach,” the Centaur replied angrily.

“Changa, she could not have known.” Donovan placed a hand upon Changa’s shoulder, halting their verbal exchange.

The news shocked Morgan into silence. The losses endured by Caralon paled in comparison. With a great deal of effort, she restrained her temper before speaking to the prince once more. “Prince Donovan-please forgives me for my behavior; it was not my intent to offend you. I knew nothing of your people’s losses and pursued the enemy for what they did in Caralon.”

“We need to return to Drennard, to break a curse and bury our dead,” Donovan said quietly. Before she could respond, Prince Donovan kicked his horse into a trot to travel back to Drennard.

“Curse? What curse?” Morgan quickly followed Donovan, for she was determined to help where she could. As they traveled towards Drennard, he explained in detail what had happened there. Princess Morgan thought Prince Donovan at first had been trying to get her goat, only to finally understand he was serious. It was clear there was malevolent evil at work, and the thought made her tremble.

Hours later, all of them stopped upon a hill perhaps a hundred yards from Drennard’s smoking ruins. Upon the knoll, four bonfires were built to attract more reinforcements. For a few hours, Donovan waited as the ranks of his forces grew steadily in size. Finally, Prince Donovan motioned them forward, and all were handed a torch, including Morgan. Solemnly, they encircled the ruined town.

It was as Donovan had told her, Morgan noted. Various shadows, both large and small, were pacing back and forth in her dim torchlight. The first thing she saw was their eyes, for they shone with an unhealthy looking pale-green light. Prince Donovan rode forward, and all of them tightened the ring around Drennard.

“Everyone needs to be swift and merciful. Do not dismount-for in this darkness; we may lose sight of you. Let’s finish this!” Donovan commanded. From seemingly out of nowhere, a balding man with a scythe charged, which she managed to block with her left blade. Morgan’s attacker’s eyes held a light green glimmer, as it continually opened its mouth as if taking large bites. Dark bubbly froth oozing from the dead man’s torn lips had created a large stain that ran down his throat and tunic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Get back!” In revulsion, the princess delivered a hard blow from her right blade, which struck its skull with a resounding crunch. Immediately, the green light in her attacker’s eyes faded, and it collapsed.

There was no time for a sense of relief to set-in, as a young girl of perhaps fourteen years of age rushed at her with a meat cleaver and loud growls. Wildly swinging the chopper, the girl’s corpse continued to attack.

“Mommy, I’m hungry. Mommy, I’m hungry,” the horror said in a gravelly coarse voice, repeatedly

“Oh, hell, no! Elliana gives me strength and courage to do what I must,” Morgan breathlessly prayed. After deflecting another swing of the cleaver, she swung hard with her right blade and shattered her attacker’s skull, with a solid crunch. The princess shook with relief as the green in her eyes vanished, and Morgan fought for a few moments to regain her composure, then continued. Morgan lost track of time in the blur of torchlight and shadowy figures rushing forward.

There was no need to hunt for them, for the cursed ones sought them out. They came at them snarling or growling while swinging whatever they could use as weapons to kill them. Donovan led them forward to dispose of a seemingly endless line of targets; heads rolled, or the crunching of bone could be heard, and still, they came. Finally, after three hours, maybe it was four, it was all over. Exhaustion and shock filled each of their faces. “Come, let’s make camp. We need to put something warm in our bellies and get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.” Prince Donovan silently led them back to camp. Once there, they dismounted and cared for their horses, set-up their tents, and gathered around the four bonfires. In the light from the bonfires, they ate a boiled dinner prepared by others. The meal sat well with Morgan, for it filled her belly and gave her warmth. “Tis the work of a Dark Binder and a powerful one indeed. Those who died here never had a chance,” said a massive tall soldier with black hair and a clean-shaven rugged face. He stood before Donovan, and his burnished steel studded leather-chest plate reflected the fire’s ruddy red glare.

Morgan noted the burly soldier carried an imposing great-sword as well. “I agree with Sir Alfred. We should take no chances and make sure we

have guards posted at all times.” Changa helped himself to more meat and potatoes and nodded to Prince Donovan.

Everyone seemed to agree, including Morgan. She had never encountered a dark priest before, yet had often heard her father King Aramus, speak of them. “It’s a subject best left to speak of during daylight. When the living is plentiful and sane enough to listen.”

“Changa, you will get no argument from me. You will take the first watch, along with Sir Alfred and me. Emec, Maneau, and Davis will stand guard for the remainder of the night,” Donovan announced to one and all. Prince Donovan walked over to one of the men of his patrol who was feeding his feathered charge, a henna falcon. The birds carried messages over great distances. Donovan placed a message in a small waxed-wooden tube fastened to the great bird’s leg. The handler removed a leather hood from its head and untied a leather thong on its leg. Moments later, amidst a great rush of feathers, the bird rapidly vanished into the night sky. Morgan could no longer withstand the day’s ravages. Quietly she lay upon her bedroll with her heavy blanket wrapped around her. Almost asleep, she heard someone quietly approaching. From out of the darkness walked Donovan holding a steaming mug. Prince Donovan stared in her direction for a minute and downed his head. Pain filled his face, and she knew he was mourning lost family and countrymen.

“Prince Donovan, may the peace of the blessed visit you this night,” Morgan whispered.

“Thank you, and may your dreams be filled with light and joy,” Donovan completed the ancient blessing chain. Prince Donovan smiled at her and nodded before walking away.

The princess lay quiet, amazed he had heard her. Donovan unrolled his bedroll across the fire from her. He sat there, holding his mug while staring into the fire. It was the last thing the markswoman could recall before she drifted off to sleep and dreamed of distant mountains.

Morgan awakened at the first light of dawn, as was her habit. She was surprised to find Donovan, Changa, Sir Alfred, and some others were already awake sitting around the fire. They were holding bowls of porridge and cups of something steaming.

“Once again, I thank you for saving my life. Even so, I cannot help but ask why you are here with us today. You are far from home, and there is much work to do before it’s time to return to Kandalare,” Donovan said with a sober face.

“Why question help when its offered? A friend has stepped forward to assist in your hour of need. This problem is one I believe we will all face; it’s best to face it together.” Morgan arose and rolled her bed-roll tightly and fastened its straps and buckles.

“Come, it’s time for breakfast Princess Morgan. The day is young, and there is much we must do today,” Changa said pleasantly.

“It sounds wonderful.” Morgan stepped closer to the fire, and Sir Alfred handed her a steaming bowl and cup of her own.

The next day’s work consisted of digging graves, carrying the dead, and helping bury them. Under an unrelenting Sun, everyone doggedly toiled. Finally, the last citizen of Drennard was laid to rest right before sunset. Princess Morgan felt as if every muscle in her body ached. Kneeling be- side the river, she scrubbed vigorously until no trace of soil lingered on her skin. Everywhere Morgan looked, others were doing likewise. Some stopped bathing and wept quietly and alone in dark shadows.

Walking back to camp, Morgan sat before a bright, cheery fire. Only this night, there was little to make her happy. She had seen too much death recently and knew she would not be the same for a while. Princess Morgan ate a steaming bowl of stew and a small grain loaf for dinner. Afterward, she crawled onto her bedroll and pulled her blanket over her. The Huntress was exhausted and desperately wanted to put this day behind her. In no time at all, she quickly drifted away to a land of sun and snow-capped mountains.