Light of Elliana: Book One—Of Tears & Darkness

Chapter Three: Savages

Early morning sunlight gleamed softly through tree boughs gently swaying above. Golden light dappled the forest floor around Prince Donovan. He carefully adjusted his steel razor and shaved his chin. Donovan ran his hand softly over his face, making sure he hadn’t missed a spot. After wiping the blade on his brown leggings, he carefully sheathed it.

Donovan knelt closer to the small square polished silver mirror which sat on a log. He needed his dark brown haircut, it was touching his shoulders. For the first time in weeks, he had managed to trim his mustache straight and had not nicked himself.

“Yes, brother, your eyes are still the prettiest hazel, and no, your hair is not too long. Wear it behind your head like mine; it saves time from cutting it,” Changa commented.

Changa gathered his sandy hair behind his head and secured it with a traditional leather strap and a wooden peg. His broad-shouldered Centaur friend turned to face him, with a devious smirk. One small braid hung down alongside each side of his clean-shaven face. His blue eyes were a touch darker than the sky. He donned his brown sleeved tunic and pulled on his leather vest, which almost matched the color of his chestnut hind- quarters. Deftly, he fastened its iron buckles and leather straps and snugged it into place. Lastly, he slid his quiver on his back and fastened its iron buckle.

Donovan walked over to kneel beside a deep pool in the clear spring-fed stream. After rinsing his face, he paused. “Donovan, it would be most unseemly for a Prince of the Realm to be seen with his hair uncut and unkempt. You are twenty years of age and must mind your appearance.” Donovan used his best impersonation of his father’s voice he could muster. “Would it be unseemly for a six-foot-tall prince to imitate a diving bird?” Changa said behind Prince Donovan. A firm hand grasped his belt, while another grabbed his left shoulder as his brother hurled him into the creek.

“Hey, wait—” was all Donovan managed to get out before he plunged headfirst into the stream. The cold water took his breath away with an icy rush. Shivering and coughing, Donovan waded to the stream bank amidst laughter voiced by everyone at the party.

Changa stood at the stream-bank, offering him a hand while laughing good-naturedly. “Come, Donovan, the day is young, and we are here to hunt boar.”

Half-an-hour later, found Donovan wearing brown leggings, a dark green sleeved tunic, and a brown leather doublet fastened with iron and leather buckles. On his head sat a dark green felted wool recocket hat adorned with a pheasant’s long tail feather. These caps were currently the rage amongst men of all ages, and he found them fetching as well.

After about a half-hour ride, Prince Donovan and party arrived at a favored hunting haunt. It was a vast expansive forest filled with high ridges, large hills, and hollows filled with thick undergrowth. This area held a great boar, with a deformed right front hoof, which had eluded them for two years. Donovan studied mud and leaves on a forest trail where it ran through dense foxtails.

Prince Donovan followed the path to where it crossed a small clear brook. In black muck before him was a fresh deformed hoof print. He pointed out where the boar had traveled through the thick thorny underbrush. With a smooth-flowing motion, Changa silently drew an arrow from his quiver and placed it on his short bow’s string. Prince Donovan mounted his brown destrier and led their party in pursuit of their quarry.

Abruptly, a cry rang out from a ridge above them, prompting Donovan to whirl about and face whatever was coming their way. He drew his one- and-one-half hand long sword, determined to meet whatever challenge came his way. Highlighted against the bright sky in the distance was a lone rider galloping through the wood towards them. Behind him appeared three mounted Nyen upon horses who were slowly closing the gap.

The pale savages practiced customs that were brutal to the extreme. They devoured human-flesh and trusted only their kind. At five to six feet tall, they were similar in appearance to humans. Except, their skin was sickly pale-white, eyes were watery-gray, hair was snow-white, and they smelled as if they never bathed. They were avowed mortal enemies of the alliance. Ordinarily secretive, Donovan was surprised to find them out in the open on a sunny day. The savages lived underground in extensive earthen burrows in their homeland beyond the Skargtooth Mountains.

Donovan pressured his horse to intercept the three pursuers. One of the Nyen was carrying a short bow, which he was beginning to drawback. Prince Donovan gave voice to a war cry while charging the enemy. His shout caused the enemy archer to shoot hastily in his direction. The arrow hissed by him as he closed with the savage. His longsword cut a gleaming arc, flashing down from above. Its sharp edge cut deeply into his foe’s pale arm, forcing him to drop the bow.

With a nudge of his knee, Prince Donovan urged his horse to crowd his foe’s mount. Immediately, he thrust his sword beneath his foe’s arm, through the black light-leather armor.

Uttering a coughing cry, the Nyen fell off his horse with watery-gray eyes bulging. Blood sprayed from the savage’s mouth. It spattered the pattern of red, blue, and black tattoos upon his enemy’s face and throat. The savage’s snow-white ponytail flapped like a blood-flecked banner.

Donovan spun around to meet the charge of a second Nyen now closing with him. The black leather-armored pale brute wielded a crude iron- blade. Blue, red, and green tattoos covered his face. Bits of bone and small red feathers hung from a leather necklace around his neck. With muscles rippling, his opponent attacked, and Prince Donovan parried the slashing blade. His pale opponent’s weapon arced towards him, and etmindorian steel deflected it.

Eager to end the battle quickly, the savage struck at him with wild hammering blows. The glimmering iron blade hissed past and left his opponent’s left shoulder wide-open. It allowed Prince Donovan room for his sword to dart out and slice through his foe’s left shoulder armor.

The Nyen’s face grimaced in pain and suddenly became filled with rage. Blood flowed steadily from the savage’s shoulder as he attacked again. Abruptly, Prince Donovan pressed his attack home. His sword flashed in the sunlight, as it cut deeply across the Nyen’s leather-armored chest. The savage’s eyes went wide in shock as he looked down at his wound and lowered his weapon. In a blur, Donovan delivered a well-placed thrust into his opponent’s chest ending the fray.

With a soft gasp, the savage slid from his horse to the leaf-covered ground below. The Nyen’s white ponytail trailed behind him as if marking its owners fall. Immediately, Prince Donovan turned to locate the third Nyen. He needn’t have worried, for he lay crumpled on the ground with an arrow sticking out of his chest. Changa stood beside him with his bow in hand while looking down at the second Nyen.

“Well—what do we have here? He’s not your usual run-of-the-mill Nyen,” Changa commented as he studied the dead burley Nyen warrior.

“He was strong as a bull.” Prince Donovan carefully wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it.

“It’s time to speak with our new friend. We need to find out if there are any more of the enemy around.” Changa nodded to the lone horseman.

Donovan and Changa approached the lone horseman who sat quietly astride his horse. His mount, a bay courser, was frothing at the mouth and lathered-up. Abruptly the rider toppled out of his saddle falling heavily onto the leaf-covered ground. Prince Donovan dismounted and recognized the man before him. It was Henri, a young, trusted soldier well known for his bravery and loyalty. His pale face was barely a semblance of its former self. Blood trickled down his leather armor from a wound to his left upper chest, where a bandage was tied.

Henri leaned back wearily against a moss-covered log. “Please—water.” Retrieving his waterskin, Donovan knelt beside him. Henri greedily gulped water, between gasps for air.

“Prince Donovan, thank the Great Lady I found you,” Henri said weakly. He appeared to be having difficulty focusing his eyes.

“Why? What has happened?” Donovan fought to contain a sense of dread rising within him.

“I was part of a patrol, led by your Uncle Samuel. While traveling through Drennard yesterday, we were attacked by a large force that seemed to rise from the ground itself.” Henri paused, breathing through cracked lips.

“Your uncle sent me to find help. He knew you were camped here boar hunting. The enemy has destroyed Drennard and your uncle’s patrol; everyone’s dead.”

“What?” Prince Donovan asked in shock.

Henri’s face froze in a grotesque mask of terror, mouth wide open and silent. The young man’s body went still, as he exhaled softly. His brown eyes fixed in a glassy stare, looked at him lifelessly.

The prince felt for a pulse but could detect none. In sorrow, he looked down upon the young man who had given his life to warn them. Thunder echoed from somewhere distant as he gently closed the young soldier’s eyes. The heavy rumbling sent a shiver coursing through his body.

Standing still, Prince Donovan stared into the distance—while trying to decide what to do next. An enemy had destroyed Drennard and his Uncle Samuel’s patrol, and this filled him with anger and a growing sense of dread as well.

“Brother, there are only twenty of us here. We are not enough to challenge a large armed force,” Changa said pointedly.

“This is true! Perhaps, we can act in a manner which benefits us and not the enemy.” Everyone gathered to listen to what Donovan had to say. “Emec was the one you would need at a time like this,” Prince Donovan thought. “His bay form would leave you in the dust, while his dark brown

hair streamed in the wind, and his brown eyes laughed.”

“Emec, I want you to gather all the help you can and get to Drennard as quickly as possible. You probably should leave now. We will bury Henri and ride as quickly as possible to the town ourselves,” Prince Donovan said. After a handshake and parting words to the others, Emec swiftly departed.

“If we are fortunate enough, we will catch-up with the enemy. We pepper them with arrows, make them stop to defend themselves, and sneak off. We hit them again and again when it suits us.” Prince Donovan looked at them, smiling grimly.

“It would certainly work.” Changa nodded in approval.

“My friends, can I count on you to ride with me to Drennard?” Prince Donovan looked at them, waiting for their response. To a man, all of them raised an arm casting their vote to ride to Drennard.

About an hour later, the prince and the rest of the hunting party, stood gathered around a mound of rock covered soil. As one, they looked upon Henri’s grave, nestled in the shade of the surrounding trees. Kneeling, Prince Donovan placed a hand upon the mound in front of him. “Rest well, brother! May Elliana grant you eternal peace.”

The morning sky was rapidly filling with lead-gray clouds, foretelling of a change in the weather. Prince Donovan donned his hooded oil-cloth cloak. Amidst raucous cries of a flock of crows, he led his band of men racing through the trees. Without pausing, Donovan galloped down the road, which would take them to Drennard. Deep inside, he dreaded what they may find.