Light of Elliana: Book One—Of Tears & Darkness

Chapter Thirty: Lessons Learned

The Dragon had chosen not to reveal any more about itself other than a few isolated instances. One of those occurrences was at the great Gorganath Watchtower Garrison. The stronghold had stood for more than three hundred and fifty years. It was built of quarried gray limestone and overlooked the King’s Road to the West, a half of a mile from Etmindor’s border with Wildstaadt. Two hundred and fifty men manned the garrison. Fifty Dawn Breaker Mounted Brigadiers, one hundred men-at-arms, and one hundred archers. The men kept watch and maintained law and order in the region.

Three weeks ago, the Dragon—at least this was what was believed to have performed the grisly deed, had struck. At all times, eight men manned the great watchtower and kept watch upon the countryside. It had been a dark cloudy night, and everything was pitch-black. The following morning, eight soldiers entered the tower to relieve the previous shift. They could find no sign of the men until they reached the top roofed balcony. Eight severed heads stood in a neat row, starring back at them from the upper tier. No one had heard a thing, and this had started the madness.

The second incident had occurred with a patrol riding along the Narne River road after sunset. It had been a long hot, dusty day. The men were tired and ready to set-up camp. A few of the men were tending to the horses, while others gathered fire-wood and prepared the night’s dinner. Once the meal was ready, one of the soldiers walked out to give each of the men tending the horses, a wooden bowl filled with stew. He called out, but no one answered. The only sound he heard was the slight rush of the wind. The men lit torches and searched for the lost men. A short distance away, on top of a boulder, were their two severed heads, placed side-by-side.

“The Dragon’s mind battle was working. No one, including himself, dared walk outside before first searching the skies. There’s no telling when the beast might strike again,” Donovan thought. “The monster was highly intelligent, and it was waging war within their minds.”

Since Donovan no longer had the task of overseeing the watchtower garrisons, his life had changed for the good. His duties now consisted of coordinating the refortification of Kandalare and the creative efforts of Conroy with the needs of Etmindor. Today, as a pleasant surprise, Prince Donovan was ordered by his father to take the day off. He had spent the day riding with Girard and Morgan across the countryside, enjoying the freedom and fresh air.

Girard patiently waited for his return in front of the crackling fire. Donovan had accepted his friend’s offer to complete his training in the use of various blades. In truth, the prince had missed the regular training sessions of his old teacher. When the old sword master had died, his formal training had ended as well.

“You must lower your center of gravity. It is vital to be able to change your angle of attack or defense swiftly,” Girard explained. Donovan listened carefully and watched as the swordsman demonstrated how he should stand and move to fight more powerfully.

“Prince Donovan, your center of gravity is too high; you will be too heavy on your feet. The result is poor balance. The strong balance enables you to move fluidly.” The prince held the pose while sensing how different his body now felt. It was as if Donovan was one tug away from awkwardly stumbling.

“Now attack me,” Girard ordered while drawing his swords.

Donovan advanced with sword and dagger in hand, making sure to maintain a lower posture. The prince’s sword-blow snaked in to strike the flat of Girard’s right sword. It deflected it to the side, in preparation for a finishing move. The swordsman skillfully countered by jamming the prince’s long-sword, with his left blade. The maneuver forced Prince Donovan to pivot and withdraw, to counter Girard’s right sword.

“Much better! To change your angle of attack, glide your feet over the ground, like so. This way, you are never far from being grounded, should your opponent press forward against you.”

Donovan attempted to copy Girard’s foot movements. They looked simple enough. The prince quickly found it required more finesse than he had thought it would.

“You must move forward fluidly, driving your thrust home with your legs. Turn by angling your hips, while your feet glide over the ground. This stance also allows you to change direction while providing strength for a strong defense quickly.”

Donovan practiced the moves Girard had shown him, again and again. He could almost pull it off, though he still felt awkward at times.

“My friend, we must strengthen your legs. Your legs must be strong, to enable you to attack more powerfully. Come, follow me,” Girard said and turned away.

Donovan looked at Morgan, questioningly.

“Girard?” Morgan questioned the swordsman.

“Princess Morgan, Prince Donovan’s legs lack the necessary strength needed to fight powerfully. His sword master died before helping him develop this. He must do this if he wants to advance in training,” Girard explained while waiting for the prince.

Having said this, the swordsman marched down the hill. “I can only show you the way. You must choose how far you will go.”

Donovan ran to catch up and followed behind Girard, as he marched to a tune he was humming. Together, they fast marched down the steep hill.

Sometime later in the evening, after marching up and down the same hill several times, Girard led Donovan back to sit beside the fire. Now, Donovan was tired, and all he wanted to do was get off his feet.

“Prince Donovan, we will work more on this. You will fight much more powerfully.”

Slowly, Donovan kneaded his legs muscles, attempting to help ease their cramping. No matter how softly he rubbed them, the pain was excruciating. Morgan knelt beside him and removed his hands. Slowly, she massaged the prince’s legs, bringing immediate yelps of pain from his lips. She shushed him while chuckling and continued to work on his legs. The touch of her hands was agony. Prince Donovan struggled to stop her. Not to be denied, Princess Morgan chided him once more, as she worked on relaxing the muscles of his legs.

Girard looked quizzically at Donovan, laughing lightly. “Prince Donovan, this will make you a much stronger fighter.”

The quiet evening, combined with the fire, seemed to mesmerize each of them. Girard sat quietly, leaning against a log, captivated by the light of the flames. It was evident from the expression on the swordsman’s face; his thoughts were no longer here with them.

“Girard, do you recall a promise you made when you first started to teach me how to use a sword?” Morgan asked. She turned to face him questioningly.

The blank expression in Girard’s eyes vanished as he turned towards her. “Princess Morgan, perhaps this is not the time to speak of such things.”

“What promise?” Donovan asked Morgan.

“Both of you have learned my life story, and Donovan has told us his. All three of us have become close friends. I believe before this is over, we will share a common bond forged from honesty and trust. Girard promised to one day tell me where he came from and how he learned to fight as he does.”

While stirring the fire with a stick, Girard nodded and looked at them intently for a few moments. “It is strange how life can take so many twists and turns. You can have so much and never had recognized it until it is gone. I lived with my mother, and when I was nine years old, she died from an illness. To survive, I learned to beg, steal, and forage for a meal here and there.”

“Where were you born?” Morgan asked intently.

“I was born in a town called Edlewent, which is in East Arconia. Anyways, one day, an older man called Sarcof took me in. He owned horse stables and offered me meals and a place to rest my head, in return for keeping the stalls clean.”

“This was a fortunate break for you,” Donovan commented.

“Yes, it most certainly was. It turned out, Sarcof was a master swordsman. For some reason, he decided I was the student he had been searching for to pass on his knowledge. Little did I understand how much my life was about to change.”

Donovan nodded while stirring the coals with a stick.

“One day, after cleaning out the stables, I went inside to eat. On the table were two swords, which gleamed in the oil lamp’s light. They were so beautiful; I was afraid to touch them, as I did not want to spoil the moment.”

“’Go ahead, son, pick them up,’” Sarcof told me with a wide grin.

“I picked them up and marveled at how they felt in my shaking hands.”

“’It’s an alright boy, you will grow, and I will help you become strong enough to use them. If you have the heart, I will help you become what I believe the Goddess Elliana meant for you to be,’” Sarcof said to me, kindly.

“Ahh, now I understand,” Morgan exclaimed with a soft chuckle and itched her left arm.

“Sarcof gave me many tasks to do, like cutting wood, carrying water buckets uphill from the well. I lifted heavier stones and logs while wading upstream,” Girard told them with a slight smile.

“He was building up your strength,” Morgan remarked.

Girard nodded. “He made two pairs of wooden swords, and we practiced day after day. About five years later, I started to use the real swords while he instructed and fought against me.”

“It must have been rough,” Donovan marveled while fishing in a leather pouch for some dried beef. The prince bit off a hunk, savoring the smoky flavor as he chewed.

“For some reason, I didn’t believe so, learning to use those swords gave me direction. I became stronger and learned how to fight with blades. During the evenings, Sarcof’s granddaughter Marion taught me how to read and write.”

Girard paused to stir the fire before continuing once more.

“When I was eighteen, I spent some time as a scout in the Arconian Army for five years, during the Torbal ravages. Afterward, I turned mercenary for another five years. Shortly afterward, I was hired by King Aramus to teach Morgan how to wield a sword.”

As Prince Donovan recalled, “Some eighty years after the defeat of the Andakar Barbarians, the Torbal Ravages in Arconia erupted. A distant relative to Arconia’s King Edwyne started a civil war that took five years to defeat. It ended with the beheading of Duke Torbal, and once more, peace returned."

Donovan placed another log on the fire while trading a glance with Girard, who had become silent again. He had no doubt the swordsman’s story was true, yet he felt it was far from all of it. Perhaps, now wasn’t the time to tell it after all.