Draven's Light (Tales of Goldstone Wood) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

Author:Anne Elisabeth Stengl
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Rooglewood Press
Published: 2015-05-23T23:00:00+00:00

The warriors of Rannul marched down to the river, where they soon filled the canoes to brimming. All the village gathered at the water’s edge to see them off. Barefoot children screeched small variations on the deep-throated battle cries of their fathers and older brothers. Women said many prayers to the uncaring gods of the air and sky, but their eyes were bright with pride as well as sorrow.

Draven and Itala stood side by side a little apart from the rest. Itala should have been in the very midst of the gathering, wearing the necklace of bear claws and hawk talons that marked her precedence among the women of Rannul. Instead she remained at her brother’s side, watching with him, as solemn-eyed as he. She watched in particular the strong young warrior who climbed into Gaher’s own canoe. Oson was his name, and he was the favorite among those who vied for Itala’s hand in marriage. If he proved himself as worthy in war as he had proven himself in the hunt, he would become her husband.

Itala lifted her hand to finger the necklace she wore instead of the bear claws. It was much smaller, made of stone-hammered copper flakes in various shapes, strung on a stout gut cord. She shuddered and took some of the weight off of her crutch to lean against the supporting bulk of her brother instead. Draven did not seem to notice. His gaze was fixed upon the far shore where even now the first of the warriors beached their canoes and dragged them up to hide in the foliage.

He should be among them. He should be even now bearing his sickle blade into the thick of that forest, plunging headlong into battle against those wicked Kahorns who plundered Rannul mines, poached Rannul game, and otherwise encroached upon all that by right of ancient conquest belonged to Rannul. He should be whetting his appetite for blood.

Instead his stomach clenched with a mixture of self-reproach and sickening fear. How he hated the peaceful heart in his breast, the heart which loathed the very idea of shedding a man’s blood! What a fool. What a coward. What a disgrace to his father’s name.

Though he knew he should not, Draven allowed his travelling gaze to rest on the face of lovely Lenila, who stood in the shallows near the riverbank to wave the warriors on. Her pride in her brother, Oson, was evident to all. She never once looked Draven’s way.

Draven drew a deep breath and let it out slowly so as not to make a sound. He did not want to call Itala’s attention to his sighing. Once more he gazed across the river to where his father’s canoe even now rested. He remembered suddenly something he had all but forgotten over the cold winter—the words of the Kahorn prince on the dark shore beyond the promontory.

“You must not let them cross the river. If they do, they will suffer the same fate as Kahorn.”

But what fate

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