Creative Poetry - Group Story - Second portion of Chapter one

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4

Donavan mounted his horse and rode toward Evenshire with the image of Loralei fresh in his mind. He had never felt such emotions as the rage blazing within him now. He was torn between feeling anger and guilt. Angry at the thought of the suffering Loralei now lives with at the hands of Morgorath and guilt because he had allowed it to go on for so long. Would Loralei still love him after all this time, or would she turn him away, feeling betrayed at being left to suffer and die at the whim of that evil beast, Morgorath. It also bothered him that he had the means to stop the demon hanging on his belt the whole time.

Donavan's thoughts whirled like a swarm of fireflies with thoughts of what would be his life now, had he done something instead of run. Tears start to form as he thought of the tortured image of his beloved Loralei. Bruised, battered and abused at the amusement of the vile demon. He spurred his steed on faster, as his rage began to boil furiously. Leaving the road, Donavan charged headlong into a thick forest, taking a shortcut he knew well that would shorten his ride. Branches passed by his head as he weaved his body side-to-side trying to avoid getting hit. Suddenly his horse lurched up with a startled whinny as a band of brigands come into view.

Donavan placed his hand over his sword and watched as the band of unruly pillagers approached. The leader of the group laughed at Donavan.

"Would thee kill a man for merely bringing you a gift?"

"What gift would I want from the likes of you?" Donavon snarled.

"Not from me." the stranger taunted with an evil sneer, "A gift from Morgorath."

5

The stranger held out a small, delicately engraved box. Donavan could not take his eyes off the small container. Did he dare take it? Donavon began to feel something deep inside his gut, something was terribly wrong. The stranger scoffed at Donavan.

"Go ahead take it." Donavan took the small box from the stranger's callused, dirty hand. The box was elaborately engraved and trimmed with gold. The box alone would bring a handsome reward to anyone possessing it. Why didn't these strangers keep this gift for themselves? Donavan questioned to himself. He slowly lifted the lid and his face went pale. The strangers began to laugh seeing Donavan's tormented face. Inside the box was one of Loralei's fingers cut from her hand with her ring still in place. The first time Donavon had seen Loralei he knew there would be no other woman for him. He had the ring made for her alone. A dark mysterious onyx stone set in heavy gold. He gave the ring to her on their first night together - the night he promised to love her forever. Donavan slammed the lid shut and looked into the faces that laughed at his pain. The leader again spoke.

"Morgorath plans to send you a small token each time he makes your wench his."

6

In scarcely a heartbeat, he had assessed this unruly band and made his decision. The leader carried a long heavy sword in a scabbard at his waist, but would be dead before his hand touched the hilt. Two others held short swords at the ready, but from the look in their eyes, the set of their feet, and the awkward way they held their weapons, he could tell they were not swordsmen. They would likely run. The fourth man would be the most dangerous - he held a 6-foot long glaive in his hands, keeping it pointed at his horse’s chest. He and his m ount had faced polearms many times, though, and he wagered this man had faced few experienced horsemen. Donavan extended his left hand with the engraved container towards the leader and freely letting his grief show on his face he let the box slip from his grasp. As he expected, the man reflexively reached out to catch it. With the same swift speed that had caught the old woman off guard, he drew his sword and in a smooth downward stroke, neatly severed the man’s right arm just above the elbow. As the man stared stupidly at his arm laying on the ground, Donavan swung the sword around and upward, spinning his horse with a nudge of his knee and ran the tip of his blade into the base of his throat at a sharp downward angle, and his enemy dropped lifelessly to the ground with out so much as a whimper.

The two other sword wielding brigands looked at each other, then at their fallen leader, and as Donavan roared and spurred his mount sharply, making him rear up, both men panicked and ran, as Donavan had expected. He was facing the fourth man now and his mount charged forward, directly at him. The man held the glaive firmly, readying himself for the impact of the charge, hoping to impale the horse and throw Donavan off his mount. Donavan, however, had a surprise for him. He charged forward, his right arm holding the sword straight out from his body, and just before the expected impact he tugged the reins to the left as he dropped his sword arm down and swung his sword forward and up. Feeling the reins being pulled and seeing the flash of silver as Donavan’s sword arced up towards his head, the horse reacted as Donavan expected, turning to the left, avoiding the point of the glaive. As Donavan’s sword flashed upward it caught the glaive just behind the blade, slicing though the shaft. So unexpected was this, that the shaft was torn from his grasp and as Donavan reined the horse in and spun him around the man found himself standing helpless with Donavan’s sword point at his throat.

"Run, and tell your demon master, I come for him tonight!"

7

Donavan's heart beat hard as the adrenaline coursed through his body. His senses were alive as were his combat instincts. Donavon was surprised at the fact that he was not even out of breath. He thought to himself that tonight he would redeem himself and reclaim his lost love. He spurred his horse on toward Evenshire and arrived in the town scarcely more than an hour after his clash with the brigands.