Donovan and the Keepers of the Gate chpt1

Alas, another exert from a series in progress. Almost finished with the rough manuscript, but here's a teaser for you to enjoy.
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CHAPTER I
Son of Ollof

“ Dammit boy! Hold tight on that rope! If she kicks free, it'll beat you bloody!” Yelled a tiring Ollof, slowly slipping from the neck of a rather mangy looking bull. Donovan could feel the rope biting into the palm of his hands as he struggled to wrangle the steer at the other end. It wasn't kicking so much, as it was just slowly plodding forward, almost unaware of the small boy it dragged along, or the grizzly old man tangled around its thick collar. If he knew what fate was in store for him, he might have been truly unmanageable, and those glossy eyes might be wide with determination. But they were blank and stupid, only adding to the unusual scene of a steer with a man necklace and a muddy boy tail. Donovan tried planting his feet into the mud, but his scandals worked more like skis, letting him slide across the surface like marble over ice. The old man continued to wrestle the beast, wrapping one large arm tighter around its neck, using the other to reach the trusty dirk he kept in his boot. “Hold him boy!” the man shouted, his face red and sweaty even in the chilled autumn air.
“I can't, he's too big.”
“ Damn it boy! Plant your feet! I'm slipping!”
Before Donovan could adjust his grip, Ollof had fallen into the mud with a slurping thud. The beast bolted, pulling Donovan onto his face, and filling his open mouth with thick moist earth. Both man and boy cursed as the lumbering steer trotted off towards the horizon, stopping to mock them only when it reached a secure distance. Donovan got to his knees and wiped the dirt from his face, and judging by the foul smell, it probably contained a bit more then just that. Yuck!
He flapped his hands, and thick globs of dirt flung from his fingers and sleeves. A hand came crashing down on the back of his neck, and roughly pulled him up by his collar. He was spun to face a mud caked Ollof, who had chunks of brown grass and dung stuck beneath his crooked teeth. His graying beard was speckled with sticks and leaves, and his brown eyes were red with rage as he began a tirade.
“Why you little rotten worm! I'd pound your fat head if I thought it do any good!”
He shook the boy, who struggled to spit out an explanation. “I tried to hold em father, I did. The rope was too muddy, I couldn't hold on!”
“You tried to get me stomped under those hooves is what ya did. I should wring your little neck!”
“It was an accident, I swear.”
Ollof frowned, and reluctantly dropped the lad with a sigh. “ Stupid boy.. save your excuses for the ones going hungry tonight.”
Ollof shook his head, turned a cold shoulder and walked away. Donovan followed behind, muttering to himself. The rope slipped....stupid animal.

It was early evening by the time they arrived at the village. Old women were fanning small fires outside of mud, straw, and clay huts. Men were gathered around various locations, talking boisterously about successful hunts and bloody battles long past. Children scurried this way and that, carrying woven dolls and training bows and swords, pretending to be warriors or mothers or heroes of old. The air was thick with the scent of steaming vegetables and stews, that would go with lack of meat this night no thanks to Donovan. It weighed heavy on his mind as he walked, and his head dropped lower each hut he passed empty handed. Ollof hadn't spoken or looked at him the whole walk, he could only assume it to be because his father couldn't handle further disappointment. It was a long and tiresome walk on top of that, taking him through through thorn thickets, over rolling hills, and a frozen lake that separated the camp from the Great Forest. Donovan was a lanky boy, taller then most his age, but not nearly as thick. Even at 13, most of the boys in the village could at least yield a broad sword without looking awkward. But Donovan had a hard time lifting one above his head without nearly falling backwards, and the thick skins and furs he wore made him look more like a famished, drunken bear then a warrior. His eyes were green, like no one else in the village, making old ladies smother him, and young men tease him. And his hair was dark brown, long and course, and hung like a horse tail on the back of his head. He only had to carry the supply pack home, not his sword or shield, but that alone was half his weight. It rested on his back and he often had to hunch forward to make it comfortable, which always got him yelled at . “A man stands tall.” Ollof often said, “You want to be a man, or a bent old woman.” His feet were so sore from the walk that they were swelling, and the straps of his sandals dug into the tops of them.
They made it to the long-hut, a tubular mud building, draped with brown pelts, and stretched for several yards. It served as a feast hall during the winter months, and converted to the elders lodge in summer, when the old men couldn't stand the sun. Ollof stopped so suddenly that Donovan nearly crashed into him. “I'm going to speak with Sohawk, tell em to forgive my fool of a boy for starving his men.” Ollof griped as he pulled a pair of leather gloves off his meaty hands. “As for you boy, take the pack back to the hut and go to the gather.” Donovan went to protest, but Ollof cut him short. “I don't want to hear it boy! You do as I said, and head to the gather. And don't you dare leave! Less you want a lashing from more then just tongues.” He pushed aside a deer skin flap door to the lodge, and disappeared behind it.
Donovan could feel two hundred eyes at his back, and swallowed hard before he turned to face them. But it wasn't a thousand eyes that greeted him, but one aqua blue set on the fair face of a young blonde girl. The sight of her excitement startled him, and he nearly jumped from his skin when she shrieked. “ Donovan!” She flung herself onto his waist, squeezing tightly as Donovan attempted to peel her off before anyone could noticed.
He flustered with embarrassment, though he couldn't help a slight smile that came with seeing a familiar face.
“Alright Nessa, come on, get off. You act like I've been gone years, not a day.”
she jumped off, almost offended by his statement, and folded her arms underneath her wool shall. “It is boring when your not here.” she said. “All the others want to do is play dolls. I hate dolls, why do girls have to play dolls. I can hold a sword too you know.”
“And well I'd bet.” Donovan comforted, reaching to adjust her wolf fur cloak. “Better then me I know. I can barely hold a rope, let alone a sword.”
It was only then that Nessa noticed Donovan was standing without any prize gained from a successful hunt. She knew he wasn't much of a hunter, and didn't seem as worried about it as some of the others surely would be. “the others didn't expect you to come back with much.”
She hoped that would make him feel a little better, but the comment served opposite. She apologized when she saw his immediate shame. “I'm sorry Donovan, I didn't mean it like that...Your just..not...”
“A hunter” he finished, and adjusted the pack higher on his shoulders. Nessa let her foot kick at a small dirt mound, trying to think of something to change subjects. Nothing came. “You have other talents Donovan, even if some people don't see it.”
“Tell that to the rest of the village. Father says a talent means nothing if it feeds no mouths, and spills no blood.”
“Ollof is an ogre.” She puffed, “ And war is for brutes who use their heads for mallets, and not for thinking.”
He laughed at that, and she smiled bright upon hearing it. She grabbed his hand, and bits of dry mud flaked off into her own. “You may not be a hunter Donovan, but you are something. Something good, something better then this place, and these people.” She meant her words, and he saw it in her gaze, before it was lost in a jesting statement. “But you certainly are no hunter.”