The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

A Heathens Kiss

Thirteen turns hard ride from the Kabel Monastery, a single dusty track snakes ever-earthbound to the great stone valley of Ossan, which resembles a mighty axe blow cleaved through the shattered earth. The Garrison of Ossan nestles in the valley's lonesome core, shadowed by towering moraines of loose scree and dismal stone. A dark and dreary, treeless stone prison. The dismal and desolate borderland of Theil and Galt. The last outpost of Thiel is the gateway to the natural riches of Galt's mines.

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Rain lashes against the crumbling stone hall, drumming a relentless rhythm on the leaking roof. Aldard, the Galtish general of Ossan, sits alone on a long wooden bench, warming his weathered hands over an open fire, his fingers wrinkled from the rain. A bubbling vat of snotty barley pottage hangs above the hearth. He forces down another gulp of the tasteless slop.

"We're heading home, Bear?" A gruff voice grunts, breaking the silence. Aldard's soldiers huddle together behind him, sitting on ramshackle benches, shoveling down mouthfuls of the lumpy gruel in grim silence.

Aldard rises, his gaze hardening as he faces his soldiers. "In seven turns, we'll be back at Castle Galt with good food, warm beds, and even warmer lasses. Pack light and bring your hunting bows; there's still plenty of game on the moors."

"Aye, general." The soldiers stand, each nodding to Aldard as they bob out of the tumbledown stone food hall and into the torrential rain.

General Aldard closes his eyes, readying himself for the final push. His filthy fingertips trace the grooves of a small, hand-carved figurine of his wife, concealed beneath his tattered cloak. He gives a weary grunt before he strides out into the biting rain. His heavy-set eyes squint through the gloomy gray and range over the dilapidated colony garrison.

Dismal rain falls onto crumbling freeholds and impoverished battlements with barely habitable quarters. Scrawny chickens strut amid broken stone clay-packed huts, patched up with wattle, daub, and goat shit. The huts' fragile, damp thatched roofs leak eye-watering smoke into the glum sky. Dilapidated storehouses, stables, dormitories, and makeshift encampments punctuate the bleak landscape beyond the garrison center. The Thielian border camp is to the south, and his Galtish camp stands to the north. A solitary sentry perches atop a crumbling parapet, scanning the Thielian horizon with vigilant eyes.

Aldard's captain, Algwain, stands firm at his shoulder with a look as dank as the weather. Everyone knows Algwain, at least by reputation; he towers over most tall men by at least two heads. His disheveled copper hair, tousled by the wind, and his Galtish green cloak, caked with mud and icy drizzle, bear the sigil of a rising dragon. "Morning, general. Any news from King Eiden?" inquires Captain Algwain with a loud sniffle.

"No news, Algwain." They exchange concerned glances. "What about the grain shipment, captain?" Aldard wipes the rain from his squinting eyes.

"Unloaded and into the stores, general. We're waiting for the last shipment, but it's going to be another harsh winter." Algwain shrugs with a puff of misty breath.

"Best get to it then, you lazy bastard." Aldard slaps Algwain on the back with a wink. "Captain, our duties are done. General Aiseld has the command of Ossan. Have the lads form up. It's a long march home in this weather."

Captain Algwain peers up at the gathering clouds in the smoky sky as an eagle soars above the dreary valley, scouting for prey. The eagle's wings tuck as it dives, spiraling down with its eyes fixed on the target. Its talons sink deep into Algwain's worn leather glove. The eagle's sharp beak tears into a lump of marbled fat. Algwain places a small cloth sack over the eagle's head, nods to Aldard, winks, and strides ahead.