The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

Shadow

Aldard sighs with relief and salutes his luck. He pulls a thick woolen blanket from his leather sack and surveys the camp. A pair of soldiers pile small handfuls of dry brush atop firestones. Stones clack together, and with a gentle breath from a soldier's lips, a fragile fire takes life, spitting firefly cinders into the turbulent sky. The camp cheers as they gather around the fire, warming their weary hands on the feeble flames.

The soldiers skin hares, pluck feathers, and portion scrawny birds ready for the pot. Others nurse the fire as one would a child, feeding it little by little until it burns bright with independent light. Captain Algwain drifts around the camp, making morale-boosting small talk, laughing and joking, and patting the troops on the back.

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Night descends upon contented men crammed together around the meager fire. They huddle together for warmth and kinship, sharing tales and humorous anecdotes from their past lives. A warming sight in the bleakest of nights. The soldiers roast hare on the tips of their blades. The aroma of slow-charred flesh fills the air, smoky and sweet. Their faces illuminated by the flickering flames.

Aldard leans back against his pack and smiles to himself as his men chatter and eat, sharing wine as equals. He taps the leg of Captain Algwain, who sits beside him.

"What is it, Bear?" Algwain takes a glug of the strong wine and passes it to Aldard.

"Bear?" Aldard takes a swig and says, "That was a long time ago, and it was a small bear at that." Aldard rubs the lucky bear paw hanging around his neck. "Shot with an arrow. You can't wrestle a bear and win."

"The men believe what they want to. You will always be their general who wrestled a bear." Algwain reaches for Aldard's neck, mimicking strangulation.

Aldard wipes tears of laughter from his eyes as they lock arms at the shoulders. The two men have a striking resemblance, as tight as brothers and honest as the wind.

"General," Aldard pats Algwain on the back, his voice brimming with jovial command, "give the orders; the troops are yours."

"What's gotten into you?" Algwain's eyes narrow.

"I hope this will be my last command. A father of three, with two sons I've never seen. I'm too old with too many winters." He gazes through the dancing flames lingering on each soldier's face. Some he knows, but most are strangers. He leans closer to Algwain and speaks in hushed tones. "The truth is, I am tired of soldiering. There is a small farm waiting for me—a quiet life. The men will follow you. Tonight, the troops should see their future general."

"The great Bear! A farmer?" Algwain bursts into mocking laughter. "You're fecking with me? Drink more wine and tell me how you feel about it in the morning."

Aldard takes a gulp of wine and signals for Algwain to issue the orders.

"Men of Galt," Algwain rises to his feet with a slight wobble. The soldiers look up, their lively faces aglow with intoxicated merriment. "I'm in command for the night." The troops cheer and drum on their legs.

"Feck. Cover your arseholes, lads. The young bear wants some warmth for the night." Banters a voice amid howls of laughter from the joyful soldiers.

"Men of Galt, my brothers." Algwain takes a deep, mocking bow and says, "It's another three turns of easy marching to Castle Galt, with good old Galtish hospitality along the way. Keep the fire going and take it easy on the wine. There's not enough to entice me to your filthy arseholes."

The soldiers cheer in response.

"I'm famished." Algwain strides to the fireside and snatches a brace of plucked pheasants by their necks. "Get the stew going." The men drum their legs in anticipation as Algwain points to a metal pot the size of three helmets. "Well, don't just sit there. Fetch water. We got pheasants to stew."