The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

Light

Curse the shadows and nightmares which come untamed. Algwain feels a hollow lump consuming him from the inside out. Time drifts until the song of a winter thrush breaks the somber silence.

˜ ˜ ˜

The horse and cart come to a sudden creaking stop. "We will rest here," declares the old man, clambering down from the driver's seat. His skeletal legs shake as they touch the grass. He leans on his walking pole and takes slow, hunched steps towards the rear of the cart. He gestures towards the wooden chest, and Algwain reaches back and passes the chest to the old man. Knees bent, grunting with effort, the old man disappears into the thick grasses and yellow bushes of gorse flowers.

Algwain sits up and slides from the cart, his bare feet meeting the cold, damp grassy ground, his toes dig into the soft, earthy soil. He paces towards a small fire beside a stream.

"Thank you," Algwain's voice echoes in his own head. "I will reward your kindness when we reach Castle Galt." He places the sleeping girl beside the small fire, pulling the blanket tight around her.

"Reward, eh?" The old man stoops before the fire, tending a small metal pot that simmers with sweet tea. He passes Algwain a cup and gestures for him to drink. "Drink."

Algwain blows away the rising steam and takes a sip, savouring the warmth with a long sigh of relief. He inhales the aroma of honey, juniper, ginger, and wildflowers. The sun seems to shine brighter, and the birdsong grows louder.

Eindred and Eifear join them, their eyes fixated on the hypnotic flames. Each man drinks, and hesitant smiles transform into warming grins. They gather dry brush to feed the tiny fire, and the heady fragrance of juniper fills the air. They exchange solemn nods as their trembling hands feed the fire with practiced efficiency.

"Now, unless you want to suffer a slow and agonizing death from infection, I strongly suggest you apply this poultice," the old man cradles a large, heavy metal bowl in his gnarled hands." He grinds powders, liquids, herbs, and dried flowers, creating a thick, bright blue pulp with a rounded stone. "Apply this to your wounds. It will aid in your healing." he passes Algwain the bowl of poultice.

Algwain sniffs at the bowl, inhaling the foul odor of the healing herbs. He dips his finger into the blue mush and dabs it onto the tip of his tongue, his face contorts to the bitter taste.

"Eat no more," the old man cackles in laughter, "unless you wish to spend the rest of our journey squatting in the grass."

"What is it?" Algwain regains his manners, suppressing a cough. "I mean to say thank you."

"It is I who should thank you. As for the poultice, it is a mixture to aid your healing." The old man looks at the sleeping girl with a long sigh. "The girl will never fully heal. She will carry the pain of loss her whole life. When she awakens, she will remain silent for a time. No child should endure such wickedness. She owes you her life, a debt she will repay in due time."

Curious eyes study the frail old man. His owlish blue eye shines like starlight, while his cataract eye ripples like a pearl.

"Who are you?" Eifear grunts as he rubs his fingers over the dried herbs in the poultice, wrinkling his nose at the pungent stench.

"I am Nirtesh, a simple trader making my way to the far east," the old peddler flashes a three-toothed mouth of rotten teeth.

"A peddler with no goods to trade?" Eindred raises a quizzical brow in distrust.

"Not all goods are as they appear," the old peddler raises his gray mono-brow. "It is fortunate that our paths have crossed. A life on the road has taught me a few healing tricks. Now, apply the poultice before it sets."