The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

Food for Wolves

Every day starts the same: the sun rises, and then darkness reclaims. Time is no man's friend. It's cold outside, and the world is dying beneath a fragile blanket of white. Rivers of warm blood cover the snow.

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Tiny snowflakes come to rest on Porker's pallid face as he stares up at the snow-filled sky. The snow-covered moorland lays silent and frozen. Snow clings to Porker's eyelashes as he pulls his sheepskin shawl tight around his round shoulders, seeking solace from the biting wind that whispers tales of treason and treachery. He kneels at the end of a long line of treason and treachery. On his right, the wind whistles, followed by a sickening, wet thwack. All is silent.

The pleas of the coming dead are all but spent as yet another head falls with a muffled thump into the snow. The old guard's ears prick up to the gentle sound of blood lapping over the snow. His head falls forward and comes to rest on his heavy chest. Footsteps crackle through winter's blanket, drawing ever closer to his end. He blows out through his shaking lips, knowing now that his own time has come. The ice-cold blade rests on his neck. In this moment, he understands it's a burden no man should ever bear.

"Old friend," Algwain's words cut sharper and deeper than any blade can inflict.

Porker pulls his sheep's skin shawl tighter with a shiver. His lowering gaze takes in the last sight of the land he calls home.

The heads of summer's last wild flowers peep from beneath the snowy blanket. Porker takes in a long, deep breath, savoring winter's fresh air as he gazes over the brow of the moorland hill where Merefen Castle stands, a sombre rock of frail hope. Smoke rises from the chimney above the great main hall, and the bell tower chimes as it has every morning since the first dawn of all its time. If stone could speak, it would tell a lifetime of contented tales. On this day, the castle sits in a mass of charcoal mourning.

"I'm ready, Algwain. Make it quick." Porker's last words falter, sticking in his throat. He winces as tears and snot collide, swallowing them down with a mouthful of pride.

"Aye, I will, old friend." Algwain's hand reaches around him and passes him a corked clay bottle. "A last drink together. If you will?" His soft words roll from behind Porker, full of regret.

"Aye, a last drink together." He uses his yellowed teeth, the old guard uncorks the clay bottle with a loud pop, then he spits out the cork onto the freezing snow. The frozen lip of the bottle touches his lips—it stings with the warm bite of strong malt liquor. Porker takes a long swig.

"Galt's finest single malt." Says Algwain as he pats Porker on the back.

The old guard nods in appreciation, and his body shudders, moved by the kindness of his old friend. Porker's last words are simple and true. "I'm sorry, Algwain." The weight on his conscience causes his shoulders to slump as Porker reflects on the choices that resulted in the deaths of Lord Aiseld and the chaos in Merefen. Guilt eating him alive, gnawing from the inside out.

"Leave us," Algwain orders to the soldiers standing behind him. There's a silent accord of somber nods, and then retreating footsteps crunch through the fragile snow. All becomes silent except for the faint pattering of snowfall.

Algwain slumps down next to the old guard and reaches for the drinking flask. He gives it a sniff and takes the smallest of sips. He licks his lips and passes the flask to Porker. "Drain it dry."

"Aye, I won't waste a single drop." The silence holds for what seems like an eternity.

"Why?" Algwain's questioning eyes bore into his old friend. "You could have sought my help."

"Algwain, have you ever seen a man turn inside out? Have you ever heard a man scream so loudly that he died of fright?" Porker winces and looks up at the sky.