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.
Algwain sighs, "Nay. I have never seen neither, and I hope never to in this life or the next."
"Lord Aiseld died at the castle gates. Even now, I can't escape the sound of his screams." Porker nods as his mind races back to that frightful night.
"Aye, I heard." Algwain's sorrowful eyes scan the snow-covered moorlands.
Porker nods and takes another sip of the strong liquor. "The darkest day of my life is when The Black General carried the heads of his daughter and wife, slaughtered for not bowing to the prince's summons."
Algwain grimaces in silence.
"Lord Aiseld refused the summons. He wouldn't bend the knee while King Eiden lives. The penalty for his refusal was death, for him and all his descendants."
"Why all the lies?" Algwain stares at the old guard with sorrowful eyes.
Porker exhales. "I've been asking myself that since the moment you arrived. If only I could turn back time. Troubled men do strange things in troubling times. I hope a clear conscience may guide me to untroubled lands."
Algwain nods. "So, old friend, tell me true."
Porker delves into the dismal memories buried deep in his mind. "That Black General dragged Lord Aiseld back to Merefen, towing him from his stallion like some lost half-dead livestock. His wife's and daughter's heads hung from the saddle, bouncing around on its hind. When we opened the gate, Aiseld begged for mercy. His dying wish was for us to bar the gate and keep Elfred safe. We lined the walls and loosed all we had. But every arrow went astray. Our best bowmen couldn't hit the mark."
"Aye, the lads told me," Algwain nods.
Porker drains another large gulp of liquor and runs his tongue over his stinging lips. "He drove the blade through Lord Aiseld's back and cracked him open like a bloody nut. Lord Aiseld was a mass of shattered bones and tumbling innards. The Black General flayed him alive, Algwain. As he screamed for mercy, I stuck an arrow in his heart. The butchery that followed, I can't find the words to speak."
"I dare not ask more from you." A gust of wind blows a flurry of snow into Algwain's eyes.
Porker sighs in relief beneath tearful eyes. He finds the courage to hold Algwain's stern gaze. "The Black General summoned me to treat with him." The old guard shudders as he recalls the memory locked in the deepest and darkest chasm of his mind.
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"Commander of the gate. Come treat with me. You are loyal men of Galt. Join with King Madon. This is a time to rejoice as we unite under his reign."
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Porker falls backwards in a puff of snow and glances up at the white sky as winter's kisses flutter down and settle on his tear-stained face. "Why me, Algwain? I tell you true, beneath that black helm, there's a gaze. I hope you never come to meet again," Porker shudders. "His voice is that of a man I once knew well, Lord Gosen, the king's own brother."
Algwain peers down at the fat old guard with a deep look of curiosity.
"I admit, I fell to my knees in fear, kneeling knee-deep in the butchered remains of Lord Aiseld." Tears stream down the old guard's fat cheek as he recounts The Black General's command.
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"Hear me, commander of the gate. This is the fate of all who stand against King Madon. In his graciousness, King Madon gives you two moons' time to surrender Elfred, the last of this treacherous line. You know the price. I will spare no one. I will water the earth with their blood, and I do not stand alone. The Umbal know no rest, and there is nowhere to flee. Go now, commander of the gate. Lead your men and counsel them to wisdom. Do not give in to foolish old loyalties or heroic acts of pride. I return at the dawn of the second night. Give me the last of Aiseld's treacherous line. I will repay your loyalty in kind. Give me Elfred, and I will reward you and all in Merefen with riches beyond all dreams. A new dawn comes. King Madon does not forget your loyalty."
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The old guard sits up and looks deep into Algwain's sad eyes. "The men of Merefen turned against each other. It was a bloodbath of kin slaying kin. Men of Galt, friends, stuck each other with blades driven mad by fear and greed. Loyalty was abandoned; over half of Merefen was slain. They locked those who remained loyal in the kennels. Those who took Merefen as their own became lesser men, behaving like wild beasts. They sentenced Elfred, the last of his line, to death."
Porker's tears fall like snowfall.
"They spared me to treat with the king's general upon his return. What was I to do? I did as duty demanded. All that awaits me is the time to die, whether by his hand, their hands, or now yours, old friend. Death is my only reward."
The old guard slumps forward and gives a long, hollow sigh. "I've seen enough bloodshed for a thousand lifetimes. Make it quick, old friend. I pray we will meet again in the next life. I'm tired, Algwain. Strike clean and true." Porker drains the last drop of liquor from the flask. He leans his head forward and pulls away his sheep-hide shawl to expose his neck.
"Aye, you're tired, old friend." Algwain stands, and the tip of the double-edged broadsword skims and bounces on the brittle snow's surface. The sword from Aiseld's own chamber, a head cleaver, forged to deliver the lord's justice. "The lads demand your head spiked on the rampart. They want your hide to lie before the hearth in the main hall. Angry men make bloody demands. They all want to see my justice." As Algwain speaks, his words are as sharp and heavy as the winter air, burdened with the bond of friendship.
Porker chokes back fear as his vision blurs. He sways on his knees, beads of sweat running from his bald head and streaming down his glistening brow.
"You've known me from lad to man. I've counted you as a friend my entire life, and it will be so until my last breath," Algwain pats the old guard on his back. His face betrays the turmoil within, and his brows furrow in a mix of sorrow and indecision. His once steadfast gaze wavers, torn between the loyalty he feels for Porker, his lifelong friend, and the duty he owes to Merefen.
Porker rubs his blurring eyes, his world drifting between unfocused white and beckoning black. Algwain's distant, muffled voice whispers, "Sleep, old friend. You are now at the mercy of the land. By nightfall, the wolves will come and feast on what remains. You will wake before that time, and you must leave these lands with all haste." A small cloth bag thuds into the snow before Porker. "There's enough salted meat, bread, and dried cheese for a few turns."
Porker raises his head, and in his blurred vision, Algwain sways around like a mirage, lost in a distant haze. He runs his tongue over his teeth, a bitter taste filling his mouth. He grimaces at the acrid taste of poppy tar mingling with the strong malted grains.
"Farewell, old friend. May you find safe passage to the next life. I will embrace you as a friend in this life and the next." Algwain's voice drifts out of time and space as Porker's world falls into a warm embrace. His head hits the soft snow, and a loud, piggish snore grunts from his intoxicated lips. White clouds of snow puff up from his open, snoring mouth.
"Bloody old fool," Algwain says, wrapping a spare blanket over Porker's slumbering body. He turns to see the old mage watching him amidst the whirling fall of the snow.
"Merefen wants death's justice. Yet you showed him mercy." The old man's wise blue eye stares into Algwain. He rests on his tall wooden staff, his tattered, snow-covered gray robes fluttering in the gentle wind. The mage looks older and more frail, like a battered old willow tree, creaking in the wind, ready to snap and fall.
"Is this not a fate worse than a clean death?" Algwain looks at the head-cleaving sword and considers his choices.
"Leave him be," the old mage says with a slow, solemn nod. "There has been enough bloodshed, and The One will judge him as he sees fit."
"What do I tell the people of Merefen?" Algwain looks at the mage with growing reluctance. "They want his fat head on a spike." He shakes clumps of freezing snow from his long autumnal hair as he peers down with a regretful sigh at the sleeping sack of the snoring guard.
"That's why I'm here. I thought you may need a little help. I've told the people of Merefen he will receive The One's justice by my hand, delivered by my staff."
Nirtesh gives Algwain a conspiratorial wink. The mage then hobbles towards the sleeping guard through the snow, leaning forward as he prods Porker with his staff. "There, I have delivered The One's justice by my staff. Now, your old friend is at The One's mercy. There is purpose in such deeds, although this one hangs in the balance."
Algwain nods and casts a final glance of farewell to the old guard, uncertainty breeding in his gut.
The decapitated bodies of the treacherous dead lie in a line, collapsed into the snow, swimming in pools of their own freezing blood.
Nirtesh nudges Algwain forward, and with slow steps, they walk together through the snow, up onto the white lip of the hill. Merefen stands below them, smoke rising from the chimneys, with the faintest smell of baked bread and roasting meat riding on the breeze.
Algwain pulls up his hood and gives the old mage a supporting arm. This time, the mage doesn't refuse. Arm in arm, they trudge back to the keep with heavy hearts.