ALDEN THE CURSED

The wind bit at his flesh, each gust tearing the rest of his rags from a nearly naked body. It shoved icicles into his tight goose bumped pores. Shards of ice crystallized in the innards of his jungled, thickened beard, his brown nose swelled to the stain of a blueberry, his cracked lips a perfect match. The man looked to the sky, a blackened blue. His eyes urged to leak, yet the reservoir was emptied, his body was no more or less than a raisin left in orbit of the hottest sun. The stars mocked him, the moon being the prime instigator. He let out a wail that clawed his throat. He wanted to ram his bare first into the layers of white below, they’d lost feeling some time ago, when was irrelevant. His toes too had been conquered a while back, when his walk became a crawl. The man shuffled his body in the blanket of snow. Another wail stained the air, he could feel the crumbled ribs stabbing at his internal organs, for a moment he’d thought a shard had javelined his heart. Then, silence once more.

***

“Men, this way! Hurry before night falls, it looks as if a flurry will be upon us tonight!” Alden waved the flat of his long sword gesturing the line of men behind him to follow, the steel gleaming the sun's beams. The clanking of helmets, breastplates, and chain-linked armor jingled about the midday, the crunch of snow growing louder as the men proceeded to progress with more pace. Low groans, aggravated sighs, and red-flushed faces accompanied every step. When one too many moans and heaves of breath met his ears, Alden swiftly turned himself to face the group of men, a hell broiling his eyes, the multitude heaving loads of food rations, hand-crafted swords, shields, and bloodied, crippled men.

“I said MOVE, men!.” Alden nearly snipped his vocal cords. “The night will not be healing to us, for the Oracle has told. What we can do, to save as many as possible, is to find a shelter, a warm one impervious to this wretched air.” Alden kept his vision forward, darting from one branchless tree to another, his legs sinking into snow that cut away his ankles. They numbered on forward for what seemed eons, spouts of black dotting a white sea. A white sea he and his men had never stood before. Foreign? No, this displacement was far worse, perhaps he’d already died and been sent to this brisk hell, him and his men now lost traversing souls. If shelter failed to show itself to Alden, he knew that hell would become real. What lies ahead? Where will his men lay their heads to sleep? Where…is this place? The thought curled Alden’s gut. What’d been said had in fact come true, cursed Oracle!

“Master Alden! Master Alden, God! Damelaus--”

“What is it Eamelaus?” Alden faced Eamelaus, a young soldier with golden curls and pale-tan skin. Alden meeting his eyes immediately understood the deathly bewilderment pooling in his pupils. In his arms laid Damelaus, a limp, bloodied body. Eamelaus’ tears dropped about the dirtied face, his fingers twirling his golden curls, the same as his twin.

“My God.”

Alden thrusted himself forward, his legs heaving through the thick snow. When he stood over young Damelaus, his body folded, his knees taking the brunt of it. There, he cupped the rigid, heavy cranium in his two palms. He took a glimpse into the colorless eyes, felt along the hardened skin, and gazed upon the bloodied bandage held about his ribs. The wrap was swelled with red, fresh, and slowly freezing. Alden cocked his head to the sky, a blur of stars.

“Demons! Demons you all are, every last one of you GODS! Curse your souls, curse your judgment, strike me down if you must, my sorrow weighs tons more than any blow you bring upon me!” Streams of tears oozed from his eyes, their speed slowing the longer they were exposed to the cold. They failed to drop from his chin freezing just before they could make their descent to the ground.

“Master, don't curse the Gods, you know the lengths of their wrath! What fury they’ll surely drop upon us for that!” Eamelaus stared death into Alden, the young man calling his superior out in front of the legion of soldiers. A daring gesture.

“Snip your tongue Eamelaus, can’t you see the Gods have taken what is most precious to you? Can’t you see that the Gods have stolen the souls of countless numbers of our brethren? Can’t you see that the Gods have stranded us away on a white ocean, miles, and eons away from our home where the sun shines and fruits grow ripe and children grow healthy? What Gods should I have respect for, pour libations, and give praise to? What Gods have shown themselves to us in the flesh? Cowards! Fools, the Gods are. I smite thee with all my hatred and welcome my demise!”

***

“Oracle, before I take this journey, I must ask of you? What shall come of me? What shall come of my men? Will we bring home gold and glory? Strygans have terrorized the Aldonian lands for over five generations, this expedition will hopefully bring an end to the suffering of our people.”

Alden sat cross-legged at attention, a golden fire brimming between him and the old haggard soul, the Oracle, the truth speaker of the Aldonian clan. The two sat in a tent, a covering made from the finest of boar, sheep, and wolf hide. The luminous flame deepened the trenches in the Oracle’s leathered skin and brightened the soulless gray film of her blind eyes. Perhaps those that can’t see the world see the truth. Alden’s long, black curls assumed a sheen in the light of the flame, and his honey-hazel eyes carmelized with each crackle of the burning firewood. The Oracle leaned herself forward, the tip of her nose almost gracing the edges of the flame.

“Master Alden, your journey to the Strygan capital and vision to conquer the empire is a noble one, a noble one indeed. You will come out of Stryga victorious, your men will rejoice, and the clan will be free from the influence of such a destructive power.” The rasp in the Oracle’s voice was strong, yet Alden could feel the truth penetrating his bowels. A grin wrapped itself across his cheeks.

“Blessings Oracle, Blessings.” Alden bowed his head in admiration of the soothing news.

“Don’t be so quick to fill your heart with smiles, Master Alden. You may come away victorious, but the Gods are angry with you, yes, very spiteful indeed.”

Alden quickly raised his head again, his face wrinkled in confusion. His hands that were previously clasped in prayer now were balled into fists, the pressure of his anger whitening his knuckles. He too leaned forward, spite looming in his eyes as he stared back at the sightless Oracle.

“What is the meaning of this? Why are the Gods angered with me? What do you know of their plans for me Oracle, what can I do to appease their wrath?”

The Oracle let away a hoarse chuckle from her throat, a mocking gesture. She smiled, showing her soft-gummed, toothless mouth. Then, just as quickly as she smiled and chuckled, her face reverted back to its wrinkled, stoic expression.

“The Gods, they have accused you, Master Alden, of many things. Lust, greed, violence, pride, and most egregious of all, your lack of faith for you have yet to sacrifice any personal belongings or wealth and you have yet to pour libations to any of the Gods. For that, the Gods have shown me a prophecy of your future.”

Alden’s balled fist had crumbled away, his hands were now in a small tremor. Small beads of sweat pebbled his face, his breathing slow, yet erratic, and his eyes which were filled to the brim with anger had cooled to bitter anguish.

“Tell me Oracle, tell me now what is it that rest in my future, surely I can do something to appease the Gods before I embark on my journey. Shall I pour libations, burn a share of my goats? Tell me, where have I shown lust and greed, violence and pride? I’ve only wished to protect my people and restore Aldonia to its former glory.”

The Oracle shook her head as if Alden had disgraced her, called her out her name. She started her clear beaded eyes ahead through the churning flames. They met Alden’s eyes and he flinched back away from the flames with a swiftness. He racked his mind for reasons as to why she was able to spot his pupils, or maybe the blind can see souls.

“What I will tell you will not be a story of triumph, pillage, and celebration of spoils. Because you are embarking on the sea, Seus, the supreme deity of all the world’s seas will allow safe passage for you and your men into Stryga, but realize, the land of Stryga is ruled by a direct descendant of Seus, lord Eulos. Once you take his life, the God of the Seas will become irate with you and from there, he will lay waste to your ships on your way home. You will lose many men in this attack on your ships, but that will not be your end. Sues will strand you and the rest of your men on an island. An island eons away from here, an island of pure cold, an island lacking in vegetation, and an island where you will watch the demise of your men, the nature of their demise the Gods have not shown me. You, Master Alden, will be a lone survivor, lost, naked, and afraid. Your path home is unclear, but you will return to Aldonia. Whether you return broken and depleted or spry and youthful has not been shown to me. That is all I have for you, Master.”

***

Alden could think of nothing but the Oracle’s words as he held the soulless Damelaus in his hands, his tears dry and crusted to streams of ice on his face. The men had all decided it would be best to bury the fallen comrade, his twin Eamelaus having the last say in the matter. And so they did just that, burying the hardened body under a plow of snow. They prayed blessings for the young man in the afterlife, shed an ocean’s fill of tears, and moved on about their journey. That is the nature of the Aldonian clan: In life or in death, a man must never be stagnant, his vision forever forward even if a comrade or loved one has fallen.

The sun had begun its retreat from the horizon and the moon begun its rule over a darkened night. What rest in this mysterious land at night? What horror have the Gods laid ahead of Alden and his men? The body of young Damelaus had been buried miles and miles back and the rest of Alden’s men, forty by his count, trudged along the mounds of snow. Shelter? No, not a sign of a cave, cluster of vegetation, or animals to hunt and gut.

You will watch the demise of your men, the nature of their demise the Gods have not shown me…

And so the moment had come true, every word spoken from those raisined lips. Alden’s heart plunged to the depths of his empty gut when a snowflake landed and melted on his reddened nose.

“Men!” Alden screeched with all his might, the life in his voice had been stolen miles back when he buried young Damelaus in the snow.

“Grab all of your belongings, grab the person closest to you, grab fallen branches, grab dead leaves, grab anything! We must stay warm at all costs, we will survive this ordeal, may the Gods bless us through the night.”

An older soul from the pack of men moved forward. His face was infested by scraggly greys of hair, the rest reddened to a cherry by the harsh winds. In his hands, he carried a rolled-up, browned scroll--as the ship’s navigator, a map was always on hand. His name, old, wise Atticus.

“Master Alden.” Atticus in his old age had long lost the bass in his voice his younger self boasted.

“I’ve looked these maps over and over, scanned my eyes across every inch of this mysterious land we’ve walked upon. There is no mention of it on my maps. When we shipwrecked, I knew…I knew this land was different. There’s no life, why? What have we done to the Gods Alden? What will we do? Our demise is imminent! Escape? There is none!”

Old Atticus grabbed a tuft of his loose, grey hairs and pulled with a might that tore it from his scalp, trickles of blood pooling in the aftermath.

“Atticus, what is the meaning of this foolishness? Have you gone mad? Take control of yourself, old hag!” Alden spat back at Atticus, a sort of bewilderment gripping his face. Old and wise Atticus is now old and senile? I think not…

Just as Alden had lost himself in thought, he was shocked back to reality when an object from the sky struck his nose once more. Sharp. Dotting his finger on the tip of his nose, a botch of blood came back on his fingertip. Another one. This one hit his exposed left arm. Alden looked in horror to find a stream of red seeping down his forearm.

Old Atticus took a look at the now darkened, moonlit sky, a plethora of other men following his lead. They too began to feel what Alden felt: The sharp sting of whatever was beginning to fall from above. Upon a third hit, a shard of the substance stuck itself in Alden’s right shoulder.

“What in God's name is this?!” With a quick pull, Alden removed the object from his skin.

Alden felt his heart cease to beat when he took a detailed look at the shard: A hardened silver of ice. Thin, yet sharpened to the point and hard as stone. With that realization, Alden called to his men in a panicked fluster, his words barely audible as the shower began to pick up.

“Men! Move at all costs! Run, run wherever you can, what falls from the sky is dangerous! Shards of sharpened ice, surely the Gods have cursed us, men!”

Too late…

Alden rushed his feet through the snow to grab the old Atticus, his attention still to the sky.

“Master, what is that?” Atticus beamed his attention at the sky, a twinkle of astonishment in his glare.

“Atticus, we must move, we haven’t time to dwell on--”

Alden’s words were cut short when a colossal shard of ice stabbed through the right eye of Atticus, the end protruding clean through the back of his skull, the edge dripping with his brain’s blood. Atticus fell with a wet plop in the snow, a chilling silence laying over the rest of the men who’d been picking at their scratched skin.

Panic.

The sky began to rain those large shards, pummeling themselves into whatever lay in their path, the forest now rife with deathly howls and pleas for life. What could Alden do? The men had all scattered, a manic flurry infesting the forest night. As a captain should, he grabbed as many men as possible, running northward in hopes that these shards manifested in a small cloud.

“Come young Alamos.” Alden grabbed the hand of the young man, thrusting him forward with all his weight.

“Ahhhaghgha!” Young Alamos cried with agony, a shard of ice had stabbed itself right through the soldier's chest, his heart surely punctured. He fell immediately, face first into the white while his bowels painted the ground with red.

Red was everywhere…

Alden continued his flurried run, attempting to grab more and more men.

Young Telenichus, bludgeoned to death by mounds of hardened ice. Trusty Ulomachus: disemboweled by dozens of shards of spiked ice, his entrails lining the ground like roots of a tree. Hedonius, son of old wise Atticus: punctured through his neck while holding his deceased father in his bloodied hands.

The more Alden attempted to retrieve his men, the more brutal their deaths. He too had been struck by the deathly sky, though none of the blows were enough to stop his war-hardened body from moving. A shard through his calf, a blackened bruise about his left thigh, a blackened left eye to match, his right and left arms scratched as if the wildest of feral cats had been unleashed on his raw skin. However, when a shard of ice had sliced clean through his right achilles, a fountain of crimson spilling from the wound, he fell at once, his body collapsing out of necessity.

And so, Alden continued to move forward, his legs, gone. His spirit’s flame dimmed with each passing second, each scream of one of his men, each plea to God to save a soul, and each wet plop of a limp body on stoned snow. Alden crawled and crawled, the torture of his men still audible behind him, his eyes gaining mass with each progressive blink. The feeling in his legs had shrunk away, only his arms that climbed him through the snow received any blood. Soon, his arms were no more, his clothes tattered, his spirit shattered, his men completely gone.

The Oracle was right. But why? Why have the Gods punished me so? Will I see my land again? Was my expedition in vain? Will I ever see my son grow into a man? I am naked, I am broken, I am afraid, God, Seus, lord of the seas, if you hear me, let me live. Let me see Aldonia once more, I will praise you for all eternity, all generations of men after me will bow to you…

Alden, with the Oracle’s word and the God's prophecy in his mind, closed his eyes, darkness welcoming him into a sleep. Whether that sleep is eternal or replenishing, only the Gods know.