De Espadas y Aliados: cuento

Una inmensa disculpa a todos aquellos que no hablen inglés. Of Swords and Allies Death, The night blew against the trees and against the walls of the manor. It swirled downhill creeping to the men who stood holding torches and iron longswords submerged into a lake of dry, tall lawn. Dusk bent their spines and imprisoned their lungs. There were no birds, there were no clouds, only the ones that smoked out of the men’s fire sticks. The blinking of their torches only puckered their bellies a bit more. Only a bit more. A figure came through the door of the tall facility and a sigh buzzed, it came from the men. The men asked the old man who stared at them with a grim face for shelter. His face was hostile, but no more hostile than what dwelled in the meadows that night. The old man shouted them to get away and never come back to that part of the country. The men refused to keep on walking, so they explained their fears to the old man. The old man understood what they were going through, he also feared outside. The ancient man invited them in. He had a fire, and plenty food for them. The men sat at the living room keeping their swords with them. The old man had a wife and three daughters. His daughters brought them hot chocolate and chicken soup for them to sate their hunger. The men had not eaten for days, their stomachs roared as lions and hyenas. Their daughters were fragile and timid. The men kept looking outside through the windows of phallic shape. The blink of the fire scared them no more. One of the daughters had a child, a firstborn, who crawled all along the living room, here and there. After the soup came the pork. The men could not be happier. The warmth of inside and of the family that sheltered them kept them safe and satiated. The men thanked the old man who sat with them with grins and compliments about his family and home. One of the men was missing a fork, and for respect he would not use his sword to cut the pork. Drawing a knight’s sword in a house is not a sign of respect, and the family owed that from the men. He went to look the fork himself. He announced he was missing it and he sneaked quietly to the kitchen. He opened drawer by drawer, looking for the utensil with failure. His glance was stopped and suddenly focused on a flag he encountered. A flag alien to him. The man went back to the supper place, the living room, lacking of fork but with a thoughtful face. Between laughter and the blinking of the fire he joined the talk. The men were enjoying dinner with the old man’s people. The baby still crawled around and around. The man grinned and drank some of the hot chocolate he was delivered, when he whispered the captain in his ear. The captain grinned, falsely, but grinned still. The supper continued, and the men around the fire thanked for their lives. The fire was still on, and the men almost finished their plates. The old man invited some wine to the men, who joyfully accepted. The old man called his daughters and wife to serve the wine and sit at the living room. Something in the face of the men had changed, something strange. The old man noticed it, but ignored it. It must have been the long walk they came from, or the night, who knows? The old man’s daughters and wife came with their hand filled with cups of red wine for the soldiers. They drank the wine in a single sip. The old man noticed something was wrong. A man took the child, who had crawled toward him, in his cold steel gauntleted hands, when his mother came for him hastily with fear of their sharp swords and blades. A man intervened, took the mother’s head muttered it with his gauntlet and nailed her stomach, belly, chest and breasts with his knife repeatedly. The men, who just finished their wine, took the other two daughters and wife. They strangled them and cut their throats. The old man enraged and bathed with madness, bewilderment, and a draconian pain grabbed his cane to combat the many men, when all their blades broke through his throat, lungs, heart, and brain. After the slaughter the men grabbed some more of the wine and pork for the voyage, and they took the child, who stared at the man carrying him, not understanding what just happened. After all, the firstborn carried no flag. Agradezco su atención. Este cuento lo escribí una noche muy melancólica mientras me acababa una cajetilla de cigarros Lucky. Los invito a darme su más sincera opinión; si creen que apesta, no duden en decirlo. Cualquier opinión sirve para mejorar. Don't step on the shit, Luryc