Akiniwazisaga: Winning the Battle, Losing the War
Chapter 1 from A Light Rises in a Dark World by MD Boncher
As promised last week, I will be posting the first few chapters of my very first novel “A Light Rises in a Dark World” that I published in 2017. Its a first work and self published and I’ve come a long way in skill since then (my wife will warn it is a bit rough around the edges but she still loved it!). However, I am still pleased with this book and hope you like it too!
1. Winning the Battle, Losing the War
Like most farmholds in Akiniwazi, the little collection of families in Aattaettirstrond sat down to eat supper. Their bountiful crops rustled lightly in the breeze. Crickets sang the lullaby of the evening as the land settled in for the night. The rolling boom of breaking waves on the beach was softened by a thin screen of cedars that sat between the settlement’s fields and the shore.
Smokey air over the hearths was thick with the aroma of savory goat stews and baking barley clap bread. Sporadic laughter drifted from longhouses as the farmholders sat around telling sagas, singing songs and talking over their pipes about what tomorrow might bring. The year was in her prime and promised an excellent harvest.
"Reimar!" Anton barked at his son.
His hand shot out a split second too late to prevent the stringy boy from tripping over the two buckets of water sitting by his feet. Anton let out a curse as the spill washed around the hearth and out the door. Reimar looked up at his father, more afraid than hurt. His eyes already starting to burn with tears.
"You better not start," Bjorn, his eldest brother, taunted.
"Shut up," Anton snapped back at his gloating firstborn. Nearby, little Katrin, the youngest, cuddled a rag doll to her face as their father prepared to loose his temper. Erik, his second oldest, stopped mid-chew as he watched the eruption. Anton's eyes, hot with exasperation, turned back to Reimar. His wife, Anette, gave an exasperated sigh and crossed her arms.
"Anton, not now," she scolded and turned disapproving eyes toward Reimar.
"You coddle him too much," he groused and glared at Anette. Reimar held still.
Anton shook a finger at his son, "This boy is a milksop thanks to your constant doting."
"He is ten!" she said rubbing her forehead. "You can have him when he turns thirteen. Till then, he is mine. Look at Bjorn and Erik. They turned out just fine, and I treated them the same."
Both boys smiled at their unimpressed father.
Reimar was accustomed to Mum and Papa fighting over how she raised them. Papa seemed to believe all boys should go from babies straight to adulthood. Mum would have none of it.
"You are off in the fields or the pinery all day hunting and logging. It is my job to make sure that our boys are ready for you to make them men when their time comes,” she snapped.
Anton said nothing for a long moment, then tore a chunk of bread from the loaf which had been cooling on the iron rack. He scooped another ladle of stew into his bowl with a sloppy splat, and sat back down on his chair. Anette leveled her cool blue eyes on her youngest boy.
"Go get some more water," she ordered softly.
"Jah, Mum," Reimar obeyed. He picked up the now empty buckets and let himself out the door of their longhouse.
Torvald Skrott'e, their big orange cat sat proudly near the threshold with a dead rat in his mouth, anticipating a reward. He complained with a meow muffled by the body of his prize.
"Go away, cat," Reimar said. "You are not getting any scraps tonight. Papa is mad, so eat what you caught." The cat gave an insulted snort and with a rude flick of his tail sauntered away with his trophy, dismissing the boy.
"Even the animals are mad at me," Reimar griped as he scuffed away to fetch the water in the last minutes of evening light.
The farmhold had two squares of homes inside its circular stockade. One in the northwest quarter, the other in the southeast. The southwest quadrant housed a set of pens and barns for livestock where the llamas, chickens, goats and pigs settled down for the night. In the empty northeast, the grass of the square had been shorn nearly to the ground by grazing animals. The plan was to build more homes there come next year. A pattern of stakes laid out the foundations for several small roundhouses and four additional longhouses. Three young families were waiting for the chance to build, but the stockade had taken precedence.
As he trudged to the well, Reimar wondered when Papa would ever accept him. He could not help how he was. Bjorn had so many physical gifts and Erik was smart, but he was always in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong thing to say. He kicked a clod of dirt making a satisfying cloud of dust.
Reimar looked up as the farmhold's guard changed on the stockade. These high walls helped the guards keep watch for any threats to the farmhold and its fields. It looked like Jouni Kortsson coming off the scaffold. He was a big strapping man who kept his blond beard cut short but his mane of hair streamed down his back. The girls fawned over him as he took his time to choose a bride, enjoying the attention, much to his widowed father's irritation. Reimar’s own tangled mop of hair was nowhere near as long as Jouni's, but had the same uncontrollable waves.
Reimar arrived at the center courtyard with the large stone well in its center. Frue Kirsten was drawing water as the boy walked up to the short wall and waited his turn.
"Good evening, Reimar," she offered.
"Good evening, Frue." The woman recognized both his dejected look and the empty buckets.
"Your mother sent you, eh?" she asked. Reimar’s father’s angry shouts had made it as far as the well. The boy’s reputation for clumsiness was infamous among the farmhold.
"Jah. I spilled it," he admitted, his cheeks hot.
"You poor dear," Frue Kirsten comforted. "Do not fret. Some day you will grow out of this clumsy stage. I was a terrible awkward oaf till my second child. Then, pouf! It changed, and I became as graceful as a cow," she teased, coaxing a faint smile out of the boy. Satisfied with the small victory, she shouldered her own heavy buckets on a yoke.
"Your father does not sound so happy right now. Do you wish some help?" Frue Kirsten asked.
"No. Thank you, Fru,” Reimar grunted as he raised up a full bucket. “I better do this myself or he might get even more angry."
"Greithr," she said, nodding. "God bless you, Reimar."
"God bless you, too, Frue," he responded.
The buckets now full, Reimar lugged the water back home, careful so he would not have to make the trip a second time.
Evening laid a quiet hand on the farmhold.
The Skaerslinger warband arrived in the fading purple minutes of twilight. Their shadows danced among the trees as they followed the orange flickering light given off by their shaman. These warriors invaded the fields of Aattaettirstrond, their minds set on blood and flame.
"Skaerslinger! Skaerslinger! They have a Fire Shaman! To arms! Fill the buckets! To arms!" the guard cried out, his voice shattering the peace as he saw the firelight moving toward them through the pinery.
Shouts of alarm spread from house to house. A pillar of flames was fast approaching the crops and flaring over the pole beans and corn stalks. Families burst out of their homes scrambling for the tools to defend their settlement. Women and children hauled clacking buckets to the center courtyard. Men went up the ladders with bows and javelins, climbing atop the crude plank scaffolds placed against the stockade. Buckets were lowered and filled to overflowing, ready to extinguish the fire when it arrived.
Reimar joined the bucket brigade with his mother and his brother Erik. Bjorn scaled up to the scaffolding with Anton. From his place at the well, Reimar looked through the northern gate. In the distance he saw the shaman striding toward them, his flesh wrapped in an inferno that did not consume him or his clothing but ignited everything he touched. Skaerslinger warriors, nearly naked and painted in frightening designs, ranged around him. They brandished their warclubs, tomahawks and bows with yowls that made Reimar’s hair stand on end. The shaman slowed his walk as he neared the farmhold gate, a warrior's arrogance flowed from him. He sneered at the terror he spawned. His mohawk trailed zephyr-like hellfire, smoke snaked above his head. The farmhold men slammed the gate, blocking out the terrible sight.
As the door bar dropped in place, angry howls rose from the painted barbarians, and a large gout of flame struck the door, tongues of flame shot through the cracks. The rest of the warband loosed a barrage of arrows and javelins that fell scatter-shot inside the farmhold. The return salvo from the men on the scaffold was weak as they struggled to organize their defense.
"The gate! Get it on the gate!” came the cry.
“Bring the water!" another shouted.
"Wet the wood!" someone ordered as he looked over the stockade.
The bucket brigade swapped bucket after bucket of water toward the fire. The well's crank groaned as they drew three and four buckets up at a time. Flames rumbled under the wavering war cries outside. The men hearkened back to their ancient Viking heritage and roared against the shrill cries. Skaerslinger surrounded the small farmhold and they were outnumbered, but the crude stockade gave Aattaettirstrond a fighting chance.
Reimar's arms began tiring. Fear could only drive him so far. He looked up just as Aksel Bjornsson was struck by an arrow to his chest.
The man slumped with the wound and slid off the thin scaffolding, landing at its base in a rag-like pile. From her place in the bucket brigade, his wife, Unn screamed at the sight of her husband falling off the wall. She ran to him.
Reimar froze.
“Do not look,” Anette said, her voice a hoarse grunt from the hard work. “Move the buckets, Honeycomb. Hand them over. Do not watch.”
Reimar pulled his gaze from the wounded man and his wife and tried to focus on the next bucket.
Men ducked as gouts of flame from the fire shaman’s hands swept up to the top of the wall. The sharply pointed tips lit like giant candles.
"The gate is burning through!" Journi Kortsson yelled.
"We need water down the front. Now!" came a scream. The gate steamed and sizzled as bucket after bucket of water was thrown against it, trying to quench the flames through the gaps.
"How many?" Old Man Kort shouted.
"I think more than two dozen, plus that tambakkji shaman!" came the answer.
"Where did he go? I cannot see anything through this smoke!" another demanded.
"God's blood! They have lit the fields!"
Horror jumped like lightning. The crops threw up thick choking smoke that hid their enemy. Soon everyone was coughing as the winnowing wind wafted the black clouds over Aattaettirstrond. The once gentle wash of purple sky was now filled with hellish black and orange billows.
The flames were spreading as sparks caused fires to break out here and there in the fields.
"Where did he go?"
"I cannot see!"
Reimar's arms were now so tired he could not hand over another bucket. One slipped from his numb fingers and drenched him.
"Mum!" he cried. Anette could see he could do no more.
"Take over," she said to one of the older girls and left the well to go to Reimar. His eyes betrayed the shame at failing.
"Honeycomb, go help the men," she said quickly, stroking his hair and face. "Look for that shaman. Tell the men when you find that devil. They must kill him."
Reimar nodded and ran to the stockade. Too tired to climb up, he put his eye to every gap he could find, peeking out into the fields for signs of his quarry. The crops were fully ablaze by then. Sporadic silhouettes flitted past, and Reimar followed along. The Skaerslinger were sneaking along the base of the stockade, talking in low tones. As Reimar continued around the stockade he checked still another small hole.
A flaming finger nearly poked him in the eye!
He fell back in surprise.
The shaman was on the other side. Reimar realized the Skaerlinger's plan. While the men of Aattaettirstrond were distracted by the invaders’ noisy display and taunting cries which kept them looking the other way, their enemy would burn down their homes from behind!
With his fiery hands the shaman tore at the daub between the logs. Two warriors came along side and he stepped back as they chopped at the wall with tomahawks. Working together, the small hole grew. Reimar's terror swelled with every chop.He could feel the beast’s intense heat from his side of the wall.
Again that flaming finger tip poked at the now ragged hole. Then it retracted. Reimar reached down into the sandy dirt and picked out a fist-sized rock. The shaman's finger, like a tiny worm of flame, once more wiggled its way through the widened opening. A chuckle of triumph came from the Skaerslinger's lips, and then he drew in a deep breath. Reimar raised the rock over his head and readied to strike.
The finger stiffened.
Reimar brought the rock down as hard as he could.
With a snap, the finger was smashed against the wall in a cloud of smoke and sparks!
A shrill scream echoed over the deep roar of fire and battle as his middle knuckle snapped. The shaman began mewling like a wounded cat, his finger was jammed tight into the sharp edges of the cut, trapped and trembling.
The men of Aattaettirstrond heard the cry and came running. The fire shaman jerked back and screamed, unable to pull his hand free.
Reimar struck the exposed finger while he had the chance, wedging it in even tighter. The shaman's cries were pitiful as the rock pulverized the crippled digit.
Instinctively, the two closest Skaerslinger took hold of their trapped leader. Their flesh sizzled on his flaming body and caused them to shriek in concert with his cries. The shaman continued to wail and tug but his finger remained trapped. Reimar's blow had bent it sideways. The smell of charred blood rose from the hole as the burning wood tore deep into his trapped hand.
Reimar's third swing missed by the narrowest of margins as the shaman pulled his mutilated hand free with a gut-rending crunch.
From above, the farmers loosed their arrows on the Skaerslinger at the base of the stockade. Groans were heard and bodies fell. One of the barbarians screamed out an order and the invaders fled. The Forsamling men fired after the Skaerslinger as they followed their leader and vanished into the smoke.
A cheer went up, and now the farmholders turned their attentions toward the fires that continued to burn.
"Open the gate! Open it!" Herr Vils commanded.
Mindful of the heat, Reimar's brother, Bjorn, lifted the bar out of the way. Anton and Herr Jorgensson each pulled the latches, hands wrapped in wet rags, and jumped back. The door swung inward, a curling mass of fire. The bucket brigade continued to throw water, dousing the flames before they spread.
Ash and sparks rained down in the cooling air. Herr Vils clambered down a ladder to Reimar.
"Well done! Well done! We must tell your father!" Herr Vils congratulated the boy and ran to the northern gate where there was still much to do.
Reimar did not follow Herr Vils but climbed to the scaffold. His hands shook from fear and exertion.
The crops had burned away, their fields reduced to a black and smoking brule. Both oats and barley, gone. Mounds of sweet corn, beans, potatoes and squash were piles of glowing coals. A llama cart burned brightly a few dozen yards from the gate. Silently, Reimar thanked God the animals were safe. A narrow ring of fire sizzled in the wet ferns at the base of the towering wall of the pinery. The flames too weak to jump into the forest’s canopy.
Some wondered if the Skaerslinger would return, but most believed they had had enough.
"Anton! You should have seen your boy!" Herr Vils bragged, pointing up at Reimar who was walking on the scaffold above.
"What did he do now? I thought he was in the bucket brigade. Was he hiding somewhere or getting in someone's way again?" an exhausted Anton scowled and looked up at his son.
"When he could not lift another bucket, I sent him to help you!” Anette's words snapped across the open air at her husband. “He looked for the shaman! So do not take that tone! You needed help and he could not pass another bucket." She held her chin high, eyes full of fierce pride.
In the awkward silence that followed, Herr Vils continued, "He found the shaman all right, and smashed his finger to a pulp with a rock, he did! Reimar saved Old Man Kort's home."
"Did he now?" Anton's eyebrows shot up in surprise. This was an unexpected sensation for Reimar. Praise from the farmhold’s men was a new experience for him, he timidly rubbed his shoulders, unsure of what to expect.
"That is right,” Herr Vils said. “I saw him. Your boy hit the shaman as he poked his finger through a hole in the stockade. He trapped the beast. And we put two arrows in that tambakkji before he escaped," Herr Vils testified.
Reimar blushed as he looked back to the black fields, unable to bear his father's shocked stare.
"Is he dead?" someone asked.
"No. He escaped into the smoke. The devil watched out for his own this time."
"Reimar? Get down here," Anton ordered. The whole farmhold gathered while the boy slowly descended and walked over to his father.
"Did you do this thing?" Anton's voice was soft but serious.
"Jah, Papa," Reimar said softly. He looked up at his father, unable to read his face.
"What a fine job, Little Spruce!" his father erupted hoisting Reimar onto his shoulder. Reimar was elated as the entire farmhold gave him thanks for his quick action, but the moment turned bittersweet.
The congratulations trickled away as the people of Aattaettirstrond scanned the remains of their crops. Flickering points of scattered firelight revealed fields black as the night sky. It was clear they had only delayed the inevitable. The Skaerslinger may have suffered defeat today, unable to destroy the farmhold, but their demonic masters achieved a greater goal. In a few months, Aattaettirstrond would starve in the icy clutches of winter, unless the Wendigo took them first!
Stay tuned until next week for “Chapter 2: Brother Finn Arrives”!
Read it here!
Don’t want to wait? Great! visit my website to learn more or purchase the paperback, or check out my Amazon page!
A fine start, my friend. Looking forward to reading more.