Akiniwazisaga, page 1
Akiniwazisaga
A Light Rises in a Dark World
Book One
Copyright 2017 © M.D. Boncher
4th Smashwords Edition
Cover Design: Paganus
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For the font of all good things and the light to this dark world: Jesus Christ.
Links & Social Media
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For news about Akiniwazi and other projects of M.D. Boncher, you can find updates and news at:
https://www.akiniwazi.com
Bibliography
Akiniwazisaga
A Light Rises in a Dark World
The Inheritance Thieves
Into The High Places (Coming July 2019)
Table of Contents
Akiniwazisaga
Copyright 2017 © M.D. Boncher
Dedication
Links & Social Media
Bibliography
1. Winning the Battle, Losing the War
2. Brother Finn Arrives
3. Determining the Cost
4. For the Greatest Good, They Leave Home
5. The Long Ride Through The Night
6. Good Reason Does Not Always Suffice
7. Meidrhvall
8. Dandelions & Despair
9. The Kjettarhund
10. Like Chattel Across the Water
11. A Raging Storm Shall Not Dissuade
12. And God Shall Manifest His Mighty Hand
13. Desperate Hours
14. After the Wreck
15. The Bitter Price of Salvation
16. Condemnations, Commendations, & Questions
17. Bequeathed An Infernal Inheritance
18. Brambles & Thorns in the Night
19. Escaping the Conflagration
20. Craftily, Their Sins Come to Ravage Them
21. Hooks of the Manitou
22. An Ancient Evil Named
23. Exorcism
24. Celebration on the Beach
25. Sailing Through Tangled Webs
26. On the Precipice of Disaster
27. Run Aground
28. Escape From Ogimaak Mikwam Island
29. Lost Lambs
30. Imprisoned
31. Surprises in the Dark
32. A Change in the Weather
33. Lies and Monsters
34. The Wrath of Ogimaak Mikwam
35. Truth or Death
36. A Righteous Fury Ignites
37. Stirring the Ashes
38. Brother Finn Tenders Hope In A Bleak World
39. Ascending to Saint Martin’s
Epilogue: Kynligrspiejl
Encyclopedia Akiniwazi
Language
Slang & Colorful Colloquialisms
Places
Geographical Features & Locations
Political, Military & Miscellany
Society
Events, Festivals & Holidays
Forms of Address and Social Status
The Hird
Hird Titles (In Order of Precedence)
Lineage of the Sveinnaettir Dynasty
The Kyrkja
Sects of the Kyrkja
Things
Currency
Groups
Keeping Time & Canonical Hours
Arts, Equipment & Other Items
Ships
Supernatural Beings
Map
Acknowledgements
John 12:46
I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.
KJV
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 waite d 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.
