Akiniwazisaga: A Light Rises in a Dark World

By M. D. Boncher

What determines the value of a soul?

Despite young Reimar's heroics, his farmhold’s crops are burned in a savage raid. Desperate, the village elders petition for help from the church for enough food to survive the fast approaching winter. But the local parish is flooded with pleas from many others in similar need and aid is short.

Brother Finn, is stranded on his way into exile by a Viking attack that damaged his ship. On pain of death, he must reach his appointed sanctuary before winter freezes the lakes. Caring nothing for the consequences Brother Finn might suffer, the local priest who's authority he is under orders him to aid in the distribution of alms. Finn is sent to Reimar’s farmhold to gauge what can be done. Discovering the farmhold’s need, Brother Finn brokers a trade to make up the difference: seven children will be given to the church in exchange for the food needed to survive.

Having created the deal, Brother Finn is forced to finish what was started. He must escort Reimar and the other six children to Saint Martin’s Academy for training. He must shepherd them across the rugged land and lakes of Akiniwazi by train and ship. A gauntlet of dangers filled hostile savages, Vikings, killer storms and demons. Can Brother Finn reach his sanctuary before the snow comes? Will Reimar and the children survive their journey to a better life?

"This is a very entertaining book. It is exciting, has great characters and great descriptions of the spiritual battles. This book is of the same caliber as Peretti's books, "Piercing the Darkness" and "This Present Darkness.""

"...drags you in, like a smooth suspenseful movie."

"The world is complex and dynamic"

"Great book! Can't wait for more!"

"An excellent story by an author just coming onto the scene."

"If you enjoy fantasy literature with some novel elements and a flavor that you won't find anywhere else I can surely recommend picking up this book. Personally, I can't wait until the next book in the series is finished!"

"The Light DID Rise for this author! ...it says things today's world needs to hear"

"The book actually made me feel, in a empathetic way that only a truly well crafted story can."

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. D. Boncher
• Release date: Feb 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999012413

M. D. Boncher

As an author, artist and musician, M. D. Boncher has lead an eclectic life, or a “Writer’s Life”, to paraphrase Stephen King. He has held several careers in many different industries from hospitality to trucking, giving him a wide breadth of experience with the human condition to draw on for his work. He has a passion for history, philosophy, and his Christian faith. His hobbies include such nerdy things as Tabletop RPGs, videogames, camping, gardening and (now) hunting, but most of it is spent in artistic creations. When not creating he’s either reading or watching a movie from his extensive curated collection of sci-fi, fantasy, comics, horror, action, comedies, classics literature or film, detective fiction or pulp.An expatriated native Wisconsinite, he relocated during the pandemic and now lives deep in the mountains of West Virginia with his wife, four very fluffy cats and small flock of feisty but naïve chickens.

Book preview

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!

2. Brother Finn Arrives

The yellow-leafed end of September came too soon. Once vibrant fields of crops were now swaths of ash speckled with low weeds. Farmholders scrounged through the remains for any plant that might have survived. Every bean or kernel of corn they could find was put aside for next year. If they could survive till spring, it might be enough to start again.

Reimar played catch with Katrin after supper. Their mother watched while filling her drying racks with sliced apples. His little sister made another terrible throw forcing him to chase after it. As the boy picked up the felt ball he saw a man coming toward the gate.

Mum, who is that? Reimar asked looking down the north road. Anette looked and saw a man racing to beat the setting sun. He used a long harpoon as a walking stick. Gray, deep blue and white robes swished with his rapid pace. Beside him, a giant mastiff thumped along in a loping jog.

Looks like a Havarian. Very odd.

What is a Havarian, Mum? Reimar asked as he watched.

It is one of the sects of the Kyrkja. A monk or friar from the looks of it.

Why is he coming here? Are we going to have mass again? Reimar smiled at the thought.

We will see. She smiled at Reimar then turned her attention across a small field to her husband. He was talking to other men by the nearly empty deer poles.

Anton! she hollered. Stranger a-coming!

Hearing her call, the farmhold emerged from their homes to see the monk and his dog.

Anette wiped off her hands and joined the others. The watchman ran to his position above the gate.

Peace be with you. Who are you? the watchman challenged, bow at hand but without an arrow nocked.

I am Brother Finn of the Havarian Order. The Kyrkja sent me to aid you. This is my companion, Bergamot, he said gesturing to the massive canine that stood at his heel.

Come in peace, Brother Finn. Welcome to Aattaettirstrond.

Anton joined the gathering farmholders who were busy discussing the stranger at their northern gate.

Praise God, Per said. They finally answered us.

I told you to have faith. The Anjars always help.

Then why a Havarian?

I do not know. Maybe he was all that could come.

Look at that animal! Uffda! That thing is bigger than me!

A priest, regardless of sect, was always a welcome sight in the farmhold, but a Havarian was a new experience. No one could recall if anything other than Anjar healers or Ankarite evangelists had ever come before.

By now the children had rushed to the gate to meet the huge dog. The children made low sounds of amazement. She stood more than three feet tall at the shoulders. Her steel blue coat was short and shiny. The animal had a long slim tail, floppy ears, and droopy jowls slicked in thick drool. She panted heavily and waited on her master.

Bergamot, sitt, the monk commanded, and the massive canine clumsily slouched to her haunches. He scratched her head and her tail started thumping.

Brother Finn’s  imprisonment was still fresh enough to make this time of freedom a foreign sensation. He blinked rapidly and looked at Bergamot's small crowd with a strained bittersweet smile. It has been years, he thought, years away from children and families. Years tucked away in Havarian estates or Hird courts. How alien this part of life had become. When was the last time I baptized a child? Brother Finn wondered. He was sure he had, but the memory was gone. His time cloistered away had made encountering innocent children a shocking experience.

She is a pretty dog, Father, a small boy admired, breaking the priest’s reverie.

Her name is Bergamot. She is a Havarian mastiff. Very well trained, then cooing toward the canine, and knows how beautiful she is too, he added.

The children giggled.

Looking up at the small crowd, Brother Finn declared. Bless all who live in this place!

Old Man Kort came forward holding out his hand in greeting.

Bless all those who come in peace, Herr Kort said. Brother Finn took the hand with a smile. I see you beat the sun by a few minutes.

It was not a sure thing a ways back, Brother Finn admitted. I had to stop and take caution around the hour of Second Nonae. There was something shuffling about in the pinery between here and the station.

You walked all the way from The Chuffing Pony?

Jah. A good day for it. I had no transport. The train arrived early so I decided that it was time to stretch my legs. I am sure that my muscles will feel it in the morning, but that is a blessing as well.

Can we serve you in some way, Father? Doubt you ate on the road. We will fix you up, greithr, Anette said, giving him a horn of switchel.

Brother, actually. I am just a monk. He accepted the drink gratefully.

Forgive me, she apologized.

It is quite all right. Many years have passed since I was a friar going from place to place each week seeing to the needs of my flocks. My feet do not miss it, but my mind does. That got a chuckle out of the crowd which had turned out to greet this man of God.

Well! said Kort with a clap of his hands. We should not stand about gawping. We all got chores to finish and light is failing fast. I am guessing you want to know where you are bedding for the night.

Jah, please, Brother Finn agreed.

You can stay with Herr Vils and his family. They got some comfy bedding for you, and Frue Kirsten makes a fine breakfast.

I look forward to it.

There was much whining and complaining as mothers started herding the younger children toward their homes while the older ones hurried to finish their work. As he obeyed, Reimar dragged his feet. He could not help but stare at Brother Finn’s haunted eyes. Anette took Reimar’s hand and hustled him inside their longhouse with a firm tug.

Mum, why is Brother Finn here? Reimar asked once inside.

Do not worry about that, Honeycomb, she said. The sun is gone to bed, and that means you must, too. Reimar frowned at his mother. Her voice had gone raspy. Why would there be something wrong? They were going to have mass in the morning and then back to all their work. That meant more apple picking he thought sourly.

Reimar climbed the ladder to the low loft where Katrin and Erik also slept. He took off his clothes and grabbed the nightshirt from his basket. His mother and father slept next to the hearth with his eldest brother, Bjorn.

Below, his father came in dragging his fingernails underneath the loft’s planks, tapping the wood in his usual good-night ritual. Reimar, Katrin and Erik scooted to the edge of the loft and stuck their heads over.

Ha hah! Anton said playfully and stood up on his tiptoes to give each of them a kiss goodnight, saving the noisiest one for Katrin. She giggled the unique sound of a little girl amused by her father.

Papa- Erik began to ask.

No, Anton refused. His voice brooked no compromise. This is not for you.

But how- his mouth hung open, eyes wide.

Because I am your father, and I know the minds of curious boys. Tomorrow you will know more. I promise. Be patient till then. For now, you just have to sleep. That should not be so hard.

But I am thirteen!

This winter, not now, his mother reminded, moving baskets of Bjorn’s feathers and arrowheads off their bed.

I am old enough to be a man and should be part of these things, Erik protested weakly.

Not this, Erik. Anton was firm. Do not vex me.

Jah, Papa, he obeyed. In a sulk, he rolled backwards and climbed under the blankets.

Reimar and Katrin joined him on the clover tick mattress. Anette took the cauldron off the fire and banked the coals for night.

Anton, they are waiting.

Jah. Jah, Anton said, looking around as if he had forgotten something, unable to remember what it was. He drew in a big breath and let out a low whistling sigh.

Bjorn came in after saying good night to their neighbors.

Stay here, Anton ordered Bjorn, hooking a thumb up toward the loft where the three younger children pretended to sleep.

Greithr, Father, Bjorn said with a disappointed sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed. He picked up his baskets and began fletching more arrows.

Get off the bed with that, Anette said. I do not want to be itching because you got wood shavings between my blankets."

Jah, Mother, Bjorn said and moved to a chair.

Anton and Anette walked out. Once alone, Bjorn began to grumble his well-worn litany of gripes about living under their roof again.

Not long after, Erik began picking at the moss stuffed between the wall planks, trying to find a way to see what was happening in the courtyard and perhaps hear the adults talking. Reimar and Katrin watched as Erik pulled the last plug out revealing the courtyard beyond.

In the vacant quarter a large bonfire had been built. All the farmhold’s family heads were there with their wives, but none of the children. Erik strained to hear as the other two fumbled close to try and peek out as well.

Oj, Bjorn's voice came from behind. All three jerked back and saw their elder brother glaring at them.

If I cannot be a part of the Thing, you are not peeping in either, little voles, he said with all the menace of a big brother.

Awww, Erik whined, while Reimar and Katrin dared not make a sound.

Haensafretrs! You think I will let you talk back to me? Now plug that up or I will find something more painful to plug it with! Sipill!

Erik put the moss packing back in a hurry.

Do not forget. I am watching you, Bjorn threatened again, pointing at Erik with an unfinished arrow before jumping off the ladder and dropping the few feet to the floor. No longer able to satisfy their curiosity, the three hid under the blankets together. They whispered for a while, then one by one drifted off to sleep.

3. Determining the Cost

It is good you came so quickly, Brother Finn, Herr Vils praised as he opened the door to his home. Brother Finn and Bergamot entered the farmer’s longhouse. Was it a hard trip?

The monk thought about the events of the last month, his face a frozen mask. The smell of incense in the breeze and the feel of the sun on his cheeks at the Keldathing washed over him. In that instant he saw the presiding domari passing a sentence of skoggang upon him, stripping him of his status as a free man. The shouts of anger from the crowd of witnesses as they heard the final incontestable verdict. He was no longer a karl… a free man and citizen. No longer a full member of society. Forevermore he would be labeled and shamed by his new status as niding. Exile was a softer punishment than his accusers wanted and a stumbling block for many who desired his death. This technicality had become the cornerstone of his survival. Being niding gave him a chance to live instead of being immediately burned alive. The life of a true fredlause was often short and brutal. Those under such judgment were shunned, open to be killed by anyone who wished. His supporters had to remain silent as the aggrieved prosecuted their case on the so-called sins against the Kyrkja. Although he was not exonerated, they hid their relief lest they too found similar charges brought against them some day.

Then the scent of burnt rigging and the clang of axe blades returned. Bright red splashes of blood on a ship's deck flashed past his eyes. The humiliating check-in with his superior at Tryggahvneyrr and his dread as Curate Natanael found the legal loophole to impress him into service one last time. Although the orders followed the letter of the law, they bent the spirit.

Brother Finn turned away from his host, jaw muscles bunching over and over, unable to find his voice. When he looked back, Herr Vils brow was furrowed a small collapsible chair held in his hand. His silence must have been longer than normal for polite small talk.

Jah, it… it has been a difficult journey, Herr, Brother Finn said with a faint smile, grateful his voice was not as feeble as he felt. But God preserved me and through His grace brought me here in His timing, Herr Vils gave an uncertain smile in return. Again, the silence became awkward.

Brother Finn accepted the offered chair from his host, assembled the two pieces and sat down in front of the hearth. Once sure of where her master was going to sit, Bergamot flopped down next to him, crossed her front paws and began to lick them. Brother Finn rummaged through his bag. On the other side of the longhouse, Kirsten coaxed the children into bed.

Please excuse me, Herr Vils, but I need some time to pray for wisdom and see what the Lord wishes to reveal tonight.

Would you like to eat first? Vils asked.

No. My stomach is still in a knot from the trip. Later will be fine if that is greithr with you.

Of course, Brother, Vils said. Do you need us to leave? He looked at his children in their beds. His wife showed a frown of concern to her husband. She had just gotten them tucked in.

No, I need to be left alone for a little while, Brother Finn said. He had caught the meaning of Frue Kirsten’s look.

The monk settled on his knees and began to pray while his host tended the hearth and Kirsten whispered a story to the children. There was a knock at the door. Vils rose to answer it.

Wilem stood there with a sheepish look on his face.

He is praying now, Vils said, voice hushed.

Tell the brother we are all assembled, Wilem stammered in embarrassment.

Good, Vils whispered.

Wilem stood still in the uncomfortable pause.

I will bring him once he is done, Vills added, a hint of irritation in his words.

Did he-

He said nothing yet, Vils cut him off.

With a resigned nod, Wilem left and Vils closed the door, returning to his hearth.

Herr Vils? Brother Finn's voice was soft and respectful.

Vils opened his eyes. He must have dozed off after he had tended the hearth.

Forgive me, Brother, he apologized.

The monk gave an understanding smile.

Do not repent for a sin not made, Brother Finn said, allaying worry.

Griethr. Let us be about it, Vils said with a