A Light Rises in a Dark World: Volume 1

By M. D. Boncher

This is the first volume in the Akiniwazi Saga. Volumes 1-3 can be found in Book One.

Reimar's world is turned upside down when his farmhold is attacked by the Skaerslinger. To save their village from starvation, Reimar and six other children are sold to the Kyrkja. Now, Brother Finn must take them to Saint Martin's Academy where they will become servants of God.

This little band will travel through the untamed wilds and the storm-plagued lakes of Akiniwazi: a battleground not only of nature but also between two peoples and the armies of Heaven and Hell. They confront powerful enemies that want Brother Finn dead no matter the cost and face an ancient evil that has discovered the dim but growing light in Reimar.

Together, they must survive this odyssey with only wits, faith, Brother Finn, and his dog standing between them and that which could take their lives and souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. D. Boncher
• Release date: Oct 9, 2017

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

Volume 1

1. Winning the Battle, Losing the War

Like most farmholds in Akiniwazi, the little collection of families in Aattaettirstrond were sitting down to eat their supper. Bountiful crops rustled lightly in the night breeze. To the south, the waves broke on the beach and gave a rolling hiss softened by the screen of trees that stood between the fields and the shore. Crickets sang the lullaby of evening, punctuated by the cry of a killdeer leading a predator away from her nest. The seagulls and crows no longer argued in the fields as they looked for easy meals. Cats prowled the settlement and protected their homes from vermin.

The air was thick with delicious smoke from the meals over their hearths. The smell of goat and lamb stews with dense barley clapbread and dark rye wastel loaves baked over the fire. Sporadic laughter could be heard drifting between the longhouses from the families inside as the farmholders sat around their hearths telling sagas, singing songs, or talking over their pipes about what tomorrow might bring. It was a good time to be alive. 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. The harsh exclamation made Reimar flinch, sending him sprawling over the two buckets wetting the hard-packed dirt floor. 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, the eldest brother, taunted.

Shut up, Anton snapped back at his gloating firstborn. Little Katrin, his youngest, cuddled a rag doll to her face as her father prepared to let loose an angry outburst, or worse. Erik, his second oldest, forgot to chew as he watched the eruption, his mouth full of stew. Anton's eyes, hot with exasperation, turned back to Reimar. His wife, Anette, irritated with her clumsy son, crossed her arms in disappointment at Anton's quick temper.

Anton, not now.

She wondered when Reimar would ever learn to look where he was going.

You coddle him too much, he said turning to Anette. Reimar held still, clenching his teeth while keeping silent and tear free.

This boy is a milksop thanks to your constant doting.

He is ten, exasperation plain in her tone. 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.

This was an old argument. Anton seemed to believe all boys should go from babies straight to adulthood. An attitude that drove Anette to frustration. She swiped an errant lock of dark blond hair back under her coif with her uncommon grace.

You are off in the fields or the pinery all day hunting and logging. It is my job to make sure that you have boys ready to become men when their time comes.

Anette would not allow her husband to denigrate her child-rearing skills. He may be the head of the family, but she ruled the house and the children and would brook no criticism of it. Sensing the old barricade, Anton redirected his emotions, and tore off another chunk of bread which had cooled on the iron rack, then scooped another big ladle of stew into his bowl and sat back down on his chair. Anette leveled her cool blue eyes on her youngest boy.

Go get some more water, she said.

Jah, Ma, Reimar obeyed. He picked up the two buckets, and let himself out the door of their longhouse.

Torvald Skrott'e, their big orange cat sat there proudly, with a dead rat in his mouth, expecting a reward. He complained with a meow muffled by the body of his prize.

Go away, cat, Reimar said. You are not getting any people food tonight. Papa is mad, so eat what you caught. The cat gave an insulted snort through his nose. Then he sauntered away with a rude flick of his tail, haughtily dismissing the boy.

Even the animals are mad at me, Reimar griped as he slumped away to get water. He scuffed his way across the square made by four of the longhouses. It was still light enough that he could see the way without a lantern, but he would have to hurry.

The farmhold had two squares of homes inside its circular stockade. One in the northwest quarter, the other in the southeast. In the southwest quarter, there was a set of pens and barns for livestock. The llamas, goats, sheep, and pigs all milled about as they settled down for the night, while chickens, who kept back the ticks and other pests, settled into their coop. The grass of the square was shorn nearly to the ground by the grazing animals. In the empty northeast quarter a pattern of stakes laid out the future foundations of several small roundhouses and four additional longhouses. These were to be for the new families. Three young couples were waiting for the chance to move into them, but building the stockade had taken precedence over new homes.

As he trudged his way toward the well, Reimar wondered if he would ever be accepted by Papa. He could not help that he did not fit the image or ability his father demanded. Bjorn had so many physical gifts and Erik was smart for his age, but he was clumsy and always at the wrong place at the wrong time, he thought, kicking a clod of dirt.

On the stockade walls, Reimar saw the farmhold's vordr change shifts. dagvordr replaced by nattvordr, keeping watch for any threats from beyond the fields. It looked like Jouni Kortsson was the one coming off the scaffold. He was a big strapping man who kept his blond beard cut short, but his hair streamed down his back. Many of the girls fawned over him as he took his time to choose a bride, enjoying the attention much to his widower father's irritation. His tangled mop of hair was nowhere near as long as Jouni's, but had the same uncontrollable waves.

Reimar arrived at the farmhold's center courtyard. There stood a large well that was boasted by many to have excellent water. Frue Kirsten was drawing water as he arrived.

Good evening, Reimar, she said.

Good evening, Frue. She saw his dejected look and the empty buckets.

Your mother needs more water, eh? she asked. Anton's angry shouts had made it as far as the well. Reimar's reputation for clumsiness was infamous among the farmhold.

Jah. I spilled it, he admitted, shame burning in his cheeks.

You poor dear, Frue Kirsten consoled. Do not worry. Some day you will grow out of it. I was a terrible clumsy oaf till my second child. Then, pouf! It changed, and I became as graceful as a cow, she teased, coaxing a small smile out of the sad little boy. Satisfied that she managed that much, she shouldered her own heavy buckets on a yoke.

Your father does not sound so happy right now. Do you wish some help?

No. Thank you, Frue. I better do this myself or he might get even more angry.

Greithr, she said, nodding in understanding. God bless you, Reimar.

God bless you too, Frue, he said in farewell.

One bucket at a time, he drew the water. Reimar lugged the heavy buckets back home, being 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. Like shadows dancing among the trees of the pinery, they followed their fire shaman who gave off light like a giant orange torch. They came to the fields of Aattaettirstrond in the late summer air, their minds set on blood.

Skaerslinger! Skaerslinger! They have a Fire Shaman! To arms! Fill the buckets! To arms! the nattvordr cried out, his voice shattering the peaceful evening as he saw the firelight moving behind the tree trunks.

Shouts of alarm spread from the top of the stockade. The approaching flames flailed above the pole beans and corn as the Skaerslinger came out from the cover of the pinery, advancing on Aattaettirstrond. The families sprang into startled action, scrambling for the tools to defend their homes and fight the coming fire. The women and even the children hauled a clacking pile of buckets to the center courtyard. The men went up the ladders with axes, bows, and javelins, climbing atop the crude plank scaffolds placed against the stockade. Buckets were lowered and filled to overflowing.

Reimar stood in the bucket brigade. From there he could see through the northern gate. A Fire Shaman trotted toward them, his limbs an inferno, but his flesh and ceremonial clothing was not consumed. Skaerslinger warriors were ranging around him dressed and painted for battle. Their warclubs, tomahawks, and bows ready to draw blood. The shaman slowed, striding toward the farmhold and projecting a warrior's arrogance while savoring the terror his visage caused. A pillar of smoke twined in a snaky rope above his head. His mohawk trailed zephyr-like hellfire as he approached. The Forsamling men slammed the crude stockade gate shut blocking out the terrible sight.

As the doors sealed, angry howls rose from the painted barbarians, and the shaman threw a large gout of flame against it in retaliation. The rest of his warband fired, causing arrows and javelins to fall scatter-shot inside the farmhold blindly trying to hit anyone. The return salvos from the farmhold were weak with poor aim as few had ever used a weapon in anger.

Water! Bring the water! the men shouted.

Throw it on the gate!

Wet the wood!

The bucket brigade began shuffling water toward the stockade. 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, roaring against the shrill cries. They were outnumbered by the Skaerslinger who surrounded the small farmhold, but the crude stockade gave them a fighting chance.

Reimar's young arms began tiring. Fear could only drive his young body so far. Reimar looked up just as Aksel Bjornsson was struck down, an arrow protruding from his chest. The man slumped with the wound and slid off the thin scaffolding, landing at its foot in a rag-like pile. From her place in the bucket brigade Unn screamed at the sight of her husband falling off the wall. She ran to him and attempted to render aid. Men ducked as gouts of flame swept up to the top of the wall from the fire shaman's hands. The spear-like tops were lit like giant candles.

The gate is burning through!

We need water down the front. Now! someone screamed. The gate steamed and sizzled as bucket after bucket of water was thrown against it unable to quench the flames on the front.

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 lit the fields!

Horror flashed through them all. The Skaerslinger were burning up the crops and hiding in the smoke. Everyone was coughing as the winnowing wind wafted the black clouds over Aattaettirstrond. Above, the once gentle purple wash of sky was now hellish black and orange billows.

The flames were spreading as ashes caused little fires to break out here and there in the fields.

Where did he go?

I cannot tell! The fires are spreading too fast!

I cannot see through the smoke and sparks!

Reimar's arms were now so tired, he could not hand over another bucket. One slipped from his numb fingers and splashed him, wasting it.

Mum! he cried. Anette looked at him while pulling a bucket from the well. She could see he could do no more.

Take over, she said to one of the older girls and went to her son. Reimar's eyes betrayed his shame at failing.

Honeycomb, go help the men, she said quickly stroking his hair and face. Find the Shaman. We must kill him.

Reimar nodded and ran to the stockade. His leaden arms would not let him climb, so he put his eye to every gap he found, peeking out into the fields