Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  "I would guess ten thousand or more, from the size of this square."

  "No wonder I feel so much better," Trygve said.

  "How is that?" Finn asked as he watched his partner slow to a languid pace enjoying the rapidly churning crowd.

  Finn prayed for wisdom. Is it possible there was something spiritual yet to evolve in this walking partnership, Finn wondered to himself. Trygve often referred to his adventures in the Rondalaettir Court, as if desperate to relive them. What was it about such a life that enthralled him so? Where was his faith really? Or was there something else driving him?

  "I have been missing crowds so much that I cannot help but be overjoyed now that I am standing here."

  Finn’s mouth soured as he watched Trygve. There was something disjointed between his words and actions. A boiling over of emotion for which he could not account but which was vaguely disquieting.

  "Kynligrspiejl’s market is still busy like this. Perhaps not quite as large, but a market is a market," Brother Finn observed cautiously. Bergamot heeled close enough to brush against his legs, while Hawthorn began ranging farther away, once again enticed by the new smells and activity.

  "Jah, it does, but Fjellporten is different. It is a seat of power. Important people walk among us. I can almost smell the intrigue of the Hird here.” Then with a snarled “Hawthorn!” he snapped and the dog scampered back to heel.

  A rash of cold gooseflesh ran up Finn’s neck at Trygve’s behavior and desires. A craving… no, an addiction to excitement might explain his curious habits.

  "I am glad for your happiness," Finn said, unsure.

  "When I was here last, they would not let me off the ship, even to stretch my legs, for fear I would try to escape." Trygve was oblivious to Finn's concern. He was busy watching the crowd with a happy smile plastered on his face.

  "Why would they worry? To escape would sign your death warrant," Finn questioned. His confidence that he would be able to ride herd on the younger man was waning.

  Trygve gave Finn a sly smile.

  "Perhaps they had greater appreciation and respect for my skills. After I was removed from Jarl Rondalaettir's court, I said some rash things. It would be reasonable for them to assume that I would act upon my public oath to avenge myself," Trygve said, admitting to a history Finn had not heard before.

  Brother Finn could not hide his shock at this revelation for he knew what sort of skills one must have to inspire such caution. He had seen them first hand once before.

  “Did the Monsignor know of this?” Finn blurted out, unable to stop himself. How could the Monsignor have risked such a pairing as the two of them?

  "Jah, but do not worry. I have no intention of doing so. Long ago I gave up on the idea of revenge and turned it over to God. He can deal with them. I shall not be bothered. Besides, Monsignor Frothi had little choice in the matter."

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Finn quizzed, suspicious.

  “Someone vouchsafed for me.”

  “Who?”

  Trygve shook his head and smiled. “I am sworn to silence on the matter, as is our beloved Monsignor.” His singsong reply was chilling.

  Finn's eyes were hard as he tried to ascertain whether Trygve was telling the truth or playing a game. His instinct screamed treachery was afoot, but the desire to believe change and repentance were possible won the fight. More discerning men than Finn trusted that Trygve would not do anything foolish.

  "You do believe me?" Trygve challenged. His now anxious eyes probed to discern Finn's true thoughts.

  "What choice do I have but to trust that you have no intention of undertaking those once promised acts of vengeance?” Finn asked rhetorically. “Those were the words of a younger man, a little too rash in the heat of the moment," Finn said and started walking down the broad tree lined avenue towards the new cathedral. Trygve, unhappy with Finn's reaction kept pace in silence.

  Suddenly, a flicker of ironic memory sliced through Finn's brooding and brought a bark of laughter. He realized there was a distinct possibility that escorting the children of Aattaettirstrond could prove to have been the easier task when compared to this.

  "Why did you laugh?” Trygve asked, confused.

  "I remembered the last time I acted as someone's escort," Brother Finn said.

  "Ah,” Trygve exclaimed. “I suppose you are doing it again.”

  “God does work in patterns after all, and he seems to have a sense of humor," Finn said relaxing a little, and their pace quickened as they neared their destination.

  Building a cathedral in Fjellporten was an audacious plan that mirrored the ambitions of Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir who had ascended to his throne nine years before. What had started as a large, but plain kyrkje, was quickly evolving into something more. The cathedral was influenced by the cathedrals and basilicas of the Gamleverden and the Domkyrkje in Dyrrvatn Kastali. The beginnings of thin stained glass windows were evident. Rising towers wrapped in scaffolding guided the stone walls higher. One tower was distinctly taller than the other, but if Brother Finn knew the Koenraadians, who clearly designed the structure, and their predilection for order and symmetry, that would be corrected in time. Others sects might settle for a certain amount of aberration, but not them.

  As the pair approached the steps of the cathedral, the lamplighters began to come out, brightening the wide avenue with the flickering glow of oil lamps on tall posts. Small mead houses were merry, firelight pouring out of open doors and murky windows. The sound of song and dance wafted around them just like the smell of food from inside. Common apartments on the upper stories of the buildings were lit with dimmer candles as people took their supper and went about closing window shutters and getting ready for bed.

  A bell rang from the old kyrkje's steeple announcing the start of Vesper services. On the steps a young doorkeeper stood greeting worshipers as they came to mass. He was a very young man, clean shaven with hair in a tonsure. His brown robes were trimmed with red and green marking him as a Koenraadian.

  "A blessed evening to you, Brother Havarians. How may I serve?" the young acolyte inquired.

  "Peace be with you my son. I am Brother Finn and this is Brother Trygve. We are the friars sent from Kynligrspiejl to walk the shore."

  The acolyte must have been no older than sixteen, possibly fresh from the Quadrivium and still awaiting his first office.

  "Wonderful, our bishop will be glad to hear you have arrived," the doorkeeper said.

  Inside, the vespers service began with an elegant Gregorian chant. It was a well trained group of choristers. A chill shot down Brother Finn's spine, both thrilling and frightening, with the mix of memories. The last time he had heard the High Kyrkja liturgy, he was in Ulfhaugrstrond awaiting his fate.

  "It has been... so long!" Trygve gulped, intoxicated by the sound. A drift of incense causing him to nearly reel in ecstasy.

  "We Koenraadians believe in keeping with the proper liturgy and all the pageantry whenever possible," the doorkeeper said as he rubbed his shaved scalp absentmindedly.

  "Although I know we ought to stay and take mass right now, both of us are tired from our long journey and need to rest. Where will we be staying?" Finn asked.

  "We have a small Itinerant House. You can go there and rest for the evening. I am certain you will still be able to get a meal."

  "Thank you, my son," Finn said. "Come, Trygve. It is time we-"

  "I want to stay for the mass. It has been so long," Trygve declared.

  This drew a grimace from Finn. He was bone weary despite the smooth sailing from Kynligrspiejl.

  “We are to stay together, Brother,” Finn admonished. “I need to get some food and lie down.”

  "If you wish, I shall stay with and bring him to you after the service," the doorkeeper offered.

  Trygve's eyes begged.

  "Greithr,” Finn acquiesced against his better judgement. “Stay, and I will see you after."

  "Thank you," Trygve said. The gratitude was palpa
ble.

  It took effort for Finn not to shake his head in bewilderment at his fellow monk.

  "The Itinerant House is just over there, the house on the corner. You can see the sign from here. Right under that old sugar maple across the common," the acolyte said as he crouched a little and pointed.

  "Griethr," Finn said glancing toward the common. "I shall see you in an hour or two."

  The acolyte and Trygve went inside, Hawthorn at his heel just as the first chant ended.

  "Just you and me for a little while, Bergie," Finn said to his placid mastiff companion. She yawned in response and thumped her tail on the stone steps as she gazed up at him in what he could only call approval.

  "Come, let us get some rest," he said, stooping over to give two pats to her flank.

  As Brother Finn and Bergamot walked across the kyrkje common to the Itinerant House, a figure came out from the tangle of scaffolding and piles of rock near the unfinished tower. The man was swathed in a charcoal colored cloak and cowl. He watched Finn like a hunter tracking a deer. As his target entered the house, the figure moved quickly and silently up the stairs and vanished inside the new cathedral.

  10. If Evil Must Be Done

  Brother Trygve and Hawthorn climbed up the misty foothills north of Fjellporten at dawn’s first pale glimmers against the night. They were hiking toward a large isolated thicket. Here, unlike most areas of Akiniwazi, the pinery did not rebound from logging and plowing thanks to the altitude. Instead, lush meadows took hold and eroded the solid mass of trees from the mountainsides, and the land sloped down to the ice speckled waters of the lake that was just beginning to pick up the purple highlights of morning.

  Back in Fjellporten, Brother Finn and Bergamot snored peacefully, unaware of Trygve's departure. A sleeping draught placed in their drink the night before insured the errant monk would return long before they woke. The strain of protecting his clandestine mission had nearly driven Trygve mad. He was certain Finn would figure him out, or that an inquisitor would jump out from the shadows and arrest him.

  The secret route out of the city slipped to him during vespers service was easy to follow. He took a moment to marvel at finding himself alone in this meadow, about to complete a great work for the Kyrkja. The thrill of being part of something bigger again left Trygve equal parts excited and overwhelmed. Hawthorn knew none of his herre’s worries and enjoyed romping through the tall grasses, dripping wet, startling up sleeping birds from their nests on the ground. Trygve was confident his suffering in anonymity was about to be over.

  Man and dog entered the grove of trees welcomed by the bleating of hungry sheep and the racket of swine. The farmhold was well camouflaged and would have been hard to find, if not for the noisy animals betraying its location. With that racket everyone should be awake, Trygve thought. He descended into a little dell and found a sod covered pit house that blended almost seamlessly with the rocky terrain.

  It was nestled at the intersection of two shelves of crumbling rock with a henhouse, shed and stabbur for grain, each standing independently. The pigs and sheep were fenced in on opposite sides of the wedge with a generous alley between the two that ended at a tall fence which protected the wide end of the dell. A thick overhanging canopy of trees covered most of the farm. The walls of the pit house were made of stone scavenged from the rotting rock walls. Flat slabs fit together with basic mortar making them nigh impenetrable.

  As Trygve approached the gate, he noticed Latin inscriptions carved into the fence posts. These inscriptions proclaimed a protective ward from demons. The posts were capped with frightening graven images like ornate scarecrows designed to keep unwanted animals away. Between these posts the fence was laid out in traditional slanted log hatching with sharpened stakes angled out at the bottom to stop larger animals from charging.

  "Why in Heaven's name would someone live like this?" Trygve wondered aloud. Hawthorn no longer wandered but stayed close to his master's leg.

  “Someone is determined to live alone,” Trygve rationalized. “There are more than a fair share of them out here. Why would anyone devote so much energy to making people feel unwelcome,” he thought as he gazed around for the farmer.

  "Halloo!" called Trygve at the farmhouse as he came up to the gate.

  “It would be rude to enter uninvited,” he said to Hawthorn with a comforting pat. A person who took this much care to protect his homestead from infernal threats must be capable of great violence against fleshly ones as well.

  No one answered and he stood there for a long time. The startling statues deepened his sense of dread.

  "Is anyone at home?” Trygve shouted again. “I have come from Fjellporten on a mission of mercy!" he added, remembering the code phrase he was given last night.

  "Oj! Jah! I am here. Give me a minute!" a muffled voice came from somewhere near the small shed off the house. Trygve relaxed at the pleasant voice. Perhaps the farmer would not be as terrifying as his surroundings.

  A short time later a man dressed in dark gray with a blood spattered leather apron walked out of the shed. Trygve’s nerves jumped at the sight.

  "Forgive me, I was just bleeding a pig for slaughter and needed a moment," the man apologized. Trygve saw the stunning hammer next to the shed door and he realized how normal that was. It seemed odd that this man would be doing such a task before dawn, but then again, Trygve was no farmer.

  "Please let us do this quickly and I shall be on my way," Trygve said, his fidgeting subsiding as he saw the man more clearly.

  The farmer continued to approach the gate with a pleasant smile, wiping off his hands with a handkerchief. He had deeply tanned skin, black hair and a beard threaded with silver strands. His eyes were intense like those of a hawk, and he walked with a gliding confidence that made Trygve think he might have been a former warrior who traded in his blade for a plow. Hawthorn seemed anxious. Something about this farmer excited the dog as he licked his lips and tail thumped a rapid tattoo. Trygve rankled at the thought that he would have to reinforce the dog’s training while walking the shore.

  "Come in. Come in, please. Do not be a stranger,” the farmer beckoned politely as the man and his dog reached the gate.

  "If we could make the exchange-" Brother Trygve said, putting down his pack and producing the small hidden pouch from inside.

  "Nonsense! I refuse to do business over a fence. It is rude and unnecessary. Come in, have some tea... or mead perhaps? If it is not too early in the morning for you. You do not seem like a man devoted to drink though."

  The farmer swung the gate open. It moved smoothly on well-made hinges, the heavy wood and iron strapping seemed weightless in his hands.

  Trygve admired the gate as it was held open for him. "That is mighty fine craftsmanship, herr..." Brother Trygve commented. The pregnant pause for his host's name hung in the air.

  "Amr," the man answered. "You may call me Amr. Everyone does."

  "A pleasure to meet you, Amr," Trygve said, offering his hand. Amr took it and gave a polite but firm shake subtly drawing his guest through the gate. Once both were inside, Amr turned and locked it again. A small spike of alarm shot through Trygve.

  "We cannot have anything unwelcome follow us in. Always protect your back. Do they not teach that to Havarians anymore?"

  "They do indeed," Trygve answered feeling much better with those disturbing icons hidden behind the fence.

  Amr looked at Hawthorn with a smile and got down on one knee. He offered up the back of his hand for the dog to smell. Hawthorn broke training and came forth to sniff, likely hoping for treats, and found himself being aggressively petted and cooed at by Amr exciting the young dog to play.

  "Jah, what a nice dog you are. Who is the best puppy? You are, greithr?" Amr went on.

  Trygve was taken aback by the familiarity and ease at which Hawthorn was enticed into such a state. Every stroke seemed to comb the dog's discipline out of him. Trygve's expression gave away his ire at the dog and jealousy toward Amr.


  "He is young. That is why,” Amr said, looking up with a smile. “I have bred dogs for many years, and this one looks like you really should not have chosen him for companion service. He is entirely too friendly."

  Trygve squinted at the statement, as if he had failed an evaluation despite it being for Hawthorn’s character.

  "What do you propose?" Trygve asked, the corners of his mouth tight.

  "Either adopt him off to someone who desires a good pet or put him out to sire for I see he has excellent bloodlines," Amr assessed as he inspected the playful dog's flesh, examining him closely with expert hands. "Of course, you could toughen him up with the right teaching… starve him a little... beatings, that sort of thing. Get him to see people as more of a threat. Build his aggression."

  Amr , still smiling, stood up and looked Trygve in the eyes.

  "Of course, if I had a dog like that, I would just kill him and try again. You usually cannot breed out that kind of temperament, no, herr." The intensity of Amr's eyes took on a disturbing cast. "Why waste your time and let the dog suffer, unable to do the job he was bred for, greithr?"

  Trygve blanched at the blunt judgment. The smoothness of Amr's words belied the cruelty of his solutions as Hawthorn kept looking for more attention, tail and tongue flopping about, unable to comprehend the death sentence pronounced upon him.

  "But enough of trivialities. Do you have what I need?" Amr asked, abruptly changing topics.

  "I... Jah." Trygve sputtered, frustrated with Amr's seeming lack of focus. He reached into the hidden pouch of his pack, drew out a set of folded vellum documents and handed them over.

  “Here,” he said. Amr ignored Trygve's irritation, broke the seals and began to read.

  The pigs’ squealing had grown louder as they nosed right up against the fence of their pen. Trygve looked around their enclosure and wondered why they acted so frantic. Amr made a few surprised noises of approval as he went through the documents.

  "And you are sure this is accurate, Brother?” he asked.