Akiniwazisaga
The Inheritance Thieves
Book Two
Copyright 2019 © M.D. Boncher
1st Amazon Edition
Cover Design: Paganus
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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
To Dave, aka Flowerypants.
Now you have the answers all our conversations.
Godspeed, Mr. Pants. We can talk again when I catch up.
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Bibliography
Akiniwazisaga
A Light Rises in a Dark World
The Inheritance Thieves
Into The High Places (July 2019)
1 Corinthians 6:10-11
Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.
And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God.
KJV
Prologue: Steam, Sweat & Truth
Gregor sat in the heat of the dimly lit sauna, his son at his side, when in a flash of crystal clarity he realized that dynasties rose and fell in moments like this. It was a memory long forgotten and now returned that struck him so obliquely, he struggled to stifle his laughter. Like lightning, this memory burned a new course and erased the plague of worries that had tormented him of late. This new plan was a dazzling afterimage seared into his mind. It must be a gift from God, he thought. An answer to prayer. Gregor turned to marvel at Leif, his Tronerving, the Crown heir to the Akiniwazi Union, as he perceived what this young man was about to become.
Leif’s brow furrowed at his father’s dramatic change in countenance from brooding to hopeful, then slowly dissolving into cunning. Gregor saw the questions in the young man’s eyes: Why did he wait to call the Privy Council? What caused this sudden paroxysm that changed him so?
Now, Gregor knew how he was going to give his son the greatest gift a father could. A blessed chance to write his own saga. Free to cast a shadow over the world and be called drengr. A true man for everyone to honor. But first, he must set the stage. Gregor gave a sly wink that admonished Leif to pay close attention and hinted something miraculous was about to happen.
With this new plan growing in his mind, Gregor bid his ministers come in from the cool bathhouse antechamber. One of the somber huskarls, dressed in burgundy, gold and white, opened the thick, cedar-paneled door. A cloud of steam wafted out as the six shivering men, wrapped in towels, came into their Visekonge’s presence. The blizzard outside sucked and blew at the bathhouse chimney and made the hot stone stack gasp for breath. As each man entered, he bowed then looked for a comfortable seat on the audience benches. A couple immediately climbed into the heat of the high bench while the rest sat on the lower and waited.
This arrangement gave the illusion of equality countered by the ornamentation of the room. The audience’s low and high benches were tasteful but plain, positioned between doors on either end. The Crown sat against the opposite wall, ornately carved to denote its status. A waist-high stack of stones between the sides provided heat from a furnace beneath. A long wood-handled dipper sat at Gregor’s right hand like a scepter, and a vitha bouquet of fresh silver birch branches lay at his left. Towels came off as the heat seeped into their skin, and the council began to relax.
The urge to cackle threatened to bubble up as Gregor watched his council. He crushed it back down and kept his face stern. It was not an uncommon demand that the Privy Council attend to him in the Kronapalasset bathhouse, but underneath the facade, the Visekonge could feel that they had the same worries tormenting them as he had had moments before. When all were at attention, he began.
“I can see you think you know why I summoned you. You are wrong,” Gregor began.
The proclamation startled his trusted advisers.
“I know the pleasant lies you want to say. Lies that make your lives easier. Lies that hide real problems. I know how you have gone about trying to fix these on your own instead of bringing them to me. I am the one appointed by God Almighty to deal with these troubles, not you. So now, just as the steam brings out your sweat, I will draw the truth out of each of you.”
Gregor’s words made the counselors squirm.
“What questions did you think I might put to you today?” Gregor demanded.
There was a pause as each man hoped someone else would speak first. It was Crown Chaplain Thurlsson, personal priest to the Crown, who broke the silence but refused to look his Tign in the eye.
“Why are the Skaerslinger advancing into our lands, my Tign?”
“That was one. Today, there will be no more putting me off on the hard truths. Come on, what else? I am not some craven woman.”
“My Tign, you desire to know what our position is with the army and why piracy is increasing,” Stallare Marshal Kappi Fionnsson volunteered, brave enough to look his master in the eye. Admiral Sverirsson gave a nonchalant nod of agreement.
“What else?” Gregor demanded.
“Why does it seem that more demonspawn are encroaching, driving settlers off our lands, when before they could not?” Chancellor Farthegn Brasisson admitted.
“Or why the Anjars seem unable to cure sick Forsamling, and why do the Ragnarites struggle to exorcise demons?” Coroner Storisson grumbled.
“Enough,” Gregor snapped. “For months now, you all have been afraid to tell me what you know regarding these subjects. I cannot rule wisely if my own trusted council will not speak truth to me! Did I raise you to such positions to spout mealy-mouthed niceties and act like my wet-nurse? I am not some sickly infant for you to coddle!”
The Visekonge’s words bit deep. To punctuate his displeasure, he took up the dipper and with a splash poured another scoop onto the stones which sizzled and hissed in return. Beneath the stone floor came the thump of more fat logs being thrown onto the fire. A hint of smoke wafted from cracks in the mortar.
Gregor scanned the sauna from left to right. The Stallare Marshal, Master of all the Crown’s Men at Arms, waited silently for someone else to play scout. Gregor’s gaze fell on his Minister of the Exchequer, Felagi Aitosson. The young, clean shaven man with deep set eyes was not afraid to return the look, but with appropriate deference. He, too, remained silent. The admiral maintained an indifferent gaze toward the Visekonge, neither challenging nor afraid. Something in his expression made Gregor wonder if he was taking this summons seriously or as an unavoid
able irritation he must endure. The Chancellor appeared almost defiant as he returned Gregor’s scrutiny. The Union’s highest domari and chief of the guard seemingly chafed with the belief he had been unfairly accused. The Visekonge’s eyes narrowed at the man ever so slightly, and the resentful gaze dropped.
The corpulent coroner, Master of the Census and chief clark of Gregor’s government bureaucrats, huddled near the door and whipped himself gently with a vitha of his own, trying to drive his discomfort away with the scratchy leaves.
“Well?” the Visekonge barked, and the coroner flinched. “If you have something to say, speak!”
With a hard swallow, the man obeyed.
“I can only tell you what my deputies report, my Tign. They...” he paused to look at the rest of the council with churlish eyes at being forced to speak first, “can corroborate what I have to say. Over the last five years we have seen a steady erosion of our frontier.” The coroner slapped himself once again with the vitha, trying to dispel a deep seated itch behind his shoulders without success.
“We know that the Skaerslinger are not a kingdom, or even a union. They are barely a loose tangle of tribes and nomadic villages which seem to do as they please. Much like the kings in the Gamleverden long ago. As we colonized our lands, they abandoned the shores and large rivers, sticking to the deep pinery and clusters of streams and ponds. Our best explorers could only dream of tracking them through that country.”
“This is academic and not what I asked,” Gregor growled. His fingers now tapping on the bench impatiently as his coroner danced around the inquiry.
“My Tign, we cannot determine how badly we are hurting them. No villages have been burned, nor have we caught them moving about as a tribe like in years gone by. Their warbands give us little idea as to their real losses for our warriors do not speak of facing old men or boys, a true sign of a failing people.”
“That might not mean anything. The age of a warrior is irrelevant unless you refer to a siege,” Stallare Marshal Fionnsson interrupted.
“We have not had a siege anywhere in our lifetimes,” Admiral Sverirsson pointed with a scoff. “Only vikings build fortresses or walled cities. The Skaerslinger vanish into the pinery.”
“Or maybe it could mean that we are doing nothing to their population. Old men and boys stay home with the women, fighting only when the able-bodied men are dead. We do not see this, so how many Skaerslinger are we facing? Ten thousand? A million? How many more warriors do they have? Could they even outnumber all Forsamling?”
The coroner let that thought burn into their brains. He was the Master of the Census. He and his deputies knew the real population of the Akiniwazi Union. Were they outnumbered? Even Gregor shifted a little on his bench at the disturbing thought. The coroner pressed on.
“Look at what happened at Athrvorthfestning two autumns ago. Over four thousand dead Skaerslinger, and not one outside the prime of his life. How would we fare if we lost so badly? This conversation is that result, and we did not take nearly as bad of losses.” He defended his reports and slapped the vitha on his itching legs. The stallare marshal twisted his mouth and retreated into silence behind folded arms. Then in a new fit of pique, the coroner shook the bouquet at the rest of the Privy Council.
“Furthermore, our farmholds and villages are retreating from previously quiet frontiers. As they abandon their lands, for the local Hird cannot defend them, these lands revert back to their wild state, and the Skaerslinger advance once again.” No one was sure if the coroner’s snit was due to whatever was bothering his skin or whether he was feeling inferior.
Chancellor Farthegn piped up. “Making matters worse, they are deliberately overfishing and overhunting in our lands while preserving their own. Some witnesses have reported to local domari of seeing Skaerslinger robbing their traps and nets. It has become so bad that the northern shore of Lake Neezhoday is at risk of being overwhelmed,” he added scratching his cheek.
The stallare marshal leaned forward. “If we are to fortify and push back against this invasion, we need a larger investment in men and additional tools of war,” he complained. “Even then… there is no guarantee.”
“I never said there was a guarantee,” the coroner mumbled unhappily and went back to scratching between his shoulders, the itch obviously unbearable.
Gregor spared a glare for his stallare marshal who took it as his cue to defend himself.
“We have lost almost eight thousand warriors and huskarls from our armies in the last three years. This is above and beyond expectation,” he groused. “What would you have me do?” He faced the Visekonge. “My Tign, I petitioned you several times last year for more monies to rebuild your army. The jarls are complaining bitterly on having to raise Leidangr militias to protect their shrinking territory and lost wealth.”
Exchequer Felagi attempted to provide a silver lining to the complaint. “The local Hird have been bearing these increased costs but are thankful you have not raised taxes on them.” He paused as if he had more to say, shook his head and added, “Therefore sentiment toward the Crown still remains good.”
It took a great effort to keep Gregor from rolling his eyes at the pandering.
“What about the Kyrkja? Are the Ragnarites reporting the same?” Gregor demanded.
The coroner nodded, answering first, his face a sad mask as he scratched his whiskers.
“Jah, my Tign. They are dying off faster than can be replaced,” he admitted.
“And why is that?” Gregor snapped with a look first to the flustered Crown chaplain and then at the coroner for answering for the priest.
“I do not know, my Tign,” came the priest’s peevish answer.
“I can see you know otherwise! Out with it!” The Visekonge shook the dipper at his adviser.
“The Kyrkja is aware of these problems and is addressing the depletion of the Ragnarites. Volunteers from all sects are crossing over to be trained. It will take time. They are receiving preference in choosing novices from our academies. It is not as if we can draft people to be gifted by God,” Crown Chaplain Thurlsson added, making sure the coroner did not put any worse spin on the Kyrkja’s position.
The Koenraadian priest paused, “I am at a loss for words regarding how to explain the details of the Kyrkja to you, my Tign. The Ragnarites are becoming less effective. We are not sure why. For centuries they had been able to drive back the savages with their prayers and send demons running with but a word, or slash of their swords, but now… This is a mystery the Senate of the Diocese has yet to divine the reason beyond saying ‘God wills it,’ my Tign.”
“And in the meanwhile?” Gregor demanded, looking for more tangible answers.
“Now it takes fasting and prayer and time. Time that sometimes does not exist for them in battle. Our strongest spiritual warriors… their power has waned. But the problem does not stop there. The Sanaadian prophets are also confessing that they hear from God less and less, and much more… um… chaotic… voices are on the rise.”
The Crown chaplain’s words caused chills to run up the councils’ spines. Leif squirmed at the thought. “Voices that do not align with scripture but nonetheless seem to be coming true more and more frequently,” he added.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Visekonge could see his son turning pale. The idea that the strength of the Kyrkja declining against evil was not helpful. Worse, there was an edge of dread in the bishop’s voice. Gregor had not expected that little wrinkle, but there it was.
The sauna had grown silent, and the sweat ran freely.
“Forgive me, my Tign, but I also have unwelcome news,” the chancellor added reluctantly. “Sogumathrs and domari are dealing with increased unrest in the cities. The watch are overwhelmed by these landless people who are not used to living cheek to jowl. Housing is short in a few places, and it seems this overcrowding will get worse before it gets better. This means our dungeons are becoming cramped in an effort to keep the peace.”
Gregor ground his
teeth. This was unwelcome, but he reminded himself of the new plan. It will take time and bravery, but this new gambit would fix all these problems.
“Why are you not concerned about this?” the Visekonge demanded, as he abruptly turned toward his admiral. To have a man stay this quiet on affairs that he was in part responsible for was irritating. Perhaps he had become lazy, or worse, apathetic to his duty.
“For me, my Tign, I can confront these problems like the others.” His dispassionate assessment was on the edge of insolence. “Our dear coroner is able to tell us the butcher’s bill. The Crown chaplain seems to be only able to confirm that God seems to be abandoning us. Chancellor Farthegn confirms the unhappy masses are being driven to our doorsteps, and I am certain my esteemed colleague, Stallare Marshal Kappi, will only be able to repeat that he needs more men. What more can I add than to say I need more ships? You have known this for years as well. Thanks to the Battle of Athrvorthfestning fifty vessels were damaged, only a third of them could be re-floated. The storm waves finished off what the crayfish began. Plus other random sinkings and losses in battle that normally occur in a year… our shipyards are overwhelmed.”
Admiral Sverirsson paused with a sneer exposing his disgust.
“It is, my Tign, as you put so brilliantly, academic.”
The admiral’s candid dissection underscored the entire discussion with painful and dispassionate efficiency. Gregor now saw that the admiral chose to hold back till he could end the conversation, distilling it down into its basest form: money, men and materiel.
The Visekonge grunted at the sterile tone of his admiral. The hint of a smile began to appear unbidden at the corners of Gregor’s mouth. He crushed it back down before it took hold.
“More men and ships. That is all you have to say?” he provoked.
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