Norsewood
The air outside was biting cold, and Derek Porter shivered as he gazed across the snow-covered field, the last of the light, what little there was, fading away, the scene turning to a dull gray. Soon, it'd be dark, and it'd be another night they'd had to endure this winter, but at least that meant it'd be another day closer when spring arrives, too, when the warmth would melt the snow and they could start cultivating the land again, bringing food to the table.
The thought of food shifted Derek's attention to his job at hand, the reason why he had come out of the cottage in the first place.
He turned on his heel and headed toward the barn, a dilapidated building of woods and straw, the only place where they kept all their winter stock: wheat and rye grains as well as homemade cheese, dried fish they caught from Carnfell Lake, and the vegetables—potatoes, carrots, and onions. Of course, they stored the animal feed rice here, too, since they had nowhere else to put the abundant lot, and that took over half of the space at the front, hiding the stock at the back, plus the second barn farther back.
It was a miracle that those raiders had left the two barns untouched once they had sighted the rice when they had invaded their small community here at Carnfell over one and a half months ago. Of course, his in-laws and the other neighbors were not so lucky, and all their winter stock as well as livestock had been burned to the ground, leaving only the rice grain untouched, which was stored in a separate barn as was custom here in each household.
For the past month, it had been the Porters who had come to the rescue in this seventy-nine-people community where food was concerned, sharing what little they had with the other families living in this area. As for the rice, Derek thought that it was unfortunate they couldn't make use of it until spring arrived, when they could travel to Norfolk, the neighboring region, to buy new domesticated animals such as cows, pigs, and chickens.
Those bastards, he thought. If only he had been a trained fighter, like the soldiers at Norsewood Manor, then he could have at least defended their community and his young brother Grant wouldn't have been stabbed in the gut and was now lying there with an injury that wouldn't heal and a fever that had yet to abate. It was a marvel that he even lasted this long, for most that had been severely injured during the attack had already passed on.
He prayed that Grant could get through it, though he knew there was little hope as the wound was getting bigger and uglier. He prayed, too, that perhaps there'd be a blessed healer miraculously passing by and by the goodness of their heart, they'd heal Grant. But, of course, this was winter, and this was Norsewood. No one in Norsewood was a blessed healer.
Opening the door, Derek's gaze came to rest on the mountain of rice grain that was piled high, the tip of the peak nearly touching the roof of the two-story barn.
What good was a grain if it had so little use? Perhaps they should stop cultivating it. The fact that it was backbreaking work and required an enormous amount of water, and furthermore, there was no market for it, were all economically unsound. Perhaps it was time they tried planting something else in those fields. Although many had tried, his father and himself included, but no other grain, let alone any sort of plant, except for those notorious weeds, seemed to thrive on those soft, muddy grounds.
Despite his desire to discard rice completely, Derek felt a sense of compunction. The Norsewood people had been cultivating the grain for generations, and the thought of discarding it now just didn't feel right, at least for him and his family.
Dismissing the thought of rice from his mind, Derek turned on his heel and headed toward the back. He picked up a sack of potatoes, lifting it onto his shoulders, and then he headed out again and back to the cottage.
A few hours later Derek and his wife, Natalie, distributed the boiled potatoes to his family members, his father who everyone called Grandpa Joel, his mother Grandma Liz, his son Steven and daughter Cora, and fifteen others—Norsewood people from farther north who had decided to leave their homes after the raid, hoping to find refuge with distant relatives living in other regions close by such as Norfolk, St. Clair, and Devon.
It had taken them four days on foot to get this far, and once they had rested the night here at Carnfell a few days ago, they had been on their way again, only to return as the journey was too harsh. The hills, and even farther, ranges of mountains that were part of the alps they needed to cross to reach the other regions were notoriously dangerous, especially now that winter was in full swing. And here they were, stranded.
Truth be told, Derek, as the head of the family and the community, didn't know how far their meager stock would take them now that they had so many mouths to feed. But turning them away was out of the question. If desperation called for it, he'd feed everyone the rice grain. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could mill it like wheat and turn it into flour? Perhaps he could even bake bread out of it? He didn't know, but there was no harm in trying it out.
He nodded his head, reminding himself that he'd try milling the rice tomorrow. Now, it was time to fill his stomach.
He took a seat on the chair next to one of the two beds in the cottage, watching his mother feeding Grant some of the boiled potatoes she had mashed. As he ate, he noted that his brother was getting paler and frailer by the day. Would it come soon, he wondered, when Grant drew his last breath, like his other siblings drawing their last breaths due to injuries and diseases? The thought pained him.
Refusing to face the agony of such a sorrowful idea again so soon, he swiftly turned his gaze away to eye the crowd in the cottage instead.
Men, women, and children—all looking very haggard and feeble—were wearing rags that could barely shield them from the wintery snow. He wouldn't be surprised if the most vulnerable were to die from the bitter cold alone if they were to continue their journey on foot, returning home northward. They were eating their meager meal silently, sustenance insufficient enough to even fill their tummies, let alone sustain their strength.
"Papa!" Cora's soft, sweet voice called out to him, drawing Derek's attention. He turned to his little darling, age six, toddling to him. He picked her up and put her on his lap.
A few hours later, Derek was lying on his straw bed, a blanket over him, next to his wife and children, while his parents were on one of the two beds and everyone else was on the ground around the dying open fire. His eyes were wide open, his mind wandering.
Surely, if animals could eat rice, he thought, then so, too, could humans. Just like corn. But how could he make it edible once milled? That was if it could even be milled at all. Could it be baked into bread? And if so, would it be as hard as their usual bread?
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Derek jolted at the unexpected loud pounding and sat up. He noticed that many others, including his parents and wife, did, too.
"What's that?" Natalie said, her voice whispery soft, quivering.
"Could it be those raiders?" one of the men said.
"It's winter," Grandpa Joel said. "Those bastards wouldn't dare stay in Norsewood in winter. They wouldn't survive the harsh weather, the low-life lot who dare to raid us."
More pounding of the door came, and everyone, the children included, came awake and froze with fright.
"Mama..." a little girl cried. "I'm scared."
"Hush..." the mother soothed. "It's only the neighbor."
"Hello?" a loud voice came from the other side. "Anyone home? This is Captain Connor."
There was silence, and then everyone looked at each other, clearly stunned and confused.
"Captain Connor?" Derek said, frowning.
"How could Captain Connor be here?" Grandpa Joel said. "Isn't he at the northern border?"
Derek got up and headed to the door. Before he opened it, he glanced around the room, noting that everyone was tense. He was, too, but it was Captain Connor. If the man was here, then there must be a reason. The fact that the captain's voice sounded so urgent only added to Derek's concern.
He unlocked and drew back the door to be greeted with a tall, well-built man. Unable to hide the surprise in his voice, he said, "Captain Connor? What are you doing here?"
Connor smirked. "Derek, I see you're faring better than I expected. May we come in?"
"We?" Derek asked, looking behind Connor to see a dark hooded figure.
Connor nodded. "It has been a long journey. We stay the night and tomorrow morning, we all leave."
Confused as to the meaning of Connor's words, Derek asked, as he moved back, "Pardon me, but what do you mean we all leave?"
Connor walked in, and along with him, a young man—looking fit and very fine—pulling back his hooded coat, the type of style Derek had never seen before, the same one Connor was also wearing.
Connor scanned around the room, noting the crowd, and said, "Well, I'll be damned. I'm glad we brought along all the carriages." He turned to Derek and asked, "How many of you are here? Have you all eaten? Are there any injured?"
"Uh, pardon?" Derek asked. "Eaten? Injured?"
"Captain Connor, what brings you down this way?" a man asked. "Has the northern station been breached by the monsters? Is everyone fleeing southward? What of his lordship? The last we heard, he's still in the capital."
Connor said, "No, the northern station has not been breached. His Lordship Aldric has returned to Norsewood, bringing with him a beautiful lassie, his wife Lady Quinn Fairchild. It is on his and her order that we come to rescue everyone who is stranded. As for the monsters invading our land, it has been taken care of."
Everyone's eyes, including Derek's, were wide with astonishment at hearing the news, and then an eruption of questions was fired off.
"Taken care of?" one man asked. "What does that mean?"
"The monster is taken care of?" another asked. "How?"
"But it's our lord, he's blessed by the Goddess Isaris," yet another said. "He must really be the one who annihilated those monsters."
Connor said, "It means just that. The monsters are no longer a threat. Aye, it is Lord Norsewood who annihilated those monsters, all of one hundred hordes in barely two days."
"One hundred hordes? In barely two days?" one echoed, while the others sucked in their breaths in astonishment.
Connor chuckled and added, "With a little aid from Captain Theo and Vincent, of course."
"But that's..." a young man said. "Even blessed noble knights of the kingdom can't even handle one horde alone with the aid of their squad, then how could our lord..."
"Because he's Lord Aldric," a lad said.
"We've... won?" another asked, as if he still couldn't quite believe what he heard.
Connor nodded. "Indeed, we won."
Suddenly, a cheer erupted, and Connor shook his head. He asked again, "Now then, is there anyone severely injured?"
Directing him toward his brother lying on the bed, Derek said, "My brother, Grant. He was stabbed in the stomach by one of the raiders, and there are a few others here that are quite injured, too."
Connor nodded. "Then let's get things started." He turned to the young man. "I'll leave it to you, Liam."
"Yes, sir," Liam said and moved toward Grant.
Grandma Liz rushed over and asked, "Sir, are you a healer? Will you be saving my son's life? Please, you must save Grant's life."
Liam said, "I'm not a healer, but I'll do whatever I can to help."
Grandma Liz nodded, her eyes misty.