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"SSC6 - Heretic's Bane"

The fire burning furiously in the hearth let out a series of loud crackles to break the silence. Stig paid it no notice as he wiped the sweat from his daughter’s fevered brow. Winter held a deathly grip on the lands outside, and Yule had abandoned the people of the northern forests once more.

Stig, as any good woodsman, prayed silently for Yule’s return, and with him, the sun, the thaw of the land, and the life of Spring. But more, he prayed for the health of his only child. The cold winds had carried a foul taint of disease this year; a number of villagers had fallen ill and eventually succumbed to the plague and, strangely for such a thing, it was chiefly the young and the healthy claimed by the affliction.

Stig looked across the room at Eir, his wife. She sat facing the fire, presenting him with her intricately braided locks of brilliant blonde hair. He shuffled towards her on his knees across the bare floor, and laid a finger gently under her chin. She turned her head to face him and stared unflinchingly into his tired eyes. Oh, but she was beautiful, and the picture of imperturbability. Stig alone could count the invisible tears as they tore unseen down her still youthful face. No-one would ever see it, but she was terrified that Oda, her daughter, her firstborn and the pride of her life, was slipping away. Stig placed a hand on her shoulder, pulled her gently towards himself, and kissed her passionately. Withdrawing, he rubbed his thumb lightly across her cheek and made to stand. Eir’s hand clasped onto his arm.

“Stig,” she whispered hoarsely “do not leave us.”
“Eir, my sweet,” Stig replied, every sinew commanding the calm of his voice “Oda must have medicine, she needs Sturm-root. Without it…” he left the sentence unfinished.
“Oh Stig,” she pleaded “you cannot. You must not. A part of me will die with Oda, do not also rob me of a husband.” Her eyes bore into Stig’s soul “I could not endure it.”
“My love, you know I cannot sit and do nothing while the two people that bring meaning to my life both suffer so.”

The silence stretched, and Eir lightly brushed her husband’s cheek. The sound of her skin brushing against his course stubble was the only noise in the room aside the crackling of the fire. Stig took her outstretched hand and held it with both of his own.

“My darling,” she sighed quietly “to think of all that I must do to be worthy of you.”
“Eir, my heart, my precious love,” he tightened his grip on her hands, and steeled his features “it is I who is unworthy.” With that, Stig swivelled on his ankles to stand, and swept out of his home into the cold harshness of the winter outside. Eir felt the touch of the biting winds run past her as the leather curtain fell back into place. As she felt the trickle of tears falling down her cheeks, a force of emotion she could no longer control contorted her face, and she began to wail silently.

Stig stood for a moment outside his home. The snow was falling gently from a uniform grey skyline, but the whole village and everywhere beyond was covered with at least an ankle’s worth of pristine whiteness. Homes, hills and tree lines shared but one colour. Stig’s breath was a thick mist in front of his face, and a light, bitter wind ruffled his furs. Testing the grip of his axe in its holster around his waist, Stig began walking. After a few moments, he came upon the village centre, where a log the thickness of two men burned brightly in the middle of a small clearing where it was possible to see the muddy ground instead of the white blanket that covered everything else. Beside the Yule fire, a man dressed in dark skins cut a lonely figure.

As he approached, Stig could see that it was Per, a man some few years older than himself. Per was a good man, a reliable hunter, and not least a good friend. But his only son, Lars, was also ill with fever.

“Ho, Per,” Stig said as he came closer “a little cold to be out?” Per did not answer immediately, but instead looked up at Stig, before taking a long gaze at the burning log before replying.
“Ho, Stig, my good friend.” His voice was dark, and his words came slowly “If it is too cold, then why are you here also?”
“Oda’s health has not improved, my friend” Stig replied “I go to look for Sturm-root.” Per’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed to consider these words in the silence for some moments.
“You are right to go,” he said finally, nodding his head lightly “Lars fell to the plague this morrow.”
“My friend,” Stig stepped closer and put a gloved hand on Per’s shoulder “I am sorry for your loss.” Per took a firm grip on Stig’s hand.
“Not as sorry as I, friend.” Per looked back at the fire “I lacked the courage to do what you go to do now.”
“Come with me, then” Stig offered “Together, we have a greater chance.”
“No,” Per’s hand fell away to his lap “I cannot. The God’s have abandoned me, and I would be of no use to you.”
“Then I shall see you on my return.” With that, Stig turned and began walking once more. After several seconds, Per called after him.

“Stig, my friend!” he yelled “I have loved you as a brother since e’er I have known you!” he said something else that might have been ‘goodbye’, but Stig refused to stop again. The village boundary came and went, and soon Stig was alone in the bland white wilderness that was in Springtime the forest, but was now a series of tree-shaped snow-mounds with the traces of a path hidden between.

Hours passed as Stig fruitlessly searched the forest for some sign of the Sturm-root weed surviving above the snowline, but the only thing defying the snow was the burning log in prayer of Yule back in the village centre. As the light began to fade, so too did Stig’s hope of finding the root. He was all but ready to make back to the village when in the grey twilight he saw a light borne of flame ahead of him between the trees. Curious, he walked onward, and shortly came upon a small clearing centred around a single tree which bore not a single flake of snow. There was still snow in the clearing itself, but the tree was remarkably clear of it. Torches on sticks the height of a man surrounded the clearing at short intervals.

As he stepped into the clearing, Stig noticed that although the central tree held no cover of snow, it also did not appear to be green. It might have been a trick of the light, but the evergreen appeared altogether too dark. Stooped forward, with his eyes straining, Stig noticed also that there were things hanging in the tree. Suddenly the ground rushed up towards him, and he found himself on his knees in the snow. The world spun around him as his senses tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Human heads. Dozens of them. Strung up like decorative baubles on a Solstice Tree. Their blood soaking the pines and needles of the tree upon which they were displayed. Stig could not be sure, but he thought he recognised some of the faces. People from his village. Fathers and husbands who had gone in search of Sturm-root, and who had not returned. The contents of Stig’s stomach burned into the immaculate carpet of snow before him.

There was a clang of metal from the other side of the clearing, and Stig jumped to his feet, yanking his axe from his belt as he did so. From behind the tree appeared a figure that belonged in nightmares. Seemingly coated in a shiny grey metal, it’s head bore a full mask that was a simple cylinder with a cross-shaped slit the only marking. Over the armour, it bore a mantle that covered the breast and fell down as far as the knees. It was plain white, and displayed only a thick red cross. In its left hand it bore a shield equally decorated with red cross on white, and its right hand it held a sword that looked as heavy as a cow.

“Who are you?” Stig demanded “Is it you who has killed these people?” The armoured figure replied, but not in any language Stig could understand. A stream of nonsense spewed from the slit in the metal head as the figure continued forward. The words were repeated over and over, and though Stig had no meaning for them, he heard them clearly.

“Heathen, Heretic, Blasphemer!” the words came “In the name of the Lord, I judge you!”

Enraged and senseless from the sight of his villagers bodiless heads, Stig surged forward, lunging with his axe.

Excellent build up of imagery and indentification of the characters in the story but, but.... what happens!!? I need to know *sob*. So cruel of you to cut the story like that :(

I have nothing against stories that remain unfinished for the reader to complete but I think you lost a lot in the urge to cut it short. It ended up with just too many unresolved issues as you said.

No, leaving the ending open made for a better story, I think. Though I did notice that there should perhaps have been more about Per.

A good alternative story (to be expected, I suppose :D) reminded me of The Village, but with a good storyline...

I'll be honest, I cut this story at least in half. The keen eye will notice a contrast in style towards the end of this piece, as I went from carefully drawing the story out to rushing through the final showpiece, climaxing in a terrible cliffhanger.

I realised while writing this that it would easily span 4,000 words if I wrote it out in full. This can be seen in the superfluous character Per, who had a plotline of his own, culminating in his suicide as he throws himself onto the Yule-fire.

So much more here. What happens to Stig? Does he survive? Does he find the medecine he needs? Does his daughter survive? Can his wife endure? And what of the crazed Hospitaller Knight? Who, why and wherefore?

Alas, I imagine it would have become altogether too wordy, and ineligble for a SSC submission...

A strong old-world Nordic tale - the bauble theme just squeezed in. Very good though.

The fire burning furiously in the hearth let out a series of loud crackles to break the silence. Stig paid it no notice as he wiped the sweat from his daughter’s fevered brow. Winter held a deathly grip on the lands outside, and Yule had abandoned the people of the northern forests once more.

Stig, as any good woodsman, prayed silently for Yule’s return, and with him, the sun, the thaw of the land, and the life of Spring. But more, he prayed for the health of his only child. The cold winds had carried a foul taint of disease this year; a number of villagers had fallen ill and eventually succumbed to the plague and, strangely for such a thing, it was chiefly the young and the healthy claimed by the affliction.

Stig looked across the room at Eir, his wife. She sat facing the fire, presenting him with her intricately braided locks of brilliant blonde hair. He shuffled towards her on his knees across the bare floor, and laid a finger gently under her chin. She turned her head to face him and stared unflinchingly into his tired eyes. Oh, but she was beautiful, and the picture of imperturbability. Stig alone could count the invisible tears as they tore unseen down her still youthful face. No-one would ever see it, but she was terrified that Oda, her daughter, her firstborn and the pride of her life, was slipping away. Stig placed a hand on her shoulder, pulled her gently towards himself, and kissed her passionately. Withdrawing, he rubbed his thumb lightly across her cheek and made to stand. Eir’s hand clasped onto his arm.

“Stig,” she whispered hoarsely “do not leave us.”
“Eir, my sweet,” Stig replied, every sinew commanding the calm of his voice “Oda must have medicine, she needs Sturm-root. Without it…” he left the sentence unfinished.
“Oh Stig,” she pleaded “you cannot. You must not. A part of me will die with Oda, do not also rob me of a husband.” Her eyes bore into Stig’s soul “I could not endure it.”
“My love, you know I cannot sit and do nothing while the two people that bring meaning to my life both suffer so.”

The silence stretched, and Eir lightly brushed her husband’s cheek. The sound of her skin brushing against his course stubble was the only noise in the room aside the crackling of the fire. Stig took her outstretched hand and held it with both of his own.

“My darling,” she sighed quietly “to think of all that I must do to be worthy of you.”
“Eir, my heart, my precious love,” he tightened his grip on her hands, and steeled his features “it is I who is unworthy.” With that, Stig swivelled on his ankles to stand, and swept out of his home into the cold harshness of the winter outside. Eir felt the touch of the biting winds run past her as the leather curtain fell back into place. As she felt the trickle of tears falling down her cheeks, a force of emotion she could no longer control contorted her face, and she began to wail silently.

Stig stood for a moment outside his home. The snow was falling gently from a uniform grey skyline, but the whole village and everywhere beyond was covered with at least an ankle’s worth of pristine whiteness. Homes, hills and tree lines shared but one colour. Stig’s breath was a thick mist in front of his face, and a light, bitter wind ruffled his furs. Testing the grip of his axe in its holster around his waist, Stig began walking. After a few moments, he came upon the village centre, where a log the thickness of two men burned brightly in the middle of a small clearing where it was possible to see the muddy ground instead of the white blanket that covered everything else. Beside the Yule fire, a man dressed in dark skins cut a lonely figure.

As he approached, Stig could see that it was Per, a man some few years older than himself. Per was a good man, a reliable hunter, and not least a good friend. But his only son, Lars, was also ill with fever.

“Ho, Per,” Stig said as he came closer “a little cold to be out?” Per did not answer immediately, but instead looked up at Stig, before taking a long gaze at the burning log before replying.
“Ho, Stig, my good friend.” His voice was dark, and his words came slowly “If it is too cold, then why are you here also?”
“Oda’s health has not improved, my friend” Stig replied “I go to look for Sturm-root.” Per’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed to consider these words in the silence for some moments.
“You are right to go,” he said finally, nodding his head lightly “Lars fell to the plague this morrow.”
“My friend,” Stig stepped closer and put a gloved hand on Per’s shoulder “I am sorry for your loss.” Per took a firm grip on Stig’s hand.
“Not as sorry as I, friend.” Per looked back at the fire “I lacked the courage to do what you go to do now.”
“Come with me, then” Stig offered “Together, we have a greater chance.”
“No,” Per’s hand fell away to his lap “I cannot. The God’s have abandoned me, and I would be of no use to you.”
“Then I shall see you on my return.” With that, Stig turned and began walking once more. After several seconds, Per called after him.

“Stig, my friend!” he yelled “I have loved you as a brother since e’er I have known you!” he said something else that might have been ‘goodbye’, but Stig refused to stop again. The village boundary came and went, and soon Stig was alone in the bland white wilderness that was in Springtime the forest, but was now a series of tree-shaped snow-mounds with the traces of a path hidden between.

Hours passed as Stig fruitlessly searched the forest for some sign of the Sturm-root weed surviving above the snowline, but the only thing defying the snow was the burning log in prayer of Yule back in the village centre. As the light began to fade, so too did Stig’s hope of finding the root. He was all but ready to make back to the village when in the grey twilight he saw a light borne of flame ahead of him between the trees. Curious, he walked onward, and shortly came upon a small clearing centred around a single tree which bore not a single flake of snow. There was still snow in the clearing itself, but the tree was remarkably clear of it. Torches on sticks the height of a man surrounded the clearing at short intervals.

As he stepped into the clearing, Stig noticed that although the central tree held no cover of snow, it also did not appear to be green. It might have been a trick of the light, but the evergreen appeared altogether too dark. Stooped forward, with his eyes straining, Stig noticed also that there were things hanging in the tree. Suddenly the ground rushed up towards him, and he found himself on his knees in the snow. The world spun around him as his senses tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Human heads. Dozens of them. Strung up like decorative baubles on a Solstice Tree. Their blood soaking the pines and needles of the tree upon which they were displayed. Stig could not be sure, but he thought he recognised some of the faces. People from his village. Fathers and husbands who had gone in search of Sturm-root, and who had not returned. The contents of Stig’s stomach burned into the immaculate carpet of snow before him.

There was a clang of metal from the other side of the clearing, and Stig jumped to his feet, yanking his axe from his belt as he did so. From behind the tree appeared a figure that belonged in nightmares. Seemingly coated in a shiny grey metal, it’s head bore a full mask that was a simple cylinder with a cross-shaped slit the only marking. Over the armour, it bore a mantle that covered the breast and fell down as far as the knees. It was plain white, and displayed only a thick red cross. In its left hand it bore a shield equally decorated with red cross on white, and its right hand it held a sword that looked as heavy as a cow.

“Who are you?” Stig demanded “Is it you who has killed these people?” The armoured figure replied, but not in any language Stig could understand. A stream of nonsense spewed from the slit in the metal head as the figure continued forward. The words were repeated over and over, and though Stig had no meaning for them, he heard them clearly.

“Heathen, Heretic, Blasphemer!” the words came “In the name of the Lord, I judge you!”

Enraged and senseless from the sight of his villagers bodiless heads, Stig surged forward, lunging with his axe.