SciFi and Fantasy Stories: Farm

“Farm”

            Oezhur stopped clipping for a moment and listened.  The sound was there again, faint, fleeting, but scary.  It was a war bugle.

            The boy let go the ewe he’d been shearing and ran from the barn, past the shed, and into the house.  “Mom!” he called.

            “Don’t wake the baby,” Oezhur’s mother said sternly.

            “I just heard a bugle,” he stated.  He trembled slightly with a mixture of fear and excitement.

            Demmah set down the pot she’d just used.  “You watch your sister, Oezhur,” she said calmly.  “I’ll be right back.  Don’t you even think of taking one of those cookies; you’ll burn yourself.”

            She walked out the back door and saw her husband mending a yoke.  “Grahv,” she began as she approached him, “Oezhur says he heard a horn call just now.”

            “He did?  Blast!  Those Vikings are getting bold, venturing this far inland.”  He dropped his hammer and looked to the east.

            “Maybe they’ll miss us.”

            “You think so?”

            “Sure.  Look to the west.  I think that’s Prince Mitlahseel’s army approaching.”

            “They aren’t moving very fast,” Grahv muttered.  “I doubt they’ll get here in time to stop the raiders.”

            “They don’t seem to be in a hurry either.  Perhaps the hills are slowing them.”

            “Hills don’t slow down Vikings.”

            Demmah looked again at the approaching invaders.  She thought she saw a standard.  That meant that these were not Vikings.  They were probably—“English troops.  Oh, no!”

            “Just the hills and our farm,” Grahv said with enlightened dread.  “They mean to do battle in our fields.”

            Demmah shook her head.  “We’ve got to stop them,” she said forcefully.  “We have got to stop them.”

            “Yes.  But how?  We don’t have enough to buy them off.”

            “We’ve got to try.”

            “I’m going to saddle the horses,” Grahv said.  “We’ll talk to Mitlahseel’s group first—maybe even get an escort for when we talk to the English.”

            “Do we have time for that?”

            Grahv observed the converging forces.  “No,” he admitted.  “I’ll talk to the English.”  He ran toward the horses’ stable.  Demmah went back into the house.

            “Where’s Maet?” she asked Oezhur.

            “In the basement, I think, Mom,” he answered.

            Quickly, she descended the stairs and saw her older son.  “Looks good,” she said, indicating her approval of the barrels he was building.

            “Thanks, Mom.  What’s going on?”

            “Your dad and I are going for a short ride.  Do me a favor and keep an eye on Aytah and Oezhur while we’re gone, please.”

            “Sure.  What’s going on, though?” Maet asked again.

            “I’ll explain later, okay?  We’re in a big hurry right now.  Thanks, Maet.”

            Grahv was waiting for her when she left the house again.  He had the horses ready and handed her the reins of her mare.  Demmah and Grahv looked at each other for a moment.  They shared a brief, loving embrace.  They mounted their horses.

            “Success, Darling,” Grahv said.

            “Aye, for us both.”

            Grahv headed East at a canter.  He halted his mustang when he was about 200m from the slowly advancing English forces.  “Peace!” he yelled.

            “Approach,” a loud, slightly bored voice answered.

            Grahv trotted forward and drew near to the man in black plate armor who rode at the head of his troops.  The man looked large, but not huge, and he was probably some type of noble.  “Greeting, m’lord,” Grahv hailed.

            “Speak,” the man commanded.

            “I am a simple farmer, m’lord,” Grahv said evenly.  “I work these fields.  Please, do not use them as a location for battle; my family and I will starve if you do.”

            “Destiny has chosen this place.  Flee, man, or you will certainly not starve.”

            “My lord, I can compensate you.  Please, hear the terms at my house.”

            The man in black armor chose four men and followed Grahv toward the small building.

            Demmah moved West toward the French army.  She slowed while she was still a safe distance away.  She waved a blue flag with a gold lily.

            “Advance,” a scout yelled to her.

            She came closer and noticed a tall man in dark blue, standing near his horse, which was also wearing dark blue.  This man had to be the commander.  “My lord,” she said.

            “Yes, woman?” he said curtly.

            “My lord, my family and I grow food in these fields.  We are loyal and pay our taxes to the prince.  Please, do not use the land we work as a battleground.”

            “I think that our foes leave us little choice in this matter,” said the man in blue.

            “Some choice, I believe, lord,” she said boldly.  “My husband bargains with the English even now.  Come to the house and you shall see.”

            When he had counted out four warriors, the blue-cloaked man followed Demmah toward her home.

            “You see, lords,” Grahv told the waiting men, “we understand that you must fight on the plain.  But as farmers, we need our crops; if they perish, we perish.  A battle here would destroy our labors.”

            The man in blue spoke deliberately.  “If we may avoid fighting here, we will.  I know that you pay your taxes, farmer.  You pay because our prince protects you.”

            “We fight to increase our influence,” the man in black declared.  “Your fields fit our purpose.  We are not trying to cause you to suffer, but ‘time is money,’ they say.  We would use more supplies if we had to travel to another suitable site.”

            “We can provide recompense,” Grahv began.  The man in blue cleared his throat.  “…to both lords,” Grahv finished hastily.

            “Your offer is not half enough,” the black-armored man said.

            “I can afford no more.  Please, lords.”

            “No.  We will fight here,” the man in black stated. 

            “Think of your own family, lord, please,” Demmah said.  “Or let us earn our land through tasks.”

            “You may give what you would have given us to their forces,” the man in blue offered, “in exchange for the head of their champion.”

            The man in black laughed.  “A farmer in champion combat?  We would still not accept.  As I said, the offer wasn’t half enough.  Therefore, double the offer would not be fully enough.”

            “I beg you to reconsider, sir,” Grahv implored.

            The black-armored man spoke again.  “That woman of yours is a pretty thing.  Give me her and the offer.”

            “No,” Grahv and Demmah said together.

            “Furthermore,” Demmah sneered, “you are an honorless, foolish pig.  If you would defend yourself, I would take your head, as my husband shall take your champion’s.”

            Then the man in black really laughed and so did his fighters and the fighters with the man in blue as well.  Only Demmah, Grahv, and the blue-cloaked man did not laugh.

            “Well, farmer,” the man in black finally said, “your terms are hilarious.  This is my champion.”  A man in a red tabard and black mail stepped forward.  He was only two or three cm taller than Grahv, but much broader.  He wore a gigantic sword on his back.  He bowed slightly, snickering as he did so.

            “My champion and I will kill you and your sharp-tongued wench in an hour.  Then we will fight on this field.  Your family may live, but they will probably die.

            “As for you,” the black-armored commander said to Demmah, “I will enjoy gutting you—maybe more than I would have enjoyed bedding you.  I was killing men while you were still a schoolgirl.”

            “So what?” Demmah replied.

            The farmers made their way to the basement while the ten warriors waited outside the house, near the shed.  “Can we beat them, do you think?” Grahv asked as he opened the old weapon chest.

            Demmah slid a cabinet drawer aside and withdrew from it a small bucket of black pigment.  “Maybe we can, maybe not.  Ask me if we will, and the answer is yes.”

            “Good.  Because that is what I meant, now that I think about it.

            “What was that black-armored louse using, broadsword and dagger, right?  And their champion is wearing a two-hander.  Hmm.  I guess I’ll use the spetum.”  He set the slender pole arm aside.

            “Nice selection.  Very good against armor and anyone using a slower weapon.  I’ll take my favorites, please.”

            “The axes?  Honey, how long has it been since you last used them?  Months?”

            “They’re what I learned first—what my parents taught me.  I may practice other weapons more, but I connect with the axes.  They’ll always be the weapons I’m best at using.”  Demmah stirred the black liquid for a few seconds longer.  “You’re lucky.  You feel comfortable with any weapon.”

            “Lucky I may be, but it’s spelled: S-K-I-L-L-E-D.”

            “Fair enough.  I think the paint is ready.”

            “I’m glad the English didn’t decide to try this invasion in winter,” Grahv remarked.  He and Demmah solemnly removed their clothes.  Demmah deftly applied black stripes to her husband’s body.  Grahv then skillfully painted her with a pattern of rings and spots.

            “Just as it has been for generations,” Demmah approved.  “You look fearsome.”

            “So do you,” Grahv said.  “Ready?”

            Demmah nodded.  Grahv handed her the axes.  He picked up his spetum.  The pair climbed the steps and left the farmhouse.

            The ten warriors were standing in a half-circle, waiting.  The painted farmers appeared, carrying their weapons with certainty and pride.  The blue-cloaked man and his fighters felt that pride as well.  The man in black looked a little nervous.  His champion appeared to be studying them.  His fighters were looking mostly at Demmah, with a combination of awe and lust.  No one was laughing now.

            “They’re trying to scare us,” the black-armored commander murmured to his champion.

            “My lord, they have succeeded in your case.  Don’t let them see it,” the champion said.

            “Insolence!” the English commander accused loudly enough for all to hear.  The champion ignored him.

            Grahv stood five meters in front of the champion; Demmah stood five meters in front of the commander.  Grahv spoke calmly.  “One more chance.  Take our offer.”  His tone was polite, but he used no title this time.  It was a blunt statement, almost a command.

            The man in black spat.

            Eight of the warriors spread out.  The English commander and champion drew their weapons.  The fight began.

            Grahv advanced slowly while the champion stood with bent knees, ready.  Demmah and the commander charged each other—the commander with a battle cry, Demmah with silence.

            Demmah swung fast.  Her first blow blasted the black-armored man’s shield aside.  The second axe was also on its way, and the commander had to block it with his sword.

            Grahv had the reach advantage with his spetum and he knew that he would lose it if he allowed the champion to come too near.  He also wanted to keep the warrior in the red tabard close enough to his commander that they would interfere with each other, but far enough away that they couldn’t fight back-to-back.  It was a tricky game of positioning, but his weapon was light enough to give him a speed edge.

            The fights were fascinating to watch.  Grahv and the champion gave and took.  There were many feints, few blocks, and rarely was a sound heard.  Demmah and the commander fought at very close range.  Demmah was always on the offensive, her feet constantly moving; the commander had to stay with defense.  The shrill sound of metal blocking metal became almost a constant ring.

            The commander was getting tired.  He wanted to attack or somehow end the fight.  An axe struck his shield.  Another was moving toward him.  His sword was swinging toward Demmah, as it had many times this morning.  He’d always had to deviate, to alter the swing’s purpose: to make a parry out of a slash.  This time he wouldn’t do it.  He would try to use his shield to stop both axes.

            He was too slow.  Demmah’s axe punched through the plate on his right breast.  The force of the blow knocked the air from his lungs and made his swing wild.  He regretted trying to block.  He regretted trying to fight these farmers.

            Demmah knew that her axe was temporarily stuck in the black breastplate.  She also knew that she had the advantage.  Her next blow knocked her opponent to one knee.  The next put him on his back.  The next half-severed his neck.  The last took off his head.

            The farmers were both strong, tanned, spattered with blood, sweaty, and gleaming.  In that moment, they looked like the battle gods of some forgotten culture--beautiful, horrible.

            Demmah picked up the still-helmed head.  The champion in the red tabard laid his sword on the ground.  He looked at his men.  His men—that’s what they were now.

            The red-clothed champion addressed the assembled group.  “No more blood need be shed on this plain.  You have what all people respect.  Courage.”

            The English forces withdrew from the vicinity.  The French forces departed as well.  Before he left, the man in blue found that he had to speak with the farmers again.  He approached the couple.  Demmah took Grahv’s spetum and slipped back into the farmhouse.

            Grahv noticed the man in blue.  “Yes, my lord?” he said.

            “I would speak for a minute with you and your wife when she returns, good farmer.”

            Grahv used water from a trough to wash his face.  Demmah emerged from the house with two cloaks; one she carried, one she had draped around her shoulders.  She glanced at the blue-cloaked man, then at Grahv.  Grahv gave her a slight nod as he put on his cloak.  “Please, my lord, speak with us,” Grahv said to the man in blue.

            “Good farmers,” he said, “you acquitted yourselves well today.  I am proud to be fighting with you and for you.  You saved your family and your land.

            “I am afraid that this may cause more trouble.  The fact is that your defense of this farm was incredible.  It may become a legend.  Those who have witnessed today’s events will spread the story fast.

            “You will then be sought.  Your neighbors will come to call.  The English will want vengeance.  Our lord, Prince Mitlahseel, may even decide to meet you; if that happens, you can be sure that he will do something or request something to make the journey worth his time.  That may include asking you to come with him to the city.

            “In short, you may find that this was merely the first of myriad battles.  I hope I am wrong.  If you wish, I and my four elite warriors will suppress the story for as long as we can.”

            Grahv and Demmah looked resolute.  “My wife and I thank you for the warning, lord.  Doubtless, you have seen these things happen before.  There is no need to suppress the story.  We will deal with these problems as they arise.  It’s really all we can do; as farmers, we are tied to the land.  No matter what, we will face adversity head-on, lord.”

            “I admire you,” the man in blue said.  He mounted his charger.  “I wish you luck.”

            Arm-in-arm, Demmah and Grahv watched him leave.  “He was right,” Demmah said quietly.  “We’ve not seen the last of these threats to our family and the land.”

            “I’m not worried, dear.  Are you?”

            “No.”

            Grahv and Demmah washed, got dressed, and resumed their work.