North America / Kingdom of Yorkania (Northern Grain Road): December 24th, 1517.
It was a ugly day for the world. The sky was grey, the wind was sharp and the road that once carried grain, horses, tools and men now carried blood, smoke and screaming.
(Michael's POV)
"RUN." Said a man loudly.
*BOOM*
The storehouse doors broke open.
Men in brown cloaks rushed inside with axes, short swords and torches. Their faces were covered. Their boots were muddy. Their voices were not yorkanian enough to belong here but not foreign enough to prove anything.
That was the worst part.
They wanted to be unknown.
Michael grabbed a pitchfork and stood in front of his wife and two sons.
"Stay behind me." Said michael with gritted teeth.
The village was chaos.
Women screamed.
Children cried.
Horses kicked.
Grain sacks were dragged into wagons.
Tools were taken.
A old man tried to stop one of the raiders and was punched so hard he hit the ground and did not move.
*THUMP*
"Father." Said a young woman screaming as she tried to run toward him.
A raider grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the mud.
*BOOM*
"DO NOT KILL TOO MANY. LEAVE THEM BREATHING." Said one of the masked men loudly.
Michael froze.
Leave them breathing.
That was an order.
This was not hunger.
This was design.
A raider rushed toward him with a sword.
I lifted the pitchfork.
*CLANG*
The sword struck the metal prongs and sent pain shooting up my arms.
The raider kicked him in the stomach.
*BOOM*
"GAH." Said michael as he fell back into the mud.
His oldest son screamed.
The raider raised his sword.
*SHSK*
A arrow flew into his shoulder.
The raider roared and stumbled back.
A woman from the roof of the bakery lowered her hunting bow with shaking hands.
"Good shot mary" Thought michael while coughing up blood.
*SPLAT*
The raider snapped the arrow and glared up at her.
"Burn that roof." Said another raider calmly.
Michael eyes widened.
"NO." Said michael loud and hoarsely.
A torch flew.
*BOOM*
The bakery roof caught fire.
The smell of smoke filled the air.
Flour sacks split open on the ground as the raiders dragged them across the mud. White powder mixed with blood and rainwater until the road looked like someone had tried to bake bread out of suffering.
"Take the plows too." Said one of the masked men.
"What about the seed chest." Asked another one of the men.
"Take it. Leave one bag. Make them hungry, not dead." Said the leader calmly with a wave of his hand.
Michael's eyes widened even more.
"Make them hungry, not dead." Thought michael with shaking hands.
They knew exactly what they were doing.
A real thief took what he could carry.
A starving man took what he could eat.
These men were taking what would hurt tomorrow.
Tools.
Seed.
Horses.
Grain.
Hope.
Michael pushed myself up and grabbed the pitchfork again and roared loudly "YOU COWARDS."
The leader turned to him.
He was tall. Broad. Covered in a long dirty cloak. His eyes were light brown and cold.
He walked toward him slowly.
*Tak* *Tak* *Tak*
The mud did not seem to slow him.
"You are michael bailey." Said the man calmly.
Michael's blood froze.
"How do you know my name." Asked michael with wide eyes.
The man tilted his head slightly and said "The queen mother likes you."
The village went silent in michael's ears.
Michael gripped the pitchfork tighter.
The man leaned closer and said lowly "Tell her the roads are bleeding. Tell her the people she feeds are still hungry when fire eats the grain before they do."
Michael swung the pitchfork.
The man dodged swiftly and punched him in the face.
*BOOOM*
Michael fell into the mud.
Blood filled his mouth.
The man crouched beside him and said calmly "Tell her she cannot be everywhere."
Michael spat blood onto the ground and said with gritted teeth "She does not need to be everywhere. She only needs to hear."
The man stared at him.
For a moment.
Only a moment.
Then he smiled underneath the cloth covering his face.
"Then hear this too." Said the man calmly.
He grabbed michael by the hair and forced his head up to look at the burning village.
"Let her see what her kindness invites." Said the man lowly.
Then man stood up and shouted "ENOUGH. TAKE WHAT WE CAME FOR."
The raiders moved fast.
Too fast.
They knew which storehouse had grain.
Which stable had horses.
Which shed had tools.
Which road to leave from.
"They had a map" Thought michael with his cheek pressed into the mud.
A little girl screamed as a man tore a sack of flour from her mother's hands.
A old woman cursed them until one kicked her into a water trough.
*SPLOOSH*
"May the queen mother hang you by your empty balls." Said the old woman weakly from inside the trough.
One of the raiders paused.
The leader raised his hand.
"Leave her." Said the leader calmly.
The raider moved on.
Michael's hands shook.
Not from fear.
From rage.
The wagons moved.
The raiders left with their food, their horses, their tools and their pride.
But not their lives.
That was worse.
They wanted witnesses.
The village burned behind them in small pieces.
Smoke crawled into the sky like a message.
The church bell rang once because the rope had caught fire and snapped.
*DONG*
Then it fell silent.
Micheal's wife ran to him and grabbed his face and said with tears streaming down her face "Michael. Michael."
Michael coughed up blood and grabbed her wrist.
"The queen mother." Said michael hoarsely.
The woman shook her head and said Immediately "You cannot ride."
"I can crawl if I must." Said michael with gritted teeth.
"You have ribs broken." Said his wife with a trembling voice.
"Then they will come with me." Said michael.
A young boy near the broken fence lifted something from the mud.
A coin.
Not yorkanian.
He brought it to michael.
Michael stared at it.
The coin had been scratched badly, but you could still see part of a mark.
Not enough to prove.
Enough to smell rot.
Michael clenched it into a fist.
"Get me a horse." Said michael with a vein appearing on his forehead.
The women gritted her teeth and said "They took them."
Michael looked toward the road and said with a serious look on his face "Then get me a mule."
The village was silent.
A wounded man groaned somewhere near the storehouse.
Michael looked at the burning roof, the stolen grain and the people staring at him.
Farmers.
Mothers.
Children.
Old men.
People who had just learned that being alive was sometimes just another way to suffer longer.
"Hail yorkania." Said michael hoarsely.
No one answered at first.
Then one old woman with blood on her chin spat into the mud and said weakly "Hail."
Another voice followed.
"Hail." Said a old man weakly.
Then another.
"Hail." Said a young woman weakly.
A little boy holding half a burnt loaf lifted it up like it was a sword.
"Hail." Said the boy.
Michael pushed himself up with the pitchfork.
Michael's legs shook.
His face throbbed.
His ribs hurt.
But he stood.
"Tell the queen mother the roads are bleeding." Said a little boy softly.
Michael looked down at him.
His face was covered in soot.
Michael nodded and said with cold eyes "I will."
His wife grabbed his arm and said with red eyes "Then I am coming with you."
Michael looked at her.
The village was still burning behind them.
The road ahead was grey.
Long.
Cold.
Full of mud and pain.
Michael looked at the scratched coin in his palm and closed his fist around it until the edges cut into his skin.
*SPLAT*
Blood dripped between his fingers.
"Good. Let the queen mother smell the rot herself." Said michael hoarsely.
…
THE END…