Young Writers Society

Einar kneeled in shock as he stared at the chaos in front of him. The only thing left where his village had been was ash. Scorched stones, Logs and lumber turned to charcoal and singed corpses marked his former home. Some of the rubble was still burning, fanned by the cold wind. He could not believe that this was all that had been left of his old life, his entire existence had been spent in and around a place that was now little more than charcoal and ash.

Einar screamed. Tears were a rare occurrence among his people, but he could not stop them from flowing as he cursed whatever force created this horrible tragedy. The wind had begun to die down, but it still stung the wet on Einar's face,as if nature itself was punishing him for being weak. His head felt like it was being split open with a hot knife as he rested it against the cold ground, still sobbing. He knew that crying would not bring back the dead, but he could not stop the tears that flowed freely down his face and dripped onto the frozen earth beneath him. He sobbed until there were no more tears and he could not cry any more. He slowly got to his feet, his legs feeling weak and stiff. Mourning their deaths would not bring them peace or help anyone, only action would. He had to get up, for their sakes. Who would remember them or avenge their deaths if he froze and starved here? Clutching his right arm, he slowly began to walk forwards into the tragedy in from of him.

As Einar stepped through the scorched remains of the village wall, the smell of burnt pine mixed with a rich, heavy odor that could only be from charred flesh assaulted his senses. Trying his best to ignore this acrid scent that was so thick he could almost taste, he searched around frantically through the destroyed and charred houses for any sign of life. There was no sound, except for the dying wind and the crackling of still burning beams that used to support the houses of his friends and fellow villagers. Most of the sturdier structures with stone walls had collapsed as well, toppled over by some massive force. The entire place had an air of death about it, as well as that thick, inescapable smell. Not being able to stand the sickly scent anymore, Einar retreated to the outskirts of the village upwind from the carnage.

Sitting down on a large stone near the edge of the village, Einar tried to patch himself up as best he could with what was on his person. As he wrapped up his arm with a scrap of cloth, he thought about who he lost. His friends, family, fellow workers, even the old healer. He would never hear or see any of them again, the way the old healer would snort a little when he laughed, or the way the blacksmith would let out an exhausted sigh and fear for the worst every time Einar entered his shop. Everything he had ever owned and known, his entire world had just been razed to the ground in an instant. What would he do now? He had the sheep, and there was no shortage of wood around if he wanted to construct a new house for himself, but would that really be a life worth living?

No. If there was one thing he could do for his fallen friends, it was to kill whatever thing caused this. Only then could he think of settling down. After all, the dead could not avenge themselves, and as the sole survivor of this attack this duty fell on his shoulders. However, he could not fight in his current condition, and as such decided to rest for a while and plan an attack. As he looked around his village's remains more carefully, he noticed the trail. Judging from the impact in the ground, something big had fallen from the sky with great force very close to his village. Whatever this was, it must be heavy to leave such deep footprints in the hard earth. It also seemed to have a tail of sorts. He examined the trail in the half-frozen ground which led through the village and towards the mountains to the east of the village. Einar recalled seeing a large cave once in that area while tracking down a wild mountain goat, and figured that would make an adequate shelter for a creature of this size.

Well that's that, Einar thought to himself as he got to his feet. He would defeat this monster and avenge his village, or die trying. It was at that point that he remembered his lack of weapons, the only one he had with his was the broken spearhead, which would surely pose no threat against something of this size. He braced himself for the agonizing smell as he stepped back into the ashes of his village and headed for the former home of the village blacksmith. Digging through the rubble, he managed to fish out an axe and an ice pick which the blacksmith had claimed was used by some explorers who had traversed the mountains. Einar swore he would use these tools crafted by the fallen to make sure their killer was slain for all the injustice that they had caused. As Einar was stepping out of the ruins again, his eyes fell on where the old healer's hut used to be. As he stumbled over to it he could see that there was nothing left of his trade. Every herb, meticulously collected and dried for the winters had gone up in a blaze. The only thing he could see that survived were a couple of runes etched into stone, part of the twenty four used in enchanting and magic. The only ones that Einar could make out through the ash were Kenaz and Halagaz. He couldn't recall their exact meanings right now, but he wondered if they could have predicted this tragedy, preventing this slaughter.

Leaving the scorched rubble, Einar set down his newly acquired tools on a large rock and looked at the nearby trees. Finding a suitable low-hanging branch, he picked up the axe and started to chop it off. As of now, his right hand was almost useless, so he had to make do with his left. After what felt like an hour, he managed to knock it down, and began to carve it down into a long shaft. 'It's a little crooked, but it will have to do', he thought to himself as he tied the broken spearhead to the top of it. Tearing a longer scrap of cloth from his clothing, he began to tighten it around his wounded right arm. It hurt like hell, but at least he could move his fingers. He placed the woolen gauntlet over the makeshift bandages and fished in his pocket for the food that he had been meaning to have for lunch before everything else happened. He felt like he still had a stone in his stomach, but he could not bring justice to the village starved. He managed to get it all down, and decided to rest under a large stone for the night before heading off to the mountains in the morning. As he laid there, sheltered from the wind, he found his exhaustion take the better of him and pull him into slumber. Just before he lost consciousness, he quietly vowed to the gods that he would defeat whatever evil had caused this, and prayed for them to grant him the strength to match his will and help him in his quest. He then named all the gods he could remember, in an attempt to gain their blessing. “Fjalr, Havi, Disr, Sigfadr …” he muttered into the night as his eyes closed.