Bjorn's Harsh Beginning...Part 1 of 4

Hello again. Today I decided to post something more literary, as the last post may have been a bit too academic to inspire much more than yawns and stretches. This is a short story I wrote not too long ago. It is the opening story of a character I developed for a game. It isn't the story I've been working on, but it's good. It has some decent action and is fairly indicative of my writing style. I have posted the story in four easily ingestible parts and in reverse order (meaning you can simply continue to scroll down to get to the next part, as would be the logical inclination).

Well, here it is...


Bjorn swished his scythe out in front of him, cutting the last swath of wheat for the season. He set the blade into the dirt and leaned on the handle for moment to look out over the freshly shorn field. It had been an entire day's work, but well worth the effort. In reality, it had been a season's worth of work, but now he and his mother would have enough grain to sell at the market and some left over to hold them until the next year.
He ended up standing there for some time, squinting his deep blue eyes at the sun as it set in the west. The last remaining rays of light struck of his golden hair and cast a godly look upon his well-muscled form and deeply chiseled features. As the sun winked its last of the day, he bent over and slung his last sack of wheat over his corded shoulder and ambled his way to the cart. Loading this sack with the rest that were piled high in the back of the cart, he looked out over the field in the quickly fading dusk one more time. Nodding with satisfaction, he went to the front of the cart and pulled it along behind him as he plodded toward home.
Hallbjorn Stigandr often found himself looking out at the sunset. It was virtually a daily ritual. After a hard day's work in the field, he couldn't help but look toward that horizon and wonder what lay beyond. He knew very well, of course, what lay beyond. When he had been a little child, he had tuned his radio to the faint signal broadcast by a station in the city some eighty miles away. It wasn't so far, eighty miles, or at least, it hadn't been. When he was little he dreamed of someday buying a truck and driving out into the city to find his fortune. Maybe he would get rich selling real estate or making deals for some big corporation in a really big developed city.
But his father had always wanted him to run the farm once he was grown up. His dad never held much with city folk. He had always told Bjorn that his grandfather had once owned some of the largest farmland up in Wisconsin, but when he died, some big shot city lawyers had divvied the land up among his city dwelling siblings, who had bulldozed it to develop housing. In the end, Bjorn's old man had to head south to Kansas and build his own farm here in the fertile prairies of the Midwest.
So, Bjorn had been brought up learning how to till the earth, how to harvest the crops, and how to defend the farm against the vermin that infested these untamed plains. Like his father and grandfather before him, Bjorn grew to be a strapping young man. The Viking blood that was said to run through his veins was evident in his every physical quality. And like the Vikings, and his last name Stigandr, which meant 'Wanderer', he felt the pull of the wide world calling him to explore. Harsh reality, however, pulled him back down to earth.
Seven years ago, when Hallbjorn had reached the ripe farming age of twelve, his father, old man Stigandr, was taken from him and his mother prematurely. Bjorn the younger was supposed to be in the fields helping his father. Instead, he had stolen away to the village to find himself a working vehicle that he could drive away to the city. He had been saving up since he was ten the money that his father gave him for 'services on the farm'. His plan was to pay for a truck, one man in the village had been trying to get rid of a beat up old Ford for ages, and keep it there for a while. Once he was fourteen, or so, he would hop in and drive off. Alas, it was not to be.
When Bjorn came home from a hard morning of haggling with the old farmer for his truck, he found that his father was nowhere to be seen in the field. He went into the house where his mother told him she thought they had been tending the crops all morning. He checked the barn; his father was not there. Panic started to rise in the young man as he ran out into the fields calling out his father's name. He stopped when he tripped over his old man's lifeless body lying under the waves of his wheat field.
The sheriff and one of his deputies came out to look over the scene. It was pretty grisly. They determined that a pack of gnolls had crept up on the man, crouching in the tall swaying wheat as they came. They assured what was left of the Stigandr family that it had been fairly quick and painless as they pounced on him and tore him limb from limb. All in all, the officers seemed fairly useless. They did not offer to find the creatures responsible, and when Bjorn's mother had asked, they simply shot one another a nervous look and explained that this was a dangerous land and that building a farm out here was a mighty high risk.
So, Bjorn and his mother buried his father in a small ceremony behind the barn. For some time afterward, young Bjorn could have sworn his father would call to him from his final resting place to get up and go out to the field before the sun came up. Perhaps it had just been the memories that were haunting him. Regardless, he got up every morning well before the sun from the day after his father's death on. He had become the man of the household, and it was only through his ceaseless efforts and maturity beyond his years that the bank did not foreclose on the farm. The bills had mounted after Bjorn the elder died, but his son carried on, and slowly he and his mother began to make headway.
Now, all Bjorn had of the days of his youth were his long-time fantastical reveries at sunset. And today, as every day, he trod toward his home to eat the supper that his mother so lovingly prepared for him, while visions of the past played in his mind.
He halted.
Approaching the barn, where he would put his harvest and tools for the night, Bjorn thought he saw a figure dart between it and the house. He blinked in the twilight that had the first few stars of the night twinkling above. It might have simply been a trick of the light, but he knew better than to take his chances. Seven years of defending his fields on his own had him padding over to the barn more silently than one might have thought was possible for man so large. He deftly slipped between the barn and the house and peeked around the other side, his scythe held up at the ready.
He caught his breath as he spied a silhouette standing over his father's grave. It was certainly not his mother. Bjorn's heart pounded in his throat and he could hear nothing but blood rushing in his ears. He went to step around the barn to face this shadow, whatever it was, when it suddenly moved. It spun around to face him and he saw its eyes flash reflectively in the darkness. The young man broke into a cold sweat, entirely unsure of what was going on. A menacing growl from the shadow told him soon enough.
Sudden movement on either side of him had him leaping away in barely enough time. Gnolls came pouncing at him from the darkness. The one on his left missed him as he went diving away from the attack, but the one on the right raked his shoulder with nothing more than its jagged claws. An arrow went whizzing by Bjorn's head as he stumbled forward, scythe raised high. The gnoll standing over his father's grave snarled at the failed shot as its arrow thudded into the barn.
Bjorn plowed ahead, not even bothering to attack with his scythe; he simply trampled the one before him. Clearly, it had not been expecting such a sudden approach because it yelped in surprise as the young man half-stomped, half-tripped over it. The other two gnolls bolted ahead to aid their companion. They were met with hard and even strokes from Bjorn's weapon of harvest. One dove deftly away, but the other flinched and found itself slashed deeply across the chest. It howled in pain and skittered away warily.
Now it was two against one. The gnolls advanced menacingly on Bjorn, who could only hold up his long weapon in defense. One of the creatures aimed poorly and attacked nothing but the blade of Bjorn's scythe. It pulled back a bleeding forearm. Its companion, however, the one that had been holding the bow, had taken out a knife and scored a nice gash on the young man's ribs.
Bjorn winced, but gritted his teeth and brought back his scythe for a powerful swipe that he hoped would hit both of his opponents. But luck was not with him tonight. He missed the first gnoll as it dodged the long blade of the farming tool and the second was already not close enough. Suddenly, all of his attention was drawn away from the battle as a female scream pierced the night from the direction of his house.

"Ma!" Bjorn called.

He was answered with a raking claw across his neck and a stabbing dagger in his side. He cried out at the sudden pain and the realization that he had to face these beasts before he could get to his distressed mother. A boiling anger began to simmer up within him, and he turned his attention back to the battle with a new sense of urgency and a feeling like he was on the verge of exploding. He swung his improvised weapon, this time focusing on the creature that kept poking at him with the dagger. There was a momentary sensation of resistance as the blade slid diagonally across the gnoll's chest, and Bjorn heard the satisfying sound of a yelping whine.
His minor victory was short lived, however, as another scream rent the air followed by a loud boom. He could not help but glance toward his house. He was fairly certain that, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen the muzzle blast that went with that shotgun sound. Once again, he was rewarded for his distraction with another blow, this time to his face. Dirty claws drew four lines over his cheek.
Bjorn could not contain the building pressure any longer. He felt like he was fighting a battle that he could not possibly win as long as he thought his mother was in danger. It seemed that the foundation of his sanity cracked, and he was, quite suddenly, only half aware of his actions. He felt a great surge of strength, and his wounds seemed to hurt considerably less. With a huge backswing, Bjorn brought forth his weapon with devastating force. There seemed to be virtually no friction, like he was cutting through air, and the part of him that was witnessing as if from elsewhere thought that he had missed. He carried the swing all the way to his opposite side and watched the first gnoll fall backward, its torso spilling open as it did so. The second one spun to the ground spraying blood all over Bjorn. He had cleaved straight through both opponents, killing them instantly.
Without a moment's consideration to his dead foes, Bjorn ran to the back door of the house. It was standing ajar. He rushed in and nearly slipped on a splattering of blood on the kitchen floor. He looked down, and the fresh corpse of a gnoll caught his attention. Half of its chest had been blown apart by what could only be a shotgun blast. Just a few feet away, lay the shotgun, and next to it, his mother. She lay in a thickening pool of her own blood, which was flowing freely from an open gash in her neck.

"Ma!" he cried, stumbling over to her, suddenly feeling very weak.

He dropped to his knees beside her and placed his hand over her wound to stem the blood's flow. She moaned weakly at his touch, but her eyes remained closed.

"Oh, ma, please be ok. Come on, ma. I need you to wake up for me. Wake up so I can call a doctor."

He shook the woman gently and pleaded with her some more. Her warm blood leaked between his fingers, and his mind rushed desperately to find a way to keep her wound covered so that he could get to the phone. All the while a small voice in his head told him it was futile. It would take anyone from the village at least twenty minutes to get here, which meant another twenty to get her to the hospital. The clock was ticking, and time was running short for the woman who had been the only love and support he had known for the past seven years. He felt the panic rise in him with each less distinct gurgling breath she took.

"Mom," he wept, "please don't go. Don't you leave me too. What will I do without you? I'll do anything, please. Just stay."

It was ever so faint, but he heard her say his name.

"Hallbjorn," she rasped again.

"Mom?" he said looking down at her, the hint of hope shining through his tears.

"Hallbjorn, Leave this place. You were born for more than just farm work. Go to the city, like you always dreamed of," the woman whispered hoarsely, giving a weak cough as she finished.

Bjorn looked into his mother's eyes, which were just barely open. He shook his head firmly. "I won't leave you, mother. You need me," he said with a quavering voice and a faltering smile.

"Not...anymore," she gasped, returning his smile with a weak one of her own. Her teeth were pink with her own blood. Bjorn suddenly wondered how much of it had been seeping down into her lungs.

"Nonsense," he said to her. "Here, put your hand here so I can go call the doctor..." He went silent for some time. "Ma..." He held her cold, limp hand and stared down at her still half-open eyes. Like the warmth that was gone from that hand, those eyes seemed strangely dimmed, as though the flame that kept her warm had gone out. Bjorn knew, then, that he was alone. He lay there for quite a while feeling nothing. Letting the coldness that was now taking the body of his mother chill him to the bone.