Historical Fiction
Date Published: June 27, 2017
Publisher: Yo Productions, LLC
As an infant, Niklas’s family escaped death when the entire royal bloodline of Livonia was murdered. As an adult, Niklas joined the Teutonic Knights in their bloody crusades across Europe to spread God’s Word. After years of service, he discovers that the army he faithfully served has ill-intentioned motives.
When Niklas and his friend defect from the knighthood, they are relentlessly pursued across the Baltic States by the wickedly led Teutonic Order. His only hope to enjoy a peaceful life is to unify the oppressed populace against their tyrannical rulers. But, political upheavals and looming enemies threaten any chance of peace. When it’s discovered that an heir to the Livonian throne is still alive, Niklas vows to help him regain his rightful place as leader. At best, Niklas’s oath can help bring freedom to people in a lost country. At worst, it can cost him his life.
Excerpt:
Chapter One: Flee
The front door flew
open, sending a rush of cold air into the warm
home and fluttering the flames of the
crackling hearth. Andrus
slammed the door behind him and threw
a piece of worn timber across
the iron braces, barring its way.
Ignoring the savory aroma emanating
from an iron kettle atop the cook
fire, Andrus turned around and knocked
over a small table near a front
window. Keepsakes crashed to the floor as
he peered past the curtains.
“Maarja! Maarja!” Andrus called in a
frantic tone, scanning the interior
for his wife. “They’re coming!”
Maarja flew out of the kitchen where
the fireplace filled the living
room in an orange glow. Her flowing
black hair bound in a loose bun
behind her head bounced as she ran up
to her husband. Andrus kept
peeking from behind the curtain at the
commotion outside.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Maarja
asked in a worried tone. Andrus
whipped his head around, touching her
shoulder with one hand and
pointing with the other.
“Quick, get the boy. We must flee.” He
turned and grabbed a woolen
blanket draped on a thin-cushioned
couch and a brown homespun coat
hanging on a wooden hook by the door.
“Is it the fighting?” Maarja asked,
her hands clasped near her ample
bosom.
Andrus checked his right boot,
ensuring the dagger was still in its
sheath before turning and shoving past
his wife toward the fireplace.
“Yes. Pope Martin’s troops have sacked
the keep and killed Jaan. All of the Kasesalu family . . . dead.” He grabbed
his longsword by its leather
scabbard adjacent to a hand axe and
strapped on his weapons.
Maarja’s mouth hung ajar. “Dead? A-All
of them are—”
“Dead, Maarja. Now hurry before we are
killed as well.” Andrus’s
voice was tense. He stole a second
look out the window.
“Why all this?” Maarja questioned, a
tear escaping from her eye.
“They want the Kasesalu bloodline
destroyed. The Pope uses his
sinister alliances and the façade of
Christianity to bring retaliation against
the entire village. Doing so helps
guarantee his future under a new regime,”
Andrus answered. “Now go and get
Niklas or we are all done for!”
Maarja fled down the hall and into one
of the bedrooms while Andrus
ran to the kitchen, pulled out a
burlap bag, and filled it with chunks of
bread, raw vegetables, and smoked
meats. He snatched several waterskins
hanging near the back door and tossed
them over his shoulder, knowing
he could fill them in the icy creeks.
His wife soon returned with their
infant son bundled in warm blankets,
a cloth bag with meager supplies
strapped across her back.
“I am ready,” she said, her voice
shaking.
Andrus glimpsed the quaint dinner
placements on the table and the
iron pot of hot stew steaming on the
wood stove. He had no time to
grieve as he opened the back door of
their home and listened. Sounds of
distant yells, the faint clang of
metal, and the smell of smoke assaulted
his senses.
“The fighting is getting closer. We
will head south along the Duna. The
river will give us cover until we can
gain the safety of the hills.”
He scanned the outside before stepping
out. “Come, come,” he urged
with vehement motions of his hand.
Maarja followed close with her son
held tight against her bosom. The
three fled into the night across the
cold ground, their breaths escaping as
white mists into the air. Across the
yard, Andrus cast worried glances over
his shoulder as he led his family
through the back gate toward a long
stone wall bordering several adjacent
properties.
Andrus’s eyesight grew accustomed to
the darkness once again. He
headed for a dark patch of woods on
the far end of a field, glancing at his
wife behind him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Keep moving,” Maarja
panted, keeping pace with her
husband.
A distant scream drew Andrus’s
attention toward his home. Another
wail followed by angry bellows and
curses forced him to pick up the pace.
“Come, Maarja! We cannot stop,” Andrus
cried, the cold breeze
numbing his face.
Maarja treaded through the scrub and
tall grass, trying not to trip over
the rocky terrain.
Andrus and his family finally reached
the cover of the dark woods
before crouching down behind a clump
of whispering pines. He stared
back at his house in terror. The faint
glow of torches grew into numerous
smoky columns filling the air. The
village crumbled under the assault of
Pope Martin’s troops.
“Our house, Andrus,” Maarja said in a
saddened voice.
“Not anymore, my dear,” Andrus
commented. “We cannot return to
Erlaw. We must find a new home…a place
where we can live without
fear.”
Maarja sniffled. “Where?”
“I do not know,” Andrus replied.
“What do you mean you do not know? Are
we are running blind?”
Maarja asked, irritated as tears
streaked her cheeks.
“Do not be angry with me,” Andrus
growled in a hushed whisper. “We
had no time to plan. We are fleeing
for our lives, so forgive me for not
being more prepared.”
Maarja cast a solemn glance downward.
“I’m sorry.”
Andrus’s irritation ebbed and he
wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“It is okay. We are both upset.” He stood
and took her under the elbow,
helping her to stand.
She moved the blanket out of her
child’s face and broke a soft grin.
“He sleeps as if nothing is wrong.”
“A good thing,” Andrus said, smiling
at his son. A faint sound washed
any signs of happiness from his face.
“Dogs. Quick, we must go.”
Without hesitation, Andrus turned and
continued their frantic pace
through the woods, dodging deadfall,
grasping briars, ankle twisting
rocks and knotty tree roots. Moments
later they broke out of the woods’
confines and into rolling pastures
lined with thick hedgerows. After
finding the Duna River, they followed
its winding path along the muddy
banks for several tiring hours until
they collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
Andrus led them into a shallow ravine
where large rocks and thick scrub
hid them from roving eyes. They
rested, shielded from the frigid winds
by the surrounding foliage and nibbled
on cold bread and smoked fish,
satiating their hunger for the moment.
After a brief meal, they traveled
several hundred yards until the glow
of distant fires reflected off tall
billowing columns of smoke. Andrus’s
heartbeat thumped in his ears.
“The hamlet is destroyed,” he said,
scouring the fields. The longer he
stared at the plains, the lower his
heart sank as the images of dark figures
lying on the ground came into focus.
He pulled his wife down into a
kneeling position. “Stay here.”
He jogged across rows of unplanted
crops, leaving Maarja alone with
Niklas.
“Where are you going, Andrus?” she
cried.
On he moved, disregarding her fearful
plea.
Andrus approached one of the
motionless, dark lumps and knelt
down. With his right hand, his cold
fingers felt cloth until it moved up to
a chin, lips, and a nose. The corpse’s
flesh caused Andrus to pull his hand
away, yet not fast enough to prevent
his fingertips from becoming sticky
with dried blood. His spine tingled
with fear, knowing the numerous black
mounds in the field were the bodies of
slain villagers.
“Nolādēt pāvestu,” Andrus
cursed in the Livonian tongue. He stayed
hunched over, jogging back to Maarja
without hesitation. She stood after
seeing the alarm in her husband.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Villagers. Dead . . . all of them,”
Andrus answered, glancing at the
burning town.
Maarja hugged her son and said
nothing.
“They have been dead awhile,” he said.
Without another word, Andrus took his
wife’s hand and hurried along
the lower portions of the fields,
using the sloping ground to cover their
escape.
For two gut-wrenching days, Andrus and
his family fled southward
using the night to their advantage
while finding refuge in thick forests,
deep ravines, hidden caves, and
long-abandoned farm houses. On the
third morning, cloudy skies hid the
sun’s warmth from the land. Andrus
yearned for the refreshing rays to
warm his chilled skin, dampened by rain
and river, soiled from their
tribulation. Regardless of how he and Maarja
felt, their son was well.
Andrus opened the bag carrying the
foodstuffs and sighed. “We have
enough for one more day. I will try
and fish or hunt to supplement our
needs,” Andrus stated.
“With what? You left your bow and most
of the animals are in
hibernation,” Maarja reminded him.
Andrus rubbed his bearded face, the
food bag falling to the ground.
He looked around at the sparse
woodlands they hid in. “At least we have
water.”
“And the boy?”
“There is enough for him,” he said,
stroking the top of the infant’s
head as Maarja cradled him in her
arms. “Once we cross the border, we
should be out of danger. I will not
feel safe until we are out of Livonia.
The lands we cross are still in the
hands of papal authority, and Pope
Martin is cruel beyond measure. A man
who is supposed to serve God
appears more a militaristic fiend than
a religious leader.”
He coughed, ignoring the growling in
his belly, then spat in disgust. “I
cannot see him serving God. The wretch
is concerned only for himself
and the power he can attain. It is by
God’s mercy we have escaped. There
is a reason we survived while others
did not.”
Maarja looked down at her son and
caressed his chaffed forehead.
“There is destiny in this child,
Andrus. Many of our friends have perished
by the sword either fighting the foe
or fleeing as we did. In a few hours,
we will enter Lithuania. It is there
we will pray to God for continued
guidance. He will show us the way.”
Maarja’s words warmed Andrus’s heart
like a soothing hearth. He
looked upon her stained face and
smiled. “Your words encourage me, my
dear.”
She grinned in return.
He clutched her hand. “Let us
continue.”
Andrus and Maarja stood from behind
the rocky outcropping from
which they were hiding and stepped
onto a narrow deer trail winding its
hidden path among the thick
underbrush. Before they could take several
steps, the jingle and clang of metal
echoing through the trees froze them
like wild game caught in the open.
He stopped and crouched on his knee.
Maarja mimicked him. Andrus
placed a finger to his lips and turned
his head in the direction of the noise.
His heart leapt. Two horsemen trotted
on a worn wagon trail a mere
twenty yards away.
“Nopelt, I didn’t see them,”
Andrus swore through clenched teeth.
He lowered himself closer to the
leaf-covered ground and observed
the unaware horsemen through the
crisscrossed branches. Maarja did the
same.
A red sword upon
their tunic . . . Schwertbroder! Andrus thought and then
whispered to Maarja. “Schwertbroder,
Brethren of the Sword, men-at-arms
who fight for Pope Martin and our
enemies to the last.”
Moments later, the troopers
disappeared into the woods. Andrus rose
from his prone position onto both
knees, allowing his heartbeat to slow.
He looked back to see Maarja standing
up covered in leaves and dirt.
“Too close for my pleasure,” Andrus
confessed.
“Aye,” she agreed, pressing the child
to her chest.
As they moved farther south away from
the enemy, the infant burst
into an unexpected loud cry, startling
his parents.
“What’s wrong?” Andrus asked in a
worried tone.
Maarja’s face streaked with panic. “I
do not know.”
The boy cried louder.
“Keep him quiet,” Andrus ordered,
sending a troubled look in the
direction of the horsemen.
Niklas’s pain-filled wail forced
Maarja to hush the child by putting a
blanket over his mouth to muffle the
sound. She held the blanket in place
as they raced through the woods in a
desperate pace.
Andrus pointed. “Look, the trees are
thinning. The border is just over
those knolls.”
Branches and twigs slapped at Andrus’s
clothing and clawed his face
during his pell-mell scamper through
the trees. His chilled skin amplified
the sting of the scratches while
Niklas’s incessant screaming caused
Andrus to think they would be caught
before they were able to make it
to safety.
“Hush the boy,” Andrus grumbled.
“I’m trying!”
Escaping the shadow of the forest,
they ran down the short hill into a
shallow swale and up the opposite
knoll.
Andrus was short of breath, but he
managed to squeeze out a few
words. “We made it, Maarja! We are
safe.”
It was then that the angered yells of
the enemy horsemen rang through
the air. Andrus turned to see the two
Brethren of the Sword breaking out
of the woods, weapons drawn.
“Run, Maarja! Run!”
Maarja did the best she could until
she collapsed from fatigue. Down
she fell, rolling on her right
shoulder while trying to protect the crying
infant.
Andrus’s eyes bulged. “No!” He
fled back to his fallen wife. With his
sword drawn, he waited in a guarded
stance for the charging soldiers to
close in. Maarja’s screaming pleas for
Andrus to run reverberated over the
hills, yet to no avail. Andrus was
determined to stand.
“We have no choice. Either we fight or
we die here,” he said, scowling
at the onrushing enemy. Maarja stood
with the child far enough behind
Andrus to allow him to battle the
closing enemy.
One rider charged up the slope faster
than his counterpart. Andrus,
crouched low, waited with a
white-knuckled grip upon his longsword.
When the soldier was within range,
Andrus whipped out his axe and
hurled it with all his might. The
cavalier failed to parry the whirling blade.
The axe sunk deep in the soldier’s
face above the left eye, a crunch of
bone and a spray of blood proving his
demise. The horseman tumbled
backward off his mount and thudded on
the ground, sending his horse
fleeing across the plains.
Seeing his comrade slain, the second
cavalier hesitated before continuing
his attack. Andrus unsheathed his
dagger to compliment his longsword.
Bellowing curses at Andrus, the
trooper charged and swung his sword in
a downward arc. Andrus blocked the
overhead strike with both blades
as the rider thundered past. The horse
spun in a sharp pivot, kicking up
dirt and grass behind him. He attacked
once more. Andrus waited while
Maarja repositioned herself behind
him. Fear streaked across her face.
As the soldier came in for the attack,
he chopped downward in a
wicked arc. Andrus, anticipating the
move, fell to one knee and severed
the horse’s right front leg in one
bloody swing. The foe’s blade swung over
Andrus’s head as the fumbling mount
catapulted the rider forward into
a tumbling heap. Andrus ran over to
the enemy and plunged his sword
through the disoriented man’s upper
chest. A small fountain of blood
gurgled from his mouth, ending the
fight.
Andrus caught his breath before
looking back at Maarja. His wife lay
motionless in the grass near the
thrashing horse. He bolted toward her
as fear welled in his throat. After
ending the steed’s agony in one swift
stroke, he found his son still bundled
in his blanket, lying in the grass at
her side. Andrus stroked Maarja’s
hair, her eyes staring at the sky.
“Maarja . . . Maarja,” Andrus
whispered. He struggled to resist a well
of tears from springing forth. He
turned her head to the side and found
a softened area on her skull, a horrid
bruise covering the side of her face
and neck.
“I-I have lost you,” he murmured in a
quivering voice.
Andrus picked up his son and held him
close as he fell onto his
buttocks and cried. The cold wind
fluttered the dry grasses on the hills,
chilling the tears on his cheeks.
He looked up. “Why? Why, my God? You
let these cursed fools attack
us. I cry out of anger,
disappointment, and confusion.”
Andrus scanned the woods and
shuddered. “There is a reason for all
this. Maarja spoke of it. Yet, I did
not expect to make this journey alone.”
He wiped his eyes and stood. Andrus
retrieved his axe and cleaned the
gore on the slain enemy’s tunic, then
did the same for his sword before
replacing them on his belt.
“I have lost my country and now also
my family.” Andrus picked up his
son, noticing a small shimmer within
the blanket’s fold. He reached in and
pulled out a silver locket Maarja had
apparently placed there without him
seeing. Andrus opened the oval lid,
revealing a picture of Niklas on the
left side and Maarja on the right. His
lip quivered as he closed the locket
and stuffed it back into the blanket.
Andrus looked up to the sky once
more. “My God, allow this travesty to
be avenged.”
After looting the soldiers’ bodies of
meek rations and the few coins
they carried, Andrus gave his wife one
last kiss upon her cooling lips.
“Farewell, my love,” he stated, a tear
falling upon her forehead. He
covered Maarja’s face with her shawl,
caressing her soft hair with his
bloody fingers.
With Niklas tucked under his arm,
Andrus turned, and walked a
hundred yards over the knolls until he
entered the rocky foothills of
Lithuania.
About the Author
Nick G. Giannaras has been practicing Chiropractic for 20 years. He resides in North Carolina where he is active in his church, Deliverance Christian Center. He enjoys his great family amid numerous hobbies such as: tabletop wargames, creating music, painting, hunting, and fishing. He was also a Civil War reenactor for 15 years. He never considered writing as a ministry until the endeavor commenced in 2005. Nick views his books as ‘Entertainment with a message’ and prays they will reach the world with a positive impact for those who jump into his words.
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