The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1)

by Jaffrey Clark

  “Yes, he did. He has the nerve of a resilient young man much in need of knowing his limits,” his uncle replied as he stoked and fed the fire.

  Corred followed his uncle into the kitchen. Along the right side of the room was a large fireplace, a great deal larger than the other and surrounded by an array of cooking utensils. Aunt Shae was at the center sitting on her well-worn stool.

  “Good morning, brother.” Galena greeted him with bright eyes and a smile.

  “Corred, take a seat at the table with your sister and rest,” Aunt Shae commanded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Corred responded respectfully. There were already four plates placed in front of four chairs with a fork at each.

  “Aunt, aren’t we having barley cakes and eggs, Corred’s favorite?” Galena asked as she braided her hair.

  “Not only that, we have molasses,” she replied, turning around and winking at her niece. “How is your shoulder, Corred?”

  “I don’t feel a thing, aunt. It is so well bandaged you’d never know I was wounded.” Corred leaned into his chair.

  “Hah,” his aunt replied, pleased with his flattery. “As long as you don’t try to save the day you’ll heal up quickly.” She spoke loudly with her back to the table, leaning over the fire. With a familiar precision she poured four cakes into a large pan and placed it over a grate that sat above a pile of coals. From a basket that sat on the stool she pulled several brown eggs. Everyone watched as she cracked them and poured the contents into a second pan of sizzling butter.

  “What a heavenly sound,” Corred exclaimed, smiling widely.

  “I’m glad to see you still smile, Corred,” Galena remarked playfully. Finished with one braid she began the next. “How is grandfather?” she asked.

  “He is well. Not as strong as he once was,” Corred said, feeling the stubble on his chin. “But still capable of commanding respect.”

  His aunt tended to the cakes, flipping them carefully. “I wish he’d not place himself in harms way like he does,” she said softly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her husband standing over her. “Sit down with your nephew, Logen. Please don’t hover over me when I’m at the fire.”

  “Your father has never been one to slow down or let up, my dear.” Uncle Logen chimed in. He slowly seated himself, obeying his wife’s wish. “We need men like him.” Looking at Corred he added. “Did many attend last night?”

  “Not as many as a year ago,” Corred replied. “The lack of interest is rather disturbing, actually. No one takes any serious alarm when one man disappears, or someone is killed when hunting. It’s assumed to be thieves with the obvious motive of plunder, and no more is said of it.”

  “Complacency, son. It’s been around forever. A lack of resistance makes a man comfortable,” Uncle Logen replied.

  After a pause for thought, the cook gave some directions. “Galena dear, can you get milk and molasses. The cakes are almost ready.” Aunt Shae nodded in the general direction of what she requested.

  Lining one side of the room from floor to ceiling, thick planks of wood were fastened to the wall at a slight slant inward to ensure that items could not easily fall. They were filled with goods ranging from cured meats to baskets of apples and other dried fruits and vegetables. Herbs, flour, corn meal and the like were kept in earthen jars, all in a row.

  Galena returned to the table and poured four tin cups of milk to the brim. Retrieving the molasses next, she was sure to handle the jar with care.

  “Here they come,” Aunt Shae announced. “Don’t even think about biting in until your uncle has blessed the food,” she instructed as she dished one to each plate from the pan.

  “I say, it is blessed,” Uncle Logen teased. When his wife ignored his poor humor he quickly followed with a short prayer. “May this food bring nourishment to our bodies and may we be truly grateful for its provision, the provision of the Promise and its fulfillment to come. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Everyone agreed and turned their attention to their food while it was still hot.

  “After you, sister,” Corred said, pushing the molasses across the table toward her.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  The whole of the cabin filled with the aroma of breakfast as they enjoyed a meal together. They ate until the barley cakes were gone, and the rising sun shone brightly through the eastern windows, filling the whole room with light. No more was said of the prior night’s events, especially of Corred’s attacker. The absence of the topic was pronounced but as the meal concluded Corred’s countenance grew serious once again. Aware of the time he at last stood.

  “I must go. I need to speak with Einar about the events of last night, among other things.” Kissing his aunt and sister, he grabbed two apples, a loaf of bread, and a canteen.

  “Travel safely, son,” Uncle Logen said, with a firm handshake. “Let us know what comes of it.”

  “Yes, uncle.” He withdrew from the kitchen, strapped on his sword, pulled on his coat and promptly walked out the door.

  A clear sky overhead covered the land with an endless sheet of blue. The sunlight reflected brightly on melting frost, brightening things even more. From the top step Corred shielded his eyes for a moment as he looked to the cabin on the outskirts of the village. The lantern was not sitting on the front step. Interesting. He walked up the street to see if it had just been blown over.

  Not only was the lantern missing, there was something on the front step in its place. Cautiously approaching he watched the edge of the woods in the distance. Standing upright and driven into the first plank of the step was a short black spear. I’m glad I stayed the night with Uncle Logen. Corred looked around for the lantern, expecting to see it broken in the grass, but it was nowhere to be found. He knelt down to observe the weapon. The black blade was driven well into the wood with dried blood along one side of the blade. Corred felt his shoulder. It was the same spear. Pulling it out of the step with one quick jerk, he broke it over his knee. Looking toward the woods angrily, he threw the broken spear into the grass.

  Corred turned sharply and headed back into the village. What could have sent a scout after me? What could it mean? Why now, all of a sudden? The questions made every breath seem a little more precious. He had cheated death. It made everything seem more precious.

  Occasionally he would raise his head from his musings to greet a neighbor by name as he walked past their cabin. Corred was well known in a village where neighbors were like family, if not actually related. Surrounded by oak forests to the north, west and south, Oak Knoll was appropriately named.

  Upon nearing the other end of the main road, Corred turned east, cutting between two cabins and into a field of recently harvested crops. There was much less green left in the landscape, but for now it was giving way to the colors of fall, and the birds were singing just the same. Before he had made his way through the field Corred started to run, hoping to traverse the eight miles of rolling hills between himself and Renken by mid-morning. With the passing of each crop row he would flush some animal from its hiding place: a few doves, a hedgehog, or a rabbit. Passing by a few rows of fruit trees, he startled a deer that had been feeding on what remained of the apple crop. The young buck took a few bounds away, but then stopped sharply, comforted to see that Corred’s direction suggested he was not a threat. Corred kept running and the buck returned to eating.

  Once on the other side of the fields that stretched away from Oak Knoll to the east, Corred picked up a well-worn wagon trail and headed south, toward Renken. The road was half stone from the wear of horses and wagon wheels with rising banks on either side, carved out by years of use. With well-placed steps, he steadied his sword with his left hand and measured his pace with his right.

  Corred enjoyed the run, as it was one he had done many times before. If anything was out of place since the last time he had passed by, it caught his eye. They were his hills, his home, and that brought a bit of peace to his restless thoughts.

  After nearly two
hours of running and walking, he paused at the top of a hill to take a drink from his canteen. Spread before him a large plain of tall grass, now turning brown, ended on the shores of a great lake by the name of Tormalyn. It was a wide, cold lake, fed from the north by the Beryl River. Swelling significantly in the spring from the melting snows in the north, it was presently receded after a long hot summer.

  In the center of that plain, several hundred yards from Lake Tormalyn sat the town of Renken. Easily the size of ten Oak Knolls, it was the largest in the region, surrounded by farms and smaller clusters of cabins along the shores of the lake.

  The collection of each chimney’s smoke hovered over the town in a thin cloud. With the array of different structures and rooftops slanting one way and another it was quite the puzzle of humanity. Rising up from the middle of this maze was a flagpole, bearing the flag of Renken: a raven in flight.

  On the trail below him a horse-drawn wagon full of split wood made its way toward the heart of town. Corred instantly recognized it and smiled, mischievously. Oh, this is going to be fun. He steadied his sword with his left hand and ran down the hill with a grin on his face. At the bottom of the hill he carried his speed into the flat, chasing down the wagon. Without slowing, he bent over and picked up a rock. Closing in on the wagon, he waited until he was at the back wheels before lobbing the rock onto the driver’s lap from behind.

  “Huh!” the driver startled and spun around. “Who was that!?” He leaned this way and that, looking all over for the cause of his alarm.

  Corred slowed quickly and ducked behind the enormous pile of wood to avoid being seen, stifling a laugh.

  “What’s this foolishness?” the driver asked loudly.

  Corred ran around to the right side of the wagon and flew by the driver giving him a tap on the shoulder.

  “Huh!” he started again. “Corred, I knew it was you!” the driver yelled after him. Loosening the reins, he urged his team of horses to pick up their pace and they broke into a trot. The wagon driver began gaining on Corred, who at this point was quite winded.

  “You really ought to get yourself another horse, Corred. It’s a lot faster, you know.” The driver mocked his prankster as he pulled alongside of him.

  Corred jumped up with him for the last stretch. “I won’t disagree with you, Garrin. But I can always bum a ride while you’re heading my way.” Corred slapped him on the back and knelt next to him.

  Garrin was Corred’s cousin, several years older, and the only son of Uncle Logen and Aunt Shae. He was a muscular man, thick in the arms and chest, an imposing figure. His square jaw and patchy stubble stood out from the rest of his features, giving the impression that he was not to be bothered, though he was a very amiable man.

  “What are you up to, cousin? Certainly you didn’t run all this way to play tricks on a man hard at work,” Garrin said with a smirk. He moved a piece of straw around his mouth to accommodate his speech.

  “Sure I did. I haven’t got any hard work of my own to do.” Corred poked his cousin in the side. Straightening his face he said, “I am going to see Einar.”

  Garrin looked back at the road and rolled his eyes slightly. “What business do you have with vigilantes? Corred, in case you missed it, there hasn’t been any fighting to do in nearly fifty years. Why don’t you drop the swordplay, work the fields, and sell your goods in the markets like the rest of us?” His tone revealed his disappointment.

  “I do work the fields. I also watch the fields, Garrin. There may have been a lack of conflict now for twice my years, but that doesn’t change anything.” Pulling away his shirt, Corred turned slightly to reveal his wound.

  Garrin leaned over get a better look. “What’s that all about?” he asked raising his eyebrows. “That’s quite a knick.”

  Corred replaced his shirt and coat, and focused on the town ahead. “I was attacked by a scout.”

  Garrin returned to watching the horses. “A scout?” he asked quietly, thinking it over.

  “Without a doubt,” Corred responded. “These were not the actions of a thief; whoever it was meant to take my life.”

  “When?” Garrin inquired without taking his gaze from the road.

  “Last night, on my return home from Hill Top.” He said it very plainly, letting it sink in with his skeptical cousin. “Just like a thrilling hunt, only I was the prey. He knew the path I was taking. I barely escaped.”

  Garrin gave no response, choosing simply to chew on his straw and appear unmoved.

  As they came to the entrance of town, Corred slapped Garrin on the back again. “Good to see you, cousin.” With that he jumped off of the wagon and cut between two houses as Garrin drove on, watching him slip away. Corred hoped such news would convince his cousin of the truth, but he didn’t hold his breath; Garrin was stubborn.

  A large town of nearly ten thousand, Renken was divided into two sections, one for the well-to-do and a tighter section for those who had to cook their own meals. It was for the later that Corred headed. These streets were smaller and more worn, allowing just enough room for two mid-sized wagons to pass. The air was stale, trapped by houses and only moved with stronger winds. Sections reeked of human waste, which was not as well managed as the east side of town where there were one fourth as many people and almost twice as much space. There were many meager shops and market stands on the front steps of shacks that housed upwards of six. Most homes were made out of plank with a thin stone foundation, a step down from the cabins of Oak Knoll, but much more familiar to Corred than the inns and homes of wealthy merchants.

  Renken was much like the other cities of the Lowlands in that it too was full of men who were living for the present. If you had the right sum of money, permission for almost any venture could be granted, whether it was in the interest of neighbors or not. Where there was no king, men did as they pleased.

  Corred kept to himself while he worked his way through the muddy streets. Though he knew the town well, the town did not know him in quite the same way as Oak Knoll. The only folk interested in his presence were those selling feed, food, and supplies; but Corred was not there to make any purchases.

  At one corner, a gaunt old man with his feet wrapped in rags and a staff under his right arm sat against the wall of a shack with a blank stare on his face. His eyes were hollow and devoid of emotion, and his face was worn and thin; he was at best, unlovely. Corred paused to look at him. The beggar gave no response but simply stared into the street, moving his lips a little.

  Corred reached into his bag and retrieved an apple. Approaching the man he leaned over and offered it to him. This grabbed the beggar’s attention enough that he ceased speaking to himself; his mouth fell open. Corred saw that he only had a few teeth left to show, so he quickly exchanged the apple for part of his loaf of bread. Placing it in the beggar’s open hands, he rested his right hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. A tear welled up in the beggar’s eye as he mouthed a few words of thanks. The gesture went unnoticed by those hurrying about their business, and Corred continued on.

  The west side of town was laid out in a very haphazard way, with winding streets and no real rhyme to its design. Every row of homes held a new surprise in architecture; scarcely a single home was the same size as the next. In the middle of the western district of Renken lay the villager’s market place. Between two long rows of houses pointing toward the lake, a wider-than-average street was filled with stands, walk-in shops, penned up animals and every sellable item a man could want. The houses were taller than the rest in the western district simply for capacity’s sake and the wealth that they brought from their trade. Business was in full swing for the day, with folk coming and going by wagon, on horseback, and on foot. The eastern side of town bought a majority of its goods from the villager’s market place, but made profits more exclusively from trade with the region at large and with less available commodities such as metal, delicate clothing, and furs and spices.

  Corred passed by the market place quickly with hi
s head half down. His business was in the southern corner of town, the bottom-most edge of the village.

  In a line of cabins that faced southeast, toward the lake, one particular house stood out from the rest. It was oblong, like a sort of shell or boat that had been turned over, with one long chimney at the center along one wall. Though similar to the cabins of Oak Knoll, in that it was made of layered logs from the surrounding forests, it looked nothing like them. The stone foundation was higher than its neighboring structures and the wall of the house facing the street was only a little wider than the front door. The steps that ascended to it were also made from the trunks of several trees, split in halves and fitted together.

  It was at this house that Corred pulled up and gave a quick rhythmic knock. Initially, there was no recognition from within. Corred waited patiently before raising his hand to knock again, but before his knuckles could fall on the door, it opened. As it did, the heat from inside rushed past Corred’s face.

  A short, muscular man appeared in the doorway with a smile. “Corred, come in. What brings you down my way?” He extended his meaty arm. “Come in, come in.”

  “Einar, I have news from Hill Top,” he replied. Corred grabbed Einar’s arm above the wrist in a familiar and purposeful greeting.

  Closing out the world, they walked to the middle of the room where the fire was burning brightly. Corred’s host grabbed two chairs from around a small table and placed them in front of the fire.

  “So, what kind of news do you bring from Hill Top? I would have liked to be there myself,” Einar said as he took a seat. His dark blue shirt hung loosely from his thick arms and broad shoulders while his pants wrapped around his much thicker legs. He looked to be at least twenty years older than Corred by the maturity of his frame and graying temples. His features were rounded, marked by a big nose and tiny, piercing green eyes. Sliding his chair closer to the flames, he stoked the fire with a metal rod that was leaning against the hearth.

  Einar was the closest thing to a best friend that Corred had. Formerly a fellow wood-worker and friend of his father’s when Corred was a child, Einar had become like an adopted uncle, having never started a family of his own. Like Corred’s aunt and uncle, Einar had tried to fill the gap when Corred lost his parents. He had continued teaching Corred the carpenter’s trade that his father had begun when he was a boy, and for years Corred had joined him off and on for different jobs in Renken. Ten years later Einar was still reaching out.