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

by Jaffrey Clark

  “She’s beautiful,” Bernd exclaimed as Lanhard moved to stroking her neck. Her ears perked and her back shivered at his touch but she stood still, finally trusting.

  “She is, she is,” Lanhard agreed in the same tone of voice he’d been using. Working his way to where his rope was still hanging from her neck, he lifted it carefully, avoiding her ears. As he finished pulling it over her head, he offered another carrot.

  “Here comes the brave horse-tamer himself,” Bernd said with a chuckle as Gernod approached on horseback. His rolled up sleeves revealed his thick forearms as he bounced in the saddle. The young colt was in tow, led by his bridle.

  “I’ll bet ten coins my colt belongs to your mare,” Gernod said. “Look at the spot on his nose.” The young colt, a much richer brown than the mare, had the same white feet and white spot on his snout. The breeze was blowing through his shaggy mane as he tossed his head uncomfortably, still somewhat insolent.

  Bernd looked back and forth from his position in the middle. “Would you look at that,” he exclaimed. “I think our timid brother may be reuniting the family here.”

  Lanhard paid no mind, focusing solely on the placement of the mare’s bridle and gently calming her fears.

  * * * * *

  Like specks on a vast canvas, Bernd and his brothers were barely visible from the base of Mount Elm, but they had found an audience. Just inside the edge of the forest, three riders silently watched them work.

  They each rode a hargus, a horse-like beast from the distant north. Their hooves were broader, their manes and tails were thicker and longer, and their hides were a light shade of gray, covered by dark spots.

  The riders themselves dressed in animal skins and drab earthen colors, and their beards and hair were dark, as were their eyes. One of them carried a crossbow, which hung from the side of his saddle, and the other had a long spear that rested in his stirrup. Each of them had a battle-axe slung over his back; one’s was double-bladed, nearly spanning the width of his shoulders. They were soldiers.

  The middle of the three carried only an axe, but it was twice the size of those carried by his fellow riders. One side was a broad blade but the other was shaped like a hammer, heavy and blunt. His mount was also bigger than the other two, for he was nearly seven feet tall, and twice as wide as a common man. He was a Mallith; Hildan, Mornoc’s captain of the North.

  Hildan’s features matched his size, with a large jaw and deeply furrowed brow. Dark eyes and eyebrows stood out in stark contrast to his short grey hair and thin grey beard. The long green robe flowing from his shoulders and his silver wrist cuffs were not worn by the other two soldiers.

  The tightly clustered trees surrounding the three of them all leaned at different angles in a struggle to gain enough light, making travel difficult but providing excellent cover. With no concern of detection the soldier to Hildan’s left, with the spear, asked in a low voice, “Do you wish to do anything about these horsemen, my lord?”

  He didn’t respond immediately, remaining fixed on the horsemen with a cold stare. He hadn’t seen any this close to Mount Elm in a long time, and with every passing day he had more to hide.

  The soldier asked again, unsure of whether he had been heard.

  “Wait for night,” Hildan replied. “Do not reveal yourselves.” Turning in his saddle, he addressed the soldier who had asked the question. “You go, alone. Kill them in their sleep. We cannot risk them finding us out. The advantage of our silence must not be lost.” His voice was menacing. Returning to observe the scene before them, he added, “The two of you return together.”

  The soldiers looked at each other in agreement.

  After a pause he said in a hushed voice, “The time for open battle is approaching, but we must have it on my terms.” With that he slowly turned his hargus around and trotted into the woods toward the mountain.

  Chapter 8

  The return of Creedus and the rescue party to Wellman brought a mix of joy and sorrow. The heavy rain clouds from earlier in the day had since cleared from the sky, rolling back to reveal the setting sun. As it lay now on the western horizon, things were different. Years of comfortable peace with the enemy were over. His boldness to attack was far greater than expected, and had sufficiently shocked Wellman in its complacency.

  Details of Lord Wellman’s misfortune had spread throughout the town by the time Creedus and his rescue party returned with his children. Three of their horses carried two riders. Gwen rode with Boyd, Tristan with Einar and Olwen with Corred. Creedus had led them out and now he led them back, his shining sword held in front of him to honor his fallen friend. His shoulders hung lower, and his countenance was heavier than it had been earlier that day. His youthful eyes displayed the sorrow of an old man.

  Behind him walked the horse of Reed, whose body lay across the saddle, covered with his own cloak. Upon entering the outskirts of the town, the few men that now carried a sword drew it, holding it in front of them to join in the salute to their fallen friend.

  As the party took the southern road toward Lord Wellman’s mansion, the whole town began to receive them. Stopping all activity, those in the street and around their houses bowed their heads to show their respect. Initial smiles were mixed with tears at the sight of Reed’s body and the sacrifice that had been made to save the captives. It had been a long time since warriors had taken to the field and nearly as long since warriors had been honored. The fading light cast a long shadow in front of them as Creedus acknowledged the homage paid by those on either side of the street.

  In the distance, Lord Wellman stood on his steps, dressed in his finest robes, awaiting their arrival. The members of his house and a large number of citizens stood in the courtyard of the town hall straining to see who had returned.

  Third in line were Corred and Olwen, exhausted from the day’s trials. Corred held his sword in one hand, the reigns in the other and his chin high. For years he had carried his sword as a matter of identity, but until that day he had never used it. A new confidence filled him. He was a warrior, and better yet, he had saved the one he loved. Corred had never felt so alive.

  Olwen sat in the saddle behind him. With nothing to secure her, she wrapped her arms tightly around Corred. Only hours ago, bound to a captor against her will, she now freely clung to another. Her long brown hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, partially covering her face.

  Unlike his sister, Tristan wore his wounds proudly, looking back at the people around him, unashamed of his appearance; he too had tangled with the enemy and lived. He was recovering well from his bruises after taking food and water, and though he had wiped his face to remove some of the horror of blood his shirt was stained with it.

  It was a quiet procession. There were no cheers or shouts of joy. It was a solemn moment in light of the loss suffered and the awakened reality of the presence of their enemy.

  As they drew near, Lord Wellman’s wife could restrain herself no longer. Seeing that her children were safe, she abandoned her position of respect and ran to them with her long, graying hair flowing behind her. Tears filled her eyes again, but this time for joy. Her youngest daughter followed behind her. She looked up at Creedus and bowed her chin in respect. “You kept your promise. We thank you, from the depths of our hearts.”

  Creedus nodded, unable to speak without revealing his emotions.

  Corred let Olwen down slowly with one arm. Part of him did not want to let her go.

  Olwen paused for a moment, looking at Corred through teary eyes. “Thank you, Corred.”

  Corred returned her gaze, not knowing how to express the love he held for her in his heart. “You are welcome,” was all he could reply.

  Tristan too slid from the back of Einar’s horse and met his mother and sister with a hug. Lord Wellman remained at his post, playing the leader. His anger could now turn to mourning for the death of his oldest son.

  Several of the servants of his house ran to Gwen, along with her parents, humble citizens of Wellman. S
he slowly let go of Boyd, who had held her since he carried her from the field of battle.

  Her eyes were bloodshot from grief and exhaustion, but at last a smile came to her face at the sight of loved ones. She fell exhausted into the arms of her father.

  Creedus stopped the caravan at the steps of the Lord Wellman’s mansion, sword still in hand. “My lord, your children are safe and the enemy has fled before us.”

  Lord Wellman clasped his hands in front of him. His uncontrolled temper from that morning had been tamed with contemplation, and now gratefulness. “Creedus, you have honored my house with this deed of bravery and love.” Pausing, he observed the horse that followed and its burden. “Is this the horse and body of Reed?”

  “It is,” Creedus answered heavily.

  “May I know how he died?” Lord Wellman asked.

  “He was struck by three scout spears before he fell. The wounds that killed him were received fighting for the protection of your children, and . . . his fellow warriors.” Creedus struggled to finish.

  Those in attendance listened quietly.

  “To honor his sacrifice, my best servants will prepare him for burial, with the permission of his family,” Lord Wellman announced.

  “He was a great man, my lord. Such an honorable burial would be fitting. But permission will not be necessary, for he has no family left living.” Creedus bowed his head slightly.

  There was by now a great throng of citizens who had followed the party into the center of town to hear the report of what had transpired. Whole families were gathered, having left their dinner meals half prepared and their fires burning bright.

  “Very well. At the rising of the sun we will remember him.” Lord Wellman spoke loudly, so that all could hear. He continued to address the rescue party as his family gathered to him on the steps. “You have all shown your bravery and love for your fellow man. I do not know how to repay you for saving my children. I welcome all of you into my house tonight to dine with me, though you must be tired from the day’s events.” Looking Creedus in the eye he asked, “Will you do me the honor?”

  “I will,” Creedus responded with a nod.

  “And what of your grandson and the rest of you?” he asked. “I feel unfit to thank you. Please accept what hospitality I can give.”

  One by one they accepted.

  He whispered several instructions to his head servant who quickly acted on them. Turning next to the throng that was still watching, enthralled by the sight of warriors returned from the fields, Lord Wellman addressed them with hands raised. “Citizens of Wellman, though we have experienced loss, we must not give in to fear, for that is what our enemy would want. Go back to your homes in peace and keep watch over your families. May you find better fortune than my house and I have had today.”

  With that the crowd dispersed and one of Lord Wellman’s servants took the reins of Reed’s horse to carry out the preparations for his burial. Only once Reed’s body was handed over did Creedus and the others sheath their swords. Again addressing the whole rescue party, Lord Wellman thanked them and asked them to return to his house once they had tended to their horses and families for the evening.

  * * * * *

  “Bring more ale.”

  One of the nearby servants scurried away to carry out the order.

  Under the light of the great chandelier, Selcor ate at the stone table in the cave of Casimir; it was nearly empty. He grimaced with every bite of meat and drink of ale he took because of the pain in his side. The blood from his wound was still drying on his shirt, as it had not yet been bandaged.

  His quarry had proven too much for him. Though successful in killing one of the Véran, even he had nearly refused to fall. Selcor had been unable to withstand the strength of the old man’s blows and the archer’s arrows, and fled when his comrade was struck down. Finding the other scouts dead in the field he abandoned the fight completely.

  On the table next to him was one of his spears. It was not wooden like the others, nor did it have the head of a spear but rather, it was iron and shaped more like a sword. It was chipped up and down the blade and severed near the tip.

  He muttered under his breath.

  The hall servant returned with a pitcher and placed it in front of him. There the servant waited for either gratitude, which would not come, or another command.

  Selcor gave him a murderous look. “Can you not see that I’ve been wounded? Fetch me some bandages, you fool.” Selcor threw a bone after him.

  Several scouts eating further down the table stopped talking and turned to see what the commotion was about. Recognizing who it was causing the scene, they went back to eating silently.

  Selcor was feared for his ruthless nature and even more so for his unbridled hate. Few had ever stood up to Casimir and lived. Selcor had done it three times since joining his army. He had his Captain’s recognition to prove it. Being grazed by an arrow would not slow him, but rather make him all the more vicious.

  “Your day is coming, old man,” he said through his teeth. He thrust his knife into another piece of meat with added force.

  * * * * *

  Under the cover of night, a lone figure approached the shores of Lake Tormalyn. His shadow from the lights of Renken quickly faded, traded for one from the light of the night sky. With a black coat, a heavy hunting knife on his belt, and fur cap on his head, Lowell did not appear anything like he did when accompanying Lord Raven.

  His stately air had been discarded for a more stealthful movement. His leisurely walk quickly became a run once he was sure no one had followed him. For a man his size, his speed was impressive, but more astounding was that the dark did not at all seem to slow him or cause him to exercise caution in the placement of each step. He glided along as if the fields around the lake were as familiar as home. The pale moonlight accentuated his thin features, if not causing him to look gaunt.

  Making fast work of the distance between Renken and the forests that met the shores of the lake to the north, Lowell slowed only a little as he entered the woods. Again, as if the path he took was well known, he seamlessly leapt over fallen trees, ducked under low lying branches and through brush to arrive at a cabin and stable nestled among the trees. The shining surface of the lake could be seen in the distance. Ignoring the cabin, Lowell immediately entered the stable and set about saddling the horse it sheltered.

  The sound of the cabin door opening and closing did not distract him from his careful preparation. Several seconds later, the stable door opened and the light of a lantern outlined Lowell’s form against the wood plank wall.

  A short, fat man with curly red hair and a thick beard held the lantern up above his head to get as good a look as he could. “Ah, Mr. Abbings. I figured it was you, but I wanted to check. Don’t you need a light in here? It’s darker than ink.”

  “The dark has never really bothered me, but thank you,” Lowell replied calmly without looking at the man. His run from Renken had not winded him in the least.

  “Guess that’s how you make it to Port riding through the night all the time,” his visitor said. “Very well, I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Abbings so I’ll let you alone. Just come through on your way out for supplies if you need them.”

  “I should be fine with what I have, thank you,” Lowell replied.

  “Very well, have a good ride, Mr. Abbings.” Scuttling backward and out of the door, the short, fat fellow left without a second thought and returned to his cabin.

  Lowell finished readying his horse without any light at all and led the animal out of the stable. Closing the door behind him, he leapt into the saddle and took off at a trot along a narrow path through the woods. Merging with a main road, Lowell dug his heels into his horse’s sides and flew through the night, headed north.

  * * * * *

  The walk back to Lord Wellman’s mansion was a long one. From the light of one lantern to the next, Creedus, Corred and Einar walked through the street side by side. The sky had completely cleared, r
evealing a myriad of stars.

  Halfway to the mansion, Beathan and Boyd joined them from a side street. Neither of them carried their bows now, but each had his sword. Their hoods were pulled up on their heads, concealing their features; only the heat of their breath was clearly visible in the cool, moist air. With a nod they fell in line next to Einar.

  The soft sound of their steps was uninterrupted by the usual echoing of voices through the alleys. No one was out tonight. The fear of another attack was real, and no one felt immune in light of Lord Wellman’s loss. As the group passed one house in particular, a man could be seen pulling a sword from his wall where it had hung decoratively for quite some time. As if suddenly aware of its presence for the first time, he held it, examining its edge and line.

  Fortunately for some, the day’s events had awakened them from slumber and reminded them of the presence of their enemies. Sadly, it had taken much for their eyes to be opened. It would likely take more to move them to action. The sight of only five men walking to Lord Wellman’s house that night was a vivid sign of the complacency of men even in Wellman, home of Creedus, head of the Véran.

  As they approached Lord Wellman’s mansion, he himself joined his guard in greeting them. Fitted in the attire of a royal and draped with his blue robe, he stood on the top step and waited for them to arrive. Even with the knowledge that scouts could attack as readily as they had the night before, he insisted on opening his doors himself. The spear that had been driven into the front of the house was gone, but its mark could still be seen within reach of the lanterns below.

  “Welcome, friends. I am honored that you are here. Please, come in. My table is spread and waiting. My wife will not be joining us as she is mourning, . . . our son.” Lord Wellman faltered but forced a smile as he held the door; it was quite a gesture. It was rare that a man of his importance would wait on anyone, let alone common men. Warmth from the fire of the front hall could be felt with the opening of the front door. The aroma of burning wood mixed with cooking filled the house.