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

by Jaffrey Clark

  They packed in a hurry, unwilling to meet with another soldier so determined to take their lives. Without another moment’s hesitation, they mounted up and rode west, back to the Northern Villages.

  The night air felt colder now as they rode through the plains. What peace they had found in the stars the night before was gone. The success of earlier that day was gone. There was no prize to return with, save their lives.

  * * * * *

  On the outskirts of Wellman, in the dead of night, a dark figure lurked, looking down one street then another, searching for something. Elsewhere in the dark, a second shape dodged the light at the edge of town. Casimir’s scouts were at work.

  All the lanterns were lit, enveloping the town in a faint glow. Without a word, the two of them passed each other on the eastern edge of the town.

  A little farther along, one of them overcame his seeming hesitancy and ran into the town with light, quiet steps. Flying by one house, then another, the light from each lantern illuminated gaunt features only for a moment at a time as he approached one, then passed.

  Nearly halfway to the middle of town the second scout ran past him from the northern side. As if this were a routine activity they each ignored the movements of the other, focusing only on their respective paths. Like errand specters, they ran through the streets at full speed.

  Once satisfied with all that he had seen, the first scout grabbed a lantern from the front step of a house without slowing and headed south. The lantern’s flame whipped about, holding desperately to its wick, but at last was snuffed out as the scout cut through an alley. He left the southeastern corner of Wellman, barely touching the ground.

  Everyone in the sleeping town remained ignorant of their presence, except for the old warrior, Creedus. From the window of his cabin, he peered through the dark with wide eyes as a single flame flew by, and then vanished. His suspicions were confirmed. The attack of the night before had not been an isolated event. The enemy was moving.

  Frozen where he crouched, he gripped the handle of his sword with white knuckles. Creedus silently recited something to himself, keeping watch. Dozing off for a minute at a time, he would awake with a start, only to find he was alone in the dark.

  * * * * *

  Three riders from Wellman pushed their horses to greater speeds through the night. One traveled east, one north and the other west. Neither fatigue, nor lack of sleep, or any other obstacle could stop them; all that mattered was the word that they carried. Each rode with a pouch containing several letters. Through hills, plains, and wood they rode as if the wind was always at their backs. They themselves did not fully know how necessary their flight was. Sent the day before by Creedus himself, they had hundreds of miles to cover with one task: to rally the heads of Véran to Wellman.

  For several years Creedus had felt the advance of the enemy though he could not see it. After the previous day’s events, his fears were being confirmed. If he, Head of the Véran were prey, then this was not simply sport or restless violence. Something more sinister was afoot.

  As the glow of a new sun gathered on the horizon, Creedus sat on his front step awaiting its arrival. The thunder of the messenger’s hooves lingered in Creedus’ mind; urgency weighed on his countenance. Observing his surroundings, he once again noted that one of the houses further down the street had no lantern on its step. Creedus pondered the significance of this odd theft, knowing that regardless of its utility, their enemy was more than present, he was active. He stroked his beard softly, lost in thought. Every now and again he muttered to himself, checking always for the first ray of light to pierce the trees to the east.

  As it arrived, the door of the next cabin over opened and Corred quietly joined him to welcome its warmth. He could see his grandfather was deep in thought and did not want to disrupt his meditation.

  After a moment of silence, Creedus turned to his grandson with a smile. “Have you rested well?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have,” Corred responded. “Have you?”

  “Not as well as you perhaps, but I am an old man,” Creedus responded.

  After a quiet pause, Corred asked, “When will the others come, do you think, the heads of Véran, that is?”

  “It will be two full days before they arrive, if all is well,” Creedus said dryly. After a pause he added, “I only hope that no one will come this morning and bring me news of another tragedy. I saw a scout in the street last night while you slept.” He lifted his brow as he said this.

  Corred’s eyes grew wide at this news. “Three nights in a row,” he said. “First I was attacked, then Lord Wellman. Who was it this time?”

  Creedus pointed down the street to the only house without a lantern. “It would appear that only a lantern was taken. I walked the town nearly an hour ago.”

  “I don’t understand.” Corred responded.

  “Nor do I,” Creedus answered.

  Einar emerged next.

  “Come, today we begin by honoring the fallen,” Creedus said. He forced a smile across his wrinkled face. Patting his grandson on the back, he beckoned Einar to join them.

  Over a breakfast of eggs and buttered bread the three of them spoke very little. As soon as they had finished, Einar and Corred checked their swords to be sure that they shined their brightest.

  Creedus spent his time cleaning his shoes and donning his finest cloak. He had no need of sharpening the Sword of Homsoloc as its edge was timeless. As sharp as the day it was forged in Amilum centuries ago, it had not weathered at all. Tightening his belt just a little, Creedus lead the way to Lord Wellman’s mansion.

  When they arrived at the center of town the funeral procession was assembling. Lord Wellman’s finest horses were hitched to a wagon that had been decorated by his servants with wreaths, and blue, white, and green ribbons. In its bed lay the body of Pedrig, dressed in his finest robes and adorned with flowers. He looked as if he were ready to assume his father’s chair in the Hall of Wellman. Behind the wagon was gathered the household of Lord Wellman, his wife, his children and servants alike, all dressed in their finest. Next in line was a second team of horses to draw the body of Reed. He too was decorated, but done so in fashion to honor a warrior. His robes were not only blue, green and white but more prominently red. Reed’s sheathed sword lay on top of his chest, while his arms rested by his sides.

  Lastly, the bodies of the two servants who had been slain along with Pedrig the day before were carried by yet another wagon, decorated much like Pedrig’s, but with a simplicity fitting their status in the town. They were not forgotten, but they would not be as celebrated as the heir to the lordship and a victorious warrior.

  Collecting himself as best he could, Lord Wellman greeted Creedus with a firm hand, placing his other on the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming. You honor not only your friend, but also my son.”

  Creedus nodded with a painful smile. “It is a warrior’s duty and desire to pay his respects.”

  He then took his place with Corred and Einar in the funeral procession, standing behind the casket of Reed. Joining them were Beathan and Boyd and several other members of the Véran who had not accompanied them on the chase the day before. They all wore their swords and dressed in the best coats they owned.

  Corred watched Olwen closely as she held her siblings and cried with them. The depth of his own past loss stabbed at the wound in his heart. He too had lost his brother. It was a void he could not fill, a pain he could not run from, and Corred had no one to hold and share his suffering with, or so he felt. Galena was in Oak Knoll, and she, unlike him, had mourned their brother properly.

  Making eye contact with Olwen at one point, Corred nodded slowly, the ache in his chest rising into his throat. Olwen forced a smile and mouthed a few words of thanks. Like healing he could not have found anywhere else, it seemed to give him permission to cry freely and mourn with her. Wiping his eyes, Corred let his hair fall around his face a little. He shuddered at the thought of his own weakness, wiping his
wet hands on his coat. He tried to hide it from those around him, but Olwen had seen it.

  Several more minutes passed as citizens of Wellman came to honor the fallen. It was a crowd large enough to fill the town square to its edges. Everyone who came also brought dried flowers to throw on the ground before fallen.

  When Lord Wellman gave the signal, a servant on horseback lifted a horn to his lips and blew a single, somber note. In the silence that prevailed, it carried through the town in every direction and to the far reaches of the fields beyond. With the slightest nudge, the servant ushered his horse forward at half-steps. Seemingly aware of his part and the nature of the occasion, the horse did not push the pace administered, but held his head erect, as if proud to be in such a position of honor.

  Drawing the Sword of Homsoloc, Creedus held it in front of him with both hands. Its shine was brilliant in the morning light, drawing more admiration from those around him than it had in years. Like an old tool, suddenly and desperately needed, an emblem of the Promise that should have never been ignored was once again being appreciated.

  Corred and the rest with him followed suit, holding their swords erect in salute to the fallen.

  With a clear blue sky overhead the procession made its way through the northwestern part of Wellman to the burial ground outside of the town. All along the road, a sea of people dressed in blues, greens, and white had gathered to say goodbye. In the midst of it all, Lord Wellman stood tall and hid his grief as best he could, playing the leader. There were no words exchanged by anyone, but rather complete silence was maintained apart from the controlled sobs of the grieving.

  The burial ground was hemmed in by several tall oak trees that had by now dropped many of their leaves, sprinkling the barren soil with shades of brown as they cast their own long shadows across the procession.

  As the wagons pulled next to the pyres, one for each man being remembered, only immediate family and close friends remained. The remainder of the town that had made the march returned quietly to their homes.

  Circling around the wagons, anyone with a sword drawn sheathed it, and each burial plank was lifted out of the wagons and set upon the pyres. Before moving Reed’s body, Creedus took his sword and strapped it onto the opposite side of his belt from the Sword of Homsoloc.

  Lord Wellman and Tristan along with several of his servants carried Pedrig’s body, and several members of the Véran helped Creedus carry Reed’s. The families of the fallen servants carried their own.

  Once the fallen were laid to rest, everyone who remained sprinkled them with dried flowers, some from jars, some from baskets, while others gave whole bundles. Being so fragile, many of the flower petals fell apart in the act. Life was beautiful, but fragile.

  After a continued moment of silence, in which people whispered prayers, a time was given for words of remembrance to be spoken.

  “Pedrig, a son of the line of Wellman, my first born . . .” Lord Wellman’s voice faltered for a moment as he spoke his son’s name but he pushed on. “The pride of our family. At the age of twenty-three, taken in the prime of his life, you left a bright future untouched.”

  Lord Wellman’s wife began to weep more bitterly as she realized at yet a deeper level that her son was gone. Olwen and her younger sister held their faces in their hands. Tristan contorted his face under a wave of grief.

  “Though you did not die the great leader you would certainly have become, we remember you for the leader that you were. A man full of life, you conquered everything you put your hand to. Though you never gave your love,” Lord Wellman paused to keep his composure, set on honoring his son in full. “Though you never loved or were loved as a husband and father, we know you had the heart to, and the hope.” Lord Wellman’s lips quivered. “Though so much of your life was not lived, you have touched us all. With your love as a firm believer in the Promise, may you be carried to the halls of the King of Amilum.” Lord Wellman lowered his head and at last wept.

  Once every last flower petal dropped into Pedrig’s grave, everyone turned their attention to Creedus. With his eyes looking into the sky, toward the western horizon, Creedus’ expression grew calm. “A son of Homsoloc, a servant of the King of Amilum and a lover of his Promise, our brother Reed has found his rest. As a warrior, he died like a warrior, defending his fellow man.” Creedus paused, allowing a slight smile to reach his lips. “Reed, you lived a life of love.”

  Corred watched his grandfather, struck by such words. He looked around to find that not a single person was looking anywhere else. Some followed Creedus’ gaze, but returned to observing the old man’s countenance. Many stopped crying for a moment, waiting for what would be said next.

  “At the age of sixty years you were strong enough to live another twenty, but you gave your life for what you lived for, and you did so in love. For the hope of others, you fought. Love hopes. You believed, unwavering in what you held to be true. Love acts in faith. You protected others from what you knew to be injustice and wickedness, bringing justice where you were able. Love protects.”

  In the midst of a funeral, life entered the group once again. Tears continued to flow but the morning light had its effect in the hearts and minds of those who listened.

  Creedus lowered his gaze to look at all that remained of his friend. With longing in his voice, he finished. “May you be carried to the halls of the King of Amilum and honored for your life of love.” With these last words, Creedus stepped back and let the officiators finish the ceremony.

  Oil was poured around the edges of each pyre, and all around each body, but not on them. While everyone present backed away several steps, two men methodically struck a spark to the base of each pyre. Within seconds, a gentle but consuming fire climbed each pile and a curtain of flame was drawn on the lives of the four men.

  After a long moment of silence, mixed with inaudible prayers, the group began to disperse. For the first time that day, conversations were started as folks shared memories of either man, beginning the spoken legacy of each that would remain with the living.

  Corred wanted to talk to Olwen, but he didn’t know what to say. He watched as she and her family stood together, receiving continued condolences for their loss. He wanted to join them, but he could not bring himself to do it. I don’t belong with them, and even if I did, I’m a complete mess. I’ve got to be stronger than this.

  She noticed that he was watching her and several times returned his stare, forcing a smile. Slowly parting ways, Corred joined Creedus and Einar, and Olwen remained with her family as everyone wandered back into town.

  Corred stared at the ground, a mix of emotions swirling within him. Even in mourning she is beautiful. If only I could hold her now. He thought of little else on the walk through town, missing most of the conversations around him.

  Chapter 10

  The setting of a Northern Village was unfolding as Bernd, Gernod and Lanhard returned from the plains to the east. At the edge of town, they watered their tired horses. The terror from the night before was far removed from the tranquility of the morning sunrise and those who casually went about their chores.

  “Gernod. Feed the horses. Lanhard, unpack my things.” Bernd gave a few orders while pulling the battle-axe from among Gernod’s things. “I am going to speak to Bjorn.”

  A farmer passed by with his oxen and plow, headed for the field to turn the soil. A few houses down, a man chopped wood with long powerful swings. A stray dog trotted through the street independently, looking for scraps to make a meal. It was just another day in the life of a Northern Villager, but not so for Bernd. With pursed lips he blocked out his surroundings, consumed by the severity of the news he now needed to make known. At one of the cabins, looking much like the rest, Bernd abruptly pulled up and knocked hard.

  After a moment’s silence, footsteps approached from the inside. The door quickly opened inward, revealing a heavyset man with short dark hair and a kind face. A look of surprise came across his face when he saw who called on him. �
�Bernd? I wasn’t expecting to see you for another few days.” He quickly noticed the weapon in his young friend’s hand.

  “Bjorn, I have something I must talk to you about,” Bernd said with a straight face.

  “I see,” Bjorn responded blandly. “Come in, come in.” Backing into his cabin Bjorn pointed at the axe in Bernd’s hand. “What’s that you have there? It’s not for chopping wood.”

  Bernd extended the handle to him. “No, it is not. This is the weapon that almost took my brother’s life last night not far from the foothills of Mount Elm.” Bernd closed the door behind him to keep the heat in. “We were attacked by a soldier.”

  Bjorn started at this news. “Soldier!?”

  “Look at the base of the blade,” Bernd said, pointing to the head of the handle.

  Bjorn walked over to the fire, which lay at the other end of the room and held it to the light to get a better look. “Hildan. One of the four?” Bjorn said in a deep voice. “A soldier of Mornoc wanders the plains of the East?”

  “Wandered; Lanhard’s arrow found its mark. Not far from the Altus Mountains.” Bernd felt his arm, still wrapped from the night before.

  “You are fortunate there was only one,” Bjorn said. He turned to Bernd with a knit brow at the very thought. “Was there only one?”

  “Yes. I am glad for it, but vexed by it. Our enemy has never been one to spare the use of force, has he?”

  “Not in all the history of war.” Bjorn rubbed the scruff of his face thoughtfully.

  “What do we make of this?” Bernd asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Bjorn answered, becoming lost in thought.

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, but it did not last long. The sound of a charging horse in the street came to a halt outside of Bjorn’s door. Bernd stood aside as Bjorn went to open it.

  A messenger on horseback had already dismounted and was extending him a letter. He was haggard looking, and poorly rested, but his arm was steady. “Creedus sends you word. Wellman awaits,” he announced with a cracking voice. With that he handed Bjorn the letter, mounted, and hurried on his way. A couple of chickens scattered from his path as he headed west to the next village.