Astonished at the horses’ calm nature, Corred couldn’t keep from smiling. “Where did you find him?”
“Naveed?” Remiel asked. “Well . . . we sort of found each other. I needed a horse, and he needed a rider.”
“That seems to have worked out well,” Corred replied, not sure what else to say. “He is a magnificent animal.”
“He is, and he has been an excellent companion,” Remiel responded. “He does not tire like other horses.”
Passing back between many of the cabins Corred had seen earlier, he received even more curious looks than his first pass. Most of the looks were for Naveed’s unusual and beautiful appearance, but also because Remiel was truly a stranger.
In some ways the lack of recognition and therefore surprise from some of the citizens of Wellman put Corred at ease because it confirmed that Remiel had at least not lied about it being his first time to Wellman. I’m just being suspicious. I can’t always distrust everyone I meet because I haven’t met them before.
While pointing out certain aspects of the town, Corred slowly let down his guard. Remiel’s unassuming, yet confident nature seemed nothing to be wary of, and by the time they reached the town square, Corred felt as if they would fast become friends. With the sun beginning to set, they parted ways. As Remiel walked toward the southern end of Wellman, Corred admired Naveed for a moment longer before returning to his cabin.
Chapter 12
A large, horse-drawn wagon carrying a few remaining hay bales slowly strolled into Oak Knoll. With a piece of straw in the corner of his mouth, Garrin occasionally snapped the reigns, staring straight ahead, lost in thought. He couldn’t shake the conflict that resided in his own mind. Corred’s words from several days before still rang in his ears. Though he tried to explain them away, they remained. The tone of his cousin’s voice and the news of the scout attack haunted him.
The shouts of young boys engaged in a pretend battle broke his trance. Sticks made swords, and the heat of conflict filled the air. Measuring the force of their blows, two of them carried on, allowing the advantage in the fight to swing one way, then the other. The other boys stood back after a while and watched, fixed on the drama unfolding before them. At last, with a quick thrust, the one lunged and pretended to run his enemy through. Playing along, the other held the stick to his side with his arm and fell to the ground as if dead. But, the fight wasn’t over, the victor ran for his life when he saw his enemy reviving. The boy who had feigned death jumped to his feet in pursuit.
Garrin admired their zeal with a knowing smile as he passed by. Gone were the days when he had felt such liberty, running freely through the town, pretending to be like his grandfather, Creedus. “The days of the warrior have passed,” he said softly to himself.
As the sun was finishing its descent once again, he grew restless as an argument renewed in his mind. His final stop for the day was with his parents, a continued source of the argument itself. Garrin’s big brow was knit tightly at the thought of discussing the very topic he had been trying to shake for days.
Pulling his wagon along the side of the house, he took no notice that the lantern was missing from the front stoop. With a sigh he jumped down, tossed his chewed piece of straw on the ground, and approached the door. Before he could knock, his cousin, Galena opened the door and smiled brightly.
“Garrin, I saw you coming up the road,” she said joyfully, giving him a hug. “It is so good to see you.”
The simple gesture relieved the tension in his mind as the heat from inside warmed his face. He couldn’t resist such kindness. No matter how much he disagreed with his parents, he could never dislike his cousin, Galena.
“Come in, son,” Logen said, joining Galena. “Have you had a long day?” He extended his hand.
“I have, but it was good. There were a lot of folks who needed hay today.” With a big arm still around his cousin’s shoulder, he greeted his father with a firm grip.
“Your mother is preparing dinner as we speak.” Logen sat back down in his chair to enjoy the fire for a while longer.
Before he could answer, Shae came in from the kitchen, spoon in hand. “Son, I am pleased to see you.” She too hugged her boy, unconcerned with getting dirt on her apron. “Clean yourself up. The stew is almost ready,” she said as a sort of command. She made her request known with less subtlety than her husband and returned to tending the pot.
“Yes, ma’am.” Garrin knew no other way to respond. He was hungry, tired, and it was growing cold outside. A bowl of stew sounded inviting enough to endure whatever conversation might arise.
“I’ll get some water for the pail,” Galena said, following her aunt into the kitchen and to the back of the house.
“You will be staying the night?” Logen half asked, half suggested. He pulled up a second chair for his son. “Corred was here two days ago.” He offered the news off-hand, unaware that his son knew of the event.
“I thought I might as well be getting back to Renken after dinner; the horses need to be fed and watered,” Garrin said, taking a seat. Ending his work for the night and resting his horses was an appealing idea, but staying with his parents meant discussing their interests.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Logen said. “As for the horses, you can feed and water them here.” Turning to his son he continued. “Corred was attacked coming home from Hill Top but three nights ago. He barely escaped with his life. Not only that, but I received word this morning that Lord Wellman’s son, Pedrig was killed the night before last.” He paused to let this shocking news sink in for a moment. “You would be tempting fate to travel tonight.”
Garrin was silent. He had been ready to dismiss the first warning, having heard it already, but the second caught him off guard. “Pedrig?” he was stunned.
“Lord Wellman’s son and daughter, Tristan and Olwen were taken captive but they were rescued yesterday with efforts lead by your grandfather, Corred, and Einar.” Logen returned to watching the progress of the fire with folded arms. “We all hope that this is not the beginning of something more sinister.”
Garrin again had nothing to say. The argument he had assumed would transpire had been replaced with evidence, and he was now in the wrong. He knit his brow again, but this time out of anger toward the injustice.
“Are you ready son?” Logen turned and looked him in the eye. “You know there is an enemy, but are you ready to believe in the Promise?” His words were soft but spoken plainly.
Garrin cracked his knuckles loudly. The question that had vexed him his whole life was once again raised. “I know there is an enemy, but what am I to do with a promise, made hundreds of years ago, by a king I do not know?”
Logen remained silent for a moment, thinking it through. Before he could continue, Galena announced the completion of the evening meal and that the washing pail was full of warm water.
“Let’s talk around the table, son.” Logen stood up and waited for Garrin to enter first.
The smell of stewing venison and potatoes beckoned them in. As there was for every evening meal, a loaf of bread sat in the center of the table with butter beside. The house Garrin had grown up in knew him as well as he knew it. Every shelf and item on them, the planks in the floor, even the very plaster on the walls was as familiar to him as the air itself. Leaning in to get a better smell of the stew, his mother chastised him for invading her space. He was right at home.
After washing up in the back of the kitchen, Garrin took his seat with his back to the shelves. It was his chair, the one he had sat in since he was a young boy. As Shae served them all a bowl of stew, Galena sliced some bread.
Taking their places they looked to Logen to bless the food, as was his role.
Bowing his head Logen spoke the words Garrin had heard a thousand times. “May this food bring nourishment to our bodies and may we be truly grateful for its provision, and the provision of the Great Promise and its fulfillment to come. Amen.”
“Amen.” All present agr
eed in word, whether in their hearts or not, because that was what they did. Garrin’s heart was divided.
They all ate in silence for a short while until Shae couldn’t take it any longer and opened the discussion. “Garrin, do you have much hay left after your rounds today?”
“Not much, but I would rather like to run out. It would be better for business.” Garrin dipped his bread in the stew and took big bites, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He stayed focused on his food, but the question he had asked his father was repeating in his head.
It didn’t take long for his mother’s intuition to take hold. “Garrin, is there anything you want to talk about?” Shae posed the open-ended question as a hint that he better start talking.
Aware that if he didn’t, more questions would follow, he asked the burning question again. “I know there is an enemy, but what am I supposed to do with a promise made hundreds of years ago by some king I’ve never seen?” He sat up straight and looked back at his father. As if surrendering to the difficulty of the question, he dipped his bread into his stew and continued eating. He didn’t expect an answer, or to understand it.
Logen put down his spoon and leaned back with his arms crossed. “If our hope is in this place, then there is nothing more. But, even without the stories that have been passed down for centuries, men know that they are not at home here in the Lowlands. Something more calls us.”
Garrin listened but gave little satisfaction to his father. He had heard it before. He wanted to hear something new, something different. He blurted his usual response. “But we’ve never been without the stories, how do we know that?”
“Where is your hope if not in something greater than yourself?” Logen asked. “Do we look to men around us who weaken with age and die? The question is still of hope. Did some man one day contrive these stories to comfort himself?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” Garrin returned, taking another bite of stew.
Galena ate quietly, watching the struggle unfold. It made her visibly uncomfortable to see her cousin so resistant to what she held as true. Looking from one to the next, she waited to see who would respond. When silence continued, she overcame her fear and spoke up. “Why would those who believe be resisted if it weren’t true?” It was a question Logen had put to his son before. But now it was coming from his young cousin.
The other three at the table looked at Galena, surprised that she had opened her mouth at all. Logen tried hard not to smile, leaning forward a little.
Galena’s face was animated. “Why would someone attack those who believe in the Promise, killing the son of a good man? Why would they try to kill my brother, and my grandfather?” Her eyes welled up with fear at the thought, and love for the only family she had left. She looked straight at Garrin and continued. “Why do I only have one brother left? Did my father simply disappear, or has he deserted us because he lost hope? And my mother, do you think she died from grief and despair only because he left, or because of what he became?” Wiping away a tear, she looked at Garrin with pain of loss that weakened her very features. “Why have you been unharmed?”
Garrin stopped chewing and swallowed hard. Unable to look into his cousin’s eyes, he turned away. The realization struck him like a blow. The enemy existed only to crush hope. Why would evil men attack the Promise unless it threatened them, unless . . . it was true?
Shae put her arm around Galena as she let loose her anguish. Her tears were very real to Garrin and he felt his heart break for her.
Logen leaned back toward his food and picked up his spoon again; he locked eyes with Garrin. “Son, the enemy attacks those he fears, and he fears those that oppose him. One thing is certain; Corred is on the right side.”
* * * * *
On the shores of Lake Tormalyn, a large row boat with a sail waited patiently for a passenger to come. In it sat the man who was clearly responsible for the craft. He was a large fellow with a full beard and a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. His long coat was worn and weathered like his face. In the other end of the boat was his hired hand, a thinner man wearing the same worn coat; he was stretched out across the bottom of the boat with his arms behind his head, gazing at the stars.
The vessel was suited for carrying upwards of eight passengers comfortably and there were just as many overcoats lying in the boat, each accompanied by a closed basket. The wind was steadily blowing, and the night sky was crystal clear. It would be a good night for traveling on the lake.
Standing stoically on the sandy beach was a short man with a small fur cap atop his head. It was Lowell, once again without his green robe. His arms were, as usual, folded behind his back as he watched the outskirts of Renken. Against the light of the town, several men could be seen approaching, each coming alone and from different directions. Their features were indistinguishable in the dark. One of them started to run when he noticed that he was not the only one making his way to the same place.
“Make the sail ready,” Lowell said over his shoulder. “It looks like these fellows are pretty eager to be going.” He said it with a crooked smile.
Arriving completely out of breath, the same young man that Lowell had spoken with that morning fell to his knees. “Please sir, I arrived first!” He coughed heavily before continuing “Let me meet your master, don’t cast me away.”
“Young man, there is room enough for you. Get on your feet.” Lowell stepped back, showing his disgust for the man’s groveling.
The young man jumped to his feet and stood shaking with fatigue and emotion. He attempted his best to stand up straight, but he kept shifting in his shoes out of discomfort. Several of the others who had been walking through the fields behind him arrived and appeared just as surprised as the first to see that they were not the only ones. They were all clearly from the western district and younger in age, but none of them as hapless looking as the first.
One of them walked right up to Lowell and asked blatantly, “Where’s the coat you promised me?”
“If you wish to receive a coat at all, you will stand in line beside your new friends here,” Lowell responded. When the beggar did not immediately obey, Lowell snapped his fingers. The larger of the two men who had been preparing the sail got out of the boat and came to join them with a club in his hand.
At the sight of such an imposing figure, the beggar tripped over his own feet and fell awkwardly into the sand. When the sailor continued his approach with the clear intention of beating him, the beggar found his senses and took off running with all his strength back toward Renken.
Lowell watched him go with a smirk and turned to address the rag-tag group of six that still stood there shivering in the wind. “Gentlemen, it will serve you well to remember from where you have come. In bringing you here I am offering you another life, but this is not because you deserve it. The whole of Renken despised you and left you in its streets to rot without a home or a meal fit for a pig. I am offering you food, shelter, clothing, and respect in return for service to my master in whatever he desires. But it’s not just food and shelter that your service will bring you. It is citizenship in the real kingdom that you will gain. The king spoken of in our history, the history of Homsoloc is not real. It is the contrivance of men who want to keep control. It is a tactic, not a truth. If it were true, would you really be as pitiable as you are now? If the people around you really believed in this King, or that he was coming to save them some day, they would be concerned with how they lived, with preserving the good of those around them. Do the wealthy on the east side of Renken really look like they expect to leave this supposed land of exile? They seem pretty well established, pretty well fed for people who claim to be in exile.”
Lowell paused to look them over and observe the effect of his words. “I am calling you to join my master, for he will not suffer these hypocrites. My master will soon be the only master of these lands, and those who aide him in establishing justice will rule with him. Those who have become rich at your expense, and wealthy at your co
st . . . they will be your servants if you join us.”
Standing with eyes wide open, the beggars and drunks waited on his next word.
“When you enter the boat, you will find a coat to keep you warm and a basket full of food. If you choose to take what food is not yours, you will be thrown into the lake and drown like the rats that you are. If you take your place and show gratitude for what you have been given, and these men choose to take you across, then know that this is the first true kindness you have ever known, and you owe your lives to my master.”
The group of beggars nodded in understanding, several of them now convulsing with cold.
“We’re ready when you are, Lowell.” The thinner of the two sailors announced their readiness for departure.
Lowell stepped aside and held out his hand. “I wish you luck in your new life. Remember what I have said. You owe your lives to my master.” Lowell watched until all six of them were on the boat and in their coats before giving a hand in pushing them off.
* * * * *
After the sun had set and lamps were placed on the front stoop of every home in Wellman, a host of men slowly made their way to the town hall. In groups, or one by one, they emerged from their cabins, cut through alleys, and crossed streets, each with his hood pulled over his head and a sword at his side. Creedus, Corred and Einar walked together.
The town was asleep, but it was quietly stirring with those who had remained vigilant to the present day. They were the faithful, watching when all others had decided there was nothing to see. And now, as most in the Lowlands slept unaware of the surrounding darkness, the Véran were gathering.
Filing into the town hall where the fires on either end were burning brightly, they filled the benches that lined each side. To add light to the dark hall, several lanterns were lit and hung along the walls. Corred and Einar took their places on either side of Creedus.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 14
