Einar looked at him with confusion, blinking tears away from his eyes. “Who are you?” He shook his head, even more confused that a complete stranger was addressing him. “How do you know my name?”
“I am your friend,” he said. With familiarity he offered words they had heard hundreds of times before, words they knew without thinking. “Do not mourn for what is passing or long for what you cannot keep . . .” He trailed off, looking back and forth from one to the other, searching them for a response.
Corred regained his composure and looked into the sky. With a cracked voice he recited what he had heard his grandfather say a thousand times. “But long for the day of your redemption, which is your hope and the Promise fulfilled.” He knew it, but his heart was not in it.
Remiel nodded, clenching his jaw. “It’s still true.” Remounting Naveed in a hurry, he made for the center of town at full flight. He didn’t speak a word along the way, but the sound of Naveed’s pounding hooves was enough to finally stir those living on Creedus’ street. Families filed out of their houses, some with a mouthful of breakfast, others from their beds. A few dared to grumble at the rude awakening, but most were rightly alarmed by it.
Corred watched him go, unable to move at first. Rising to his feet, not knowing what else to do, he felt weak. I’m not fit for this fight. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. Corred wiped his eyes and loosened his grip on hope.
Einar walked past him and into the cabin with a deep scowl. His grief quickly turned to wrath. “This evil will not triumph while I have breath in my lungs!” he said as he forcefully belted on his sword. “Corred, your grandfather will be rescued, or he will be avenged. The Sword must be recovered. It can not fall into Mornoc’s hands!” Shaking his head in disbelief he added, “We have been fools to let this happen, to think that the attack on Pedrig would be the only one! Mornoc has always wanted the Sword.”
“What will we do?” Corred asked, following him back into the cabin to grab his own sword. “He could have been taken anywhere, if he is even alive.”
“We will fight back!” Einar growled. “We will look for a blood trail, any trail!”
“But, we are leaderless, none of us have been to war, and I am not ready to become the next Creedus. I wouldn’t be ready even with the Sword, and now it is gone!”
“With such thoughts filling your head, you certainly won’t be,” Einar replied. He stared Corred down with an intensity he could not help.
“I have no other thoughts to think!” Corred gasped. “I am not ready to lead! I am no Creedus.”
Einar finished strapping on his dagger forcefully. “You are Corred, born into the line of Creedus. It is your destiny, and it has been your desire. Throw your fears aside; you do not have the luxury of them.” Einar pointed out the door at the town that was beginning to stir with anxious inquiry. “They may fear. They have not kept their swords sharp, nor do they all care about the past and the future promise. Fear is a fetter, and we must take swift action. Throw your fears aside!” With that, Einar walked out the door, jumped off the cabin steps and ran toward the town hall.
Corred still felt frozen. He wanted to follow, he wanted to run, but his feet were stuck to the ground. He felt sick. The very thing he had longed for his whole life, to be like his grandfather, lay before him, and he was entertaining cowardice.
Closing his eyes he took a deep breath and started out the door.
When he opened his eyes, he could see Lord Wellman’s mansion in the distance and the window he had come to watch vigilantly the last several days. He remembered the feel of Olwen’s arms around him as he returned her safely home. He remembered the look of fear in her eyes and the powerful desperation that he had felt as he ran across the field to where she struggled with the enemy. He remembered the weight of his sword in his hand. He remembered . . .
With each recounting he took another, stronger step.
The town bell sounded, ringing through the streets, filling the air.
Corred began to run.
* * * * *
Below Lake Tormalyn, at the southern end, was a watershed full of wildlife, known for its fishing and hunting. Further south, the overflow from Lake Tormalyn gathered into one source, the Southern River. The region surrounding it was especially good for hunting wild boar, a hunt traditionally relished by the royalty of the area, especially by Lord Raven. He was an avid boar hunter. With his finest mount and sharpest spear, he rode with three of his guard and Lowell.
The morning was young when they jumped their first boar. A large male, it had been feeding heartily on the fallen acorns along the western bank. Much to his dismay, he was not the only one looking for food. The hounds flushed him from a thicket where he had hoped to be passed by, and the chase was on. With a squeal he headed for thicker brush but was continually cut off by the dogs, forced to run in the open woods.
In the dress of his own guard, Lord Raven took the lead. With a dignified air he pushed his horse to catch up with the dogs. When the boar came into view, he readied for a throw.
Lowell was close at his back, the only one in the group not dressed in the colors of Renken’s guard. He was distracted from the hunt itself, but rather more concerned with the movements of his lord. His face was cold, expressionless.
Lord Raven stood high in his saddle and threw the javelin straight and true, but he over-threw his prey and narrowly missed one of the dogs.
“Lowell, your spear!” he said loudly.
Lowell quickly came along-side his lord and handed him his spear for another throw. This time Lord Raven drew closer for a better chance and pinned the boar to the ground.
“Excellent shot, my lord,” the captain of his guard congratulated him on the kill. “Though not the largest I’ve seen in these woods, he will make quite a feast.”
“Thank you, Emer. He certainly will.” Lord Raven remained in his saddle as the other two guards in his party proceeded to dress the boar.
Where Lowell normally would have been complimenting Lord Raven’s every move, he remained just behind him, observing the process in silence. There was evident tension in the air, and Lord Raven sensed it.
Backing his horse up a few steps, he addressed his counselor, “Lowell, you are very quiet today. Are you unaccustomed to the sight of blood?”
“On the contrary, I am quite used to it, sir,” Lowell replied. “But, I have never seen a boar hunt, and I seek to learn as much as I can by watching.”
Content with this answer, Lord Raven nodded and walked his horse in to get a better look. “How much does he weigh?”
“No less than 250 pounds, my lord,” one of his guard replied.
“Even smaller than I thought,” Lord Raven muttered to himself.
Emer was far less comfortable with Lowell’s silence. He had been suspicious of him ever since he entered Lord Raven’s hall months ago, and had made a point of watching him closely. He kept a firm grip on his spear and watched Lowell out of the corner of his eye. There was something different about him. He seemed more calm than usual, and it unnerved Emer. Though keeping his contempt hidden, he was distracted, not watching the other guards.
Lowell’s eyes were fixed on Lord Raven’s back as his right hand slowly made its way to the side of his saddle and his hunting knife.
Emer now made it clear that he was staring at Lowell, in hopes that it would intimidate his odd behavior. To his great alarm, Lowell pulled the knife while returning Emer’s gaze with an air of defiance.
Before Emer could open his mouth Lowell threw it into the ground next to one of the other guard. “There; use my knife. It is made for such work,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” the soldier replied with a smile. “This should do the job,” the guard said to his comrade. They had begun struggling with the boar’s thick hide using the tools they had.
Emer looked back at Lowell, who was smiling at him haughtily. The captain of the guard had half a mind to challenge him to fisticuffs he was so angry. But, he held
his tongue, unimpressed with Lowell’s stature in the first place, thinking him a short, conniving man.
“Alright, let’s be on our way, gentlemen,” Lord Raven said.
At this Lowell reached to the other side of his saddle and this time drew a sword.
“My lord!” Emer cried lifting his javelin to intervene.
He was too late. Lowell lunged at Lord Raven as he turned to lead the group home. With little time to react, the blade pierced him in the side and he fell to the ground with a cry.
Emer threw his javelin, missing wide as Lowell had anticipated it.
Lowell next attacked the two guards on the ground, cutting down the guard he had given his hunting knife only a moment before. The other dashed for the base of the nearest tree.
Lord Raven lay helpless on the ground, disabled by his injury.
Emer drew his own sword and charged, cutting Lowell off before he could finish the job. With crushing blows he attacked the assassin, but Lowell was much stronger than he looked. Testing his skill, Emer found him a formidable match.
The third guard, who had run for shelter, retrieved Lowell’s spear, which had been used to kill the boar. He charged from behind the tree to aid his captain.
Unable to defend against both, Lowell turned about to use Emer as a shield from his new attacker.
With deadly accuracy the guard on foot did not let him succeed. He timed his throw perfectly.
Pierced through, Lowell fell from his mount and died where he landed.
Emer jumped from his horse and ran to Lord Raven’s side. “My lord, can you hear me!?”
“Yes, Emer. I hear you,” Lord Raven responded, short of breath. He looked down at his wound and placed his hand over it. “How could I have been betrayed like this!?” Lord Raven’s face had already turned quite pale.
“Calm yourself, my lord,” Emer said. Turning to his remaining guard, he cried for his assistance. “Get him on my horse!”
Mounting his horse he pulled Lord Raven into the saddle in front of him with the help of his comrade. “Yah!” Without a second thought Emer charged through the woods on an errand of life and death. The sweat on his face felt cold in the wind as he navigated through the boughs of the trees. Bounding over brush and thistle, his steed pushed hard, feeling his master’s urgency.
Lord Raven became heavier as his own hold on the horse’s mane loosened. Through his groans of pain he tried to communicate his regret at being fooled by a traitor. “I should have listened to you Emer. You always said . . . he was trouble. I should have listened . . .”
Just as the city came into view, Lord Raven slumped over, unconscious.
“Yah!” Emer held him fast, pushing his horse as hard as he could run.
* * * * *
The halls of Casimir were well lit and filled with the coming of war. Several hundred scouts swarmed the tunnels, all headed for the surface and the light of the sun.
Each scout’s pouch was full of spears and his pack of supplies filled to capacity. The day had arrived. Casimir himself led them out into the woods and north toward Wellman. He carried his club in one hand and pumped the other as he set the pace, his black hair flowing behind him. Eagerly answering the call to battle, his hate-filled, hardened heart drove him.
In a steady flow, they poured out the mouths of the cave, filling the woods, scattering wildlife in every direction. United for the first time, an army of scouts that had covered the whole region on foot for months set its course to make good on its work. They knew every strength and weakness of every town and village within thirty miles, and now the residents of those towns would pay dearly for their lack of vigilance, starting with Wellman.
Flying high above them were three black birds, each clutching a small parchment in its feet. Though their feet were large and their talons sharp, they were but crows. On the wind they flew together, side by side. When they had passed the head of the army below, they gave a harsh cry and separated, one flying east, one north, and one west. With speed unbecoming of their size, they carried word of the activities below to the other Malliths and their armies, still waiting for the moment that they too would be unleashed upon the Lowlands. By the end of the day they would receive word of the impending demise of Wellman and the beginning of war.
Mornoc would have his kingdom, whether by the free submission of its subjects or by the subjection of their wills and the annihilation of resistance. The later was preferred.
Chapter 14
As the sun began its descent, Wellman crawled with activity. At the center of it all were Einar, Corred, and now Remiel. No sign of Creedus’ capture other than the bloody spear driven into his cabin floor were found. His attackers had not left tracks as they had when kidnapping Lord Wellman’s children. So, with much grief and concern, it was agreed that Wellman’s defenses should be the primary focus. Once the town was secure and ready to face an attack, scouting parties could begin hunting for Creedus and the Sword. Even so, they all knew it would be no better than hunting a mouse in a cornfield. There was no way to know where or how to begin.
Most of the Véran had left that morning before Creedus was found missing. Among those remaining were Bernd, Bjorn and Rickert from the Northern Villages, as well as the few that had come from the area surrounding Renken and Oak Knoll. Those that had come from Shole and Port had already begun their journeys home. With leadership from the thirty heads of Véran still in Wellman, war-time preparations were under way. Another attack was believed to be imminent.
Watchmen were sent to the outskirts of the field and into the forests that surrounded Wellman in all directions. Each guard carried a horn and rode the fastest horse he could find. Beathan and Boyd were sent south of Wellman in the direction that they had pursued the enemy only days ago.
Corred helped to arm men and boys alike in the town square before Lord Wellman’s mansion. Tristan assisted him in distributing the weapon store from his own house. With cuts on his face from his first encounter with the enemy, he boldly fitted his fellow man to fight with him if there was to be another.
The town of Wellman was indeed poorly equipped. Those that had kept their swords had reduced them to decorations, as if they were great relics of a past age. Many had melted and forged them into plows or other farming tools. Now there was no time to change what had been done. The best they could do was to sharpen their tools and wield them as weapons.
Armor was harder to find, having been repurposed more often than swords during decades of peace. A few breastplates were pulled down from the walls where they too had been decoration, and helmets were fewer than a couple dozen. Shields were scarcest of all, and were now being made with what materials were available. Every carpenter and blacksmith was put to work.
Einar organized a group of archers from those who were hunters and gave them posts around the edge of the town. Anyone who had skill with a sword was easily distinguished as they were few and far between. Young men who had insisted on playing with their father’s old swords were now set apart on account of such childish dreaming and taught others what should never have been forgotten.
The air was heavy with tension and fear, but for the time being, purposeful urgency had won every mind in Wellman. There was much to do if they were to last a single battle. Tasks were assigned to every able body, and those of the Véran that had stayed the morning provided the leadership needed.
Remiel saw to it that every lamp was filled with oil, livestock were brought in from the surrounding fields, supplies were counted out and secured, windows were boarded up, and above all, hope was not lost. Always he carried himself with a confidence that was mysterious to Corred and the others, for he was a stranger to them all. He was suspected to be a spy by some because he had not come with any of the others from Shole, yet he was supposedly from that region. Einar was one of them. With a careful eye, he watched as Remiel took charge of his tasks.
Shortly after the town had received news of Creedus and begun organizing, Einar had pulled Corred aside
and expressed his concern that Remiel’s sudden arrival at Creedus’ cabin was no coincidence. His misgivings only grew stronger when Corred told him of their meeting on the northern edge of town.
“We cannot be too careful,” Einar said. “I know he has shown deep concern for the needs of Wellman and its people, but he may only be trying to gain our confidence. Anyone can speak as if they believe in the Promise, even make it sound good.”
“I must admit, I know very little about him and have not met anyone that seems to be in his company,” Corred said. “He may just be a loner from the edges of the Northern Villages to the east.”
“All the more reason to watch him carefully,” Einar said. “It seems much of Port’s ill influence comes from that region.” Spotting Remiel’s approach, Einar ceased his conversation. Patting Corred on his still healing shoulder, he winked at him, and returned to where several men were sharpening arrow heads.
Smiling as he approached, Remiel took notice of Einar’s departure. “I hope I have been of some help today. If what we fear is true, and I am inclined to believe it is, we are doing the right thing to prepare for attack immediately.”
If he is a spy of some kind, he is a well-disguised one, Corred thought. Corred offered a weak smile while Remiel rejoined him at the mansion with Naveed in tow. “I am glad you have remained with us, Remiel,” Corred said sincerely. “You seem to have experience with these things.”
Einar’s suspicions were growing on Corred. How is it that he arrived just as we found the spear? Corred tried hard to hide his emotion. Part of him did thank Remiel for his sudden and selfless assistance, but the other wanted to question him.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 17
