The southern side of the town had sustained the greatest damage and the largest loss. Remiel, Beathan, Boyd and Garrin were among the few still standing. Most around them had been killed, wounded, or had fled to the center of town. With a few helping hands, they quickly went about covering the dead before the sun came up; wives and children would again be entering the streets.
Casualties had not been confined to the men. During the night women and children became victims to those scouts who had frequented the town most over the past months. So familiar with Wellman from their nightly visits, they knew the fastest way in and out and exactly where to place their torches. The results were devastating. Livestock too were not spared, rendering many families homeless and without the animals that they depended on daily.
Wellman had not been crushed, but it had been badly crippled and would not sustain another night of such fury. Unfortunately for the town, it was only the beginning. Cries of despair could be heard as much of what had happened was being discovered in the light.
Corred slowly made his way back to the center of town to meet the other heads of Véran. Reaching the mansion steps before any of the others, he sat heavily and observed the billows of smoke that filled the air around him. To the south there were still fires burning, consuming the remains of what was no longer worth saving. The town was much like his clothes: torn and covered with sweat, blood and smoke. His mind was numb from the horror around him.
When he heard the door of the mansion opening, he quickly rose to his feet.
Olwen looked out, unsure of whether it was safe; her brunette braids hung over her shoulders as her wide eyes searched the landscape. When she saw Corred, her face changed from apprehension to one of relief. The hesitancy she had shown only a day before in expressing her affection was now tossed to the wind. She ran to him and embraced him.
Corred held her tightly. Shutting out the pain and agony around him, he simply listened to the rise and fall of her breath as she cried softly. No words were spoken, for there were none that could do justice. Worlds had collided, destroying the peace they had known all their lives.
Looking beyond Corred’s shoulder to where the sun was only beginning to glow on the horizon, Olwen broke the silence. “Is there really a place with no darkness and death?” she asked softly.
Corred held her at arm’s length and looked into her green eyes. “There is such a place, Olwen. There are nights, but they are not dark like here. Even the nights are full of light.” He wiped a tear from her cheek. “Now more than ever, you must believe it.”
As members of the Véran began to arrive, Corred slowly let Olwen go and descended the stairs to meet them. She remained on the steps, watching as a tattered crowd came from all directions, assembling before the mansion.
They were in the lowest of spirits. One man still held a broken sword in his hand. Looking at it helplessly, he sheathed what was left and folded his arms, not caring to wipe the blood from his face. Garrin too emerged from the smoke in one piece. His shield was cracked through the middle but still strapped to his arm. In shock from all that he had seen and done, he stuck his sword in the dirt at his feet and let his shield hang loosely at his side.
“What is the report of the western side?” Corred asked heavily.
Einar stepped forward, cradling his left arm. “We have lost almost all of our defenses on the outer ring and even those that are left are injured. Most homes are destroyed beyond use, if not burnt to the ground.” Einar’s shoulders hung low and he stared at the ground, forlorn.
Corred looked at him, but he would not make eye contact.
“What of the eastern side?” Corred asked.
Bjorn spoke up first. “We have fared only a little better. With half our men either killed or injured too badly to fight on, we will be in a desperate place if we are attacked again.” He was uninjured but deep discouragement showed on his face.
Corred again paused to look the group over, reading for any sign of hope at all. Speaking up he gave a report of his own. “On the northern side, we saw and felt the same as all of you. We lost a lot of good men. Lord Wellman is in his house being cared for after fainting on the field of battle. We fought hard. Though most of the houses around us were destroyed, we did not give up until every last scout had fled or was killed.” Corred paused to shift his weight, wincing slightly at his bruises. “If my grandfather were with us, I know that he would be proud. I also know that he would not despair, even after a night such as this, because we fight with faith.” Corred raised his voice and pointed to the south. “They have no hope! They cling to nothing but hate. They are the ones who have despaired, not willing to hope for redemption and a better life.” Corred looked from one man to the other, seeking to gain an audience.
Tristan joined his sister on the steps of the mansion.
“Will you let such men deny you that which you have hoped for, longed for, waited for your entire lives? The very thing your fathers and their fathers longed for? And your children, will they have the chance to return to Amilum?” Corred became increasingly animated as he continued, raising his voice even louder. “Let them come and do their worst, for I will either fight until I am saved, or die defending what cannot be taken from me.” Corred paused and let his message sink in with his comrades.
Corred’s passion brought a smile to Remiel’s face. As he listened he watched those around him, assessing their spirits. At the same time, he watched the sky as it grew steadily brighter.
“Now . . .” Corred said with a commanding tone, “who will ride to warn Oak Knoll, Renken, and the Northern Villages? There will be scouts placed along our borders to oppose you, but our friends and family must know what is happening, lest the same fate overcome them.”
From among them three young men quickly stepped forward, weapons in hand.
* * * * *
Casimir stood in the southern fields, watching the smoke rise into the sky. He had not joined the attack the night before but waited in the southern fields proudly, watching the progress of his army. In a little while he would have his way with the town; he personally would deal the crushing blow.
Selcor and several other scouts gave report to their captain, gaining a smile and a nod of approval with every word. Casualties among his scouts had been few, and the damage dealt had been even greater than he had hoped for. Victory was certain; Wellman was a prize for the picking.
While the army recovered in the woods to the south of Wellman, Casimir remained in the open, studying his prey. He had scarcely moved since the night before. Occasionally he leaned on his club, but more often he held it by his side, feeling its weight in his hand.
After Selcor had waited some time for his next order, Casimir addressed him. “When you have regained your strength, prepare my army to attack again. This time, I lead the way.”
Selcor bowed humbly. “Yes, my lord. As you wish.” His humility was a façade; no scout respected his leader. They could not kill him, and any resistance to his authority was dealt with harshly, thus a status quo was maintained. It was fear and hatred that held them together and in submission.
Selcor thought only of his victory over Creedus. Having claimed the leader of the Véran, he had been filled only with a greater thirst to take or destroy what he did not have. He was now completely given over to his hatred; the bitterness of his heart was turning him colder by the day, but he did not feel his own life leaving him.
Joining a group of scouts, he ate some of the dried meat that they had brought for the campaign. Grinding it harder than necessary, he washed it down with some of the crude ale that certain men were devoted to supplying to the army.
With the sun breaking the horizon in full, more than a thousand strong rested in the shade of the trees, gathering their strength.
* * * * *
From a thicket near the banks of the Northern River, Fenton crouched low to the ground, watching something in the distance. He instinctively felt for his sword, but it was strapped to his saddle a
long with Reed’s, which he had received at the gathering of the Véran the night before.
His horse was behind him, waiting patiently for his master’s lead; smelling the air carefully, he was growing steadily more nervous with every passing minute. With no less ease than his horse, Fenton watched the outskirts of his home, the City of Port. The area surrounding crawled with the activity of a vast army, numbering more than he could count. It was clearly not a peaceful occasion, but there appeared to have been no resistance. Congregated around the western watch of the city, a large number of them were marching toward the Beryl River. They were all dressed in dark colors, such that from where Fenton viewed their movements, they looked like thousands of black ants swarming the countryside.
A deep, sinking feeling settled over him. Port had no such army, or even much of a guard for that matter. There was only one conclusion: this was an army loyal to Mornoc. A tear rolled down his cheek as he considered Port’s fate. With an army of this size from their own region, someone had to have known of it and carefully kept it hidden. Treason was at work.
“Has it come to this at last? A city of men belongs to Mornoc.” His hardened countenance was full of sorrow. Fenton wiped away tears where they had formed in the corners of his eyes. Years of faithfulness in a city of opposition had accomplished nothing. Few had responded. None had followed his lead. If he returned to his home now, he would certainly be killed.
Fenton cautiously backed away from the brush, letting the branches rejoin to close on a scene that for years he had seen only in nightmares. But there was no time to mourn. Without hesitation he mounted his horse and returned the way he had come, keeping to the trees so as to avoid being seen. If he acted quickly he would be able to give Renken fair warning.
Sensing his master’s urgency, Fenton’s horse needed little encouragement to make fast his flight.
Chapter 16
Wellman began picking up its pieces. In a dazed stupor, many went about uselessly assessing a home they would never again live in. The full range of reactions was present. Wailing grief was mixed with orderly discussion by people who knew nothing else than to move forward. Everyone knew someone that had been killed during the night. Every eye accompanied by a beating heart shed its share of tears; what action accompanied these tears began separating the strong from the weak.
The leaders of the Véran that had survived the night again provided what leadership they could to a broken people. At the forefront of every mind was the realization that the attack on Wellman the night before was only the beginning. They had not been prepared, or strong enough to withstand the first blow, and there was more to come. From the sky, Wellman was a vast ring of smoke, its outer edges a smoldering ruin.
And it was to the sky that Remiel was giving his attention. As he went about lending aid and comfort to families that had been torn by the loss of loved ones, left homeless, or simply shaken, he kept looking to the horizons expectantly. His valiant fighting the night before had not only left him untouched but had proven his skill with the sword.
Einar and Corred puzzled over him, and they weren’t the only ones.
“Any more news of the southern side?” Einar asked, still watching Remiel out of the corner of his eye.
“No more than what has been given,” Corred said wearily. “He slew more than Beathan could track with or count.”
With a sense of dissatisfaction, Einar nodded, “Not that it’s easily counted when you are yourself embroiled in the attack.”
Corred paused for a moment, feeling stretched thin. Looking over his shoulder at Remiel, his new friend was unmarked from the skirmish. He didn’t even have blood on him. “I don’t understand it either,” he said, “but I can’t believe he could be a spy, or a traitor.”
“I don’t know if I believe it,” Einar said. “There must be another reason the southern side held.” But even as Einar openly stared at Remiel, his expression quickly changed. His mouth fell open as his eyes grew wide with amazement.
What ever could . . . ? Corred turned to see what had so suddenly stunned his friend.
Breaking from the trees to the north a large bird became visible through the rising smoke. The bright white of the underneath of its wings caught every eye turned its direction. With the occasional flap of its large powerful wings it glided toward Wellman, following the northern road. Dodging effortlessly between the rising clouds of soot and ash, it silently approached. In its claws hung another animal, whose form could not yet be seen. Standing still, Remiel awaited the arrival of this magnificent creature with a wide smile on his face.
“It can’t . . . it can’t be,” Einar said, with quiet voice. “Such a thing is . . . I have never seen such a creature.”
“I have,” Corred replied, addressing no one in particular. The glimpse of a soaring bird on the outskirts of town only several days ago came vividly back to him. The white of the bird’s wings, its strength, speed and elegance.
Not taking his eyes from the animal for a second, Einar found it hard to form his words. “You’ve seen an eagle before?”
Corred nodded slowly. “I think . . . I have.”
The eagle circled low over their heads, dropped its catch at Remiel’s feet, and with measured beating of its wings, landed carefully on Remiel’s outstretched arm. With a few quiet words, Remiel greeted the bird and stroked his back. They looked each other in the eye for a moment before Remiel lifted his arm quickly as if to throw the creature back into the air. Beating its wings smoothly, it rose again to perch on the roof of a house nearby, one of the only ones in the area that had not been harmed by fire.
Corred marveled at the fact that the same powerful talons with which the bird had crushed its prey had not even left a mark on Remiel’s arm. Absent mindedly he said, “I thought you only saw an eagle when you died.”
Einar closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Looking again to where the eagle had landed, he beheld it still. With a quick turn of its head, the eagle looked right back at him. Einar ran his hand through his short hair. “Never in all my loftiest dreams did I think that this was possible.” Half laughing, he turned to Remiel and once again became serious, but not in the way he had been only minutes ago.
Remiel gently knelt to examine the prey that the eagle had dropped at his feet.
Corred and Einar slowly made their way over to see what the eagle had brought, struggling to pull their gaze away from the creature.
“Brothers, come see this,” Remiel said with a wide smile. He leaned over a jet black crow, still clutching a rolled parchment in its grotesquely large feet. Remiel pulled the parchment from its dead grip and looked at it curiously. He then handed it to Corred.
Carefully unrolling it, Corred held it closely to read its small print. The first thing he noticed was the signature. Chills ran down his spine as his mouth fell slightly open.
“What is it?” Einar asked, watching his young friend’s reaction.
Corred did not respond, but instead handed him the note.
Einar maintained greater composure, but stammered in beginning. “It . . . it’s a note of some kind, signed by . . . Casimir.”
Remiel’s expression hardened at the name, but it did not affect him the way it did those now listening on. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. “One of the Four has sent a message. Please, read it. What does the fiend say, who is it to?”
By this time a small crowd was assembled, most of them to stare at the bird now perched over them. But as it had grown very quiet, most could hear what was spoken next.
Einar straightened up and read the contents, not aware of the number of ears now listening.
To Hildan and the Army of the North.
By the time you read this, Wellman will have fallen into my hands. Upon receiving word from our Lord, I have carried out his commands as my pleasure. With many of the Véran destroyed and its leader, Creedus, along with the Sword of Homsoloc taken captive, these lands are ripe for conquest.
&n
bsp; As a servant of our Lord, I hereby signal your attack. Once Wellman is crushed and Port is taken by Ahriman’s forces, the Northern Villages must fall. With the horsemen of the Northern Villages scattered, we will together surround Shole from the east as Sobieslaw’s forces advance from the west.
Death to all who stand in our way. Amilum belongs to us.
Captain Casimir
Einar lowered the note slowly.
Bjorn and Bernd shifted in their shoes, fearing for their families, wanting to believe that this really was the message that would have doomed them if not intercepted. Would Hildan receive word of his orders another way?
For the members of the Véran, news that their leader, assumed dead, was now a captive of the very ones besieging them brought mixed emotions.
“He is alive!” Corred said. His physical pains left him at the thought.
The crowd around them looked at each other, speechless. Those who had doubted the surety of any plan on their behalf or any hope of redemption were again stirred to believe. Some providence was on their side. The word immediately began to spread around the town as people ran to tell their loved ones.
Remiel smiled widely as he watched their faces brighten, their backs straighten, and this in the midst of a town trapped in the chaos of survival. Looking to the eagle that had interceded for them all, Remiel nodded and whistled lightly.
Rising into the sky once again, the bird gave a call that pierced the skies as it flew into the distance, returning the way it had come. Those who hadn’t seen it certainly heard its shrill cry. A cry full of life and freedom, it carried to the woods in every direction and echoed in the hearts of those who heard it.
Remiel fondly watched the creature depart.
When the bird had faded from view, the crowd awoke as if from a trance and turned to look at Remiel in wonder. Though many of them had seen him over the last few days, they began to ask each other who he was for the first time.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 20
