Creedus paused, sobered by his own words as he stared into the flames. A gust of wind tossed some of his gray hair across his face, hiding it from his audience.
The air felt colder, even the fire seemed to grow dim.
With both hands the old man pulled the hair away from his eyes and looked up at the stars as if searching for something. “But . . .” he said, with longing in his voice. Pointing the full length of his arm and forefinger into the air, he continued, “. . . there was yet the promise of one to come. There is the promise of one to come, as surely as the brightest star still shines in the sky.” A tear welled up in the corner of his eye and rolled down his wrinkled cheek, leaving a trail of moistened skin. “There is one that will come, who is able to deliver.”
Looking down again he recited something from memory. “From the hills, from the very shadows of these lands will come a light, one man, unlike any man . . .” his voice strengthened as he heard his own words, “. . . a deliverer from the West to bring an end to exile, for the hope of every heart and the life of every soul. He will come swiftly to crush our enemies and to make a way of return to the home of our father . . . the City of Amilum.”
Many in the crowd nodded in witness, as familiar with this oracle as they were the ground beneath their feet. Others looked at the old man as if they had heard of this promise for the first time.
Corred looked into the flames, deep in thought, agreeing with the very idea of such a hope, for his heart embraced it; he knew it had to be true.
Androcles hid a tear after seeing his grandfather cry. He was still too young to fully comprehend why it had all happened.
The fire was growing low by the time Creedus had finished, so several of the men in the group fed it with the last of the wood that they themselves had brought for the gathering. The night was well advanced and it was near time for everyone to return to their homes, but a last word from their leader was awaited.
“But for today, my friends, we have the Sword and the Promise,” Creedus said. With the fire again rising, he bent low to the ground and grabbed the sword that had been lying at his feet. As he pulled it slowly from its scabbard, it sang softly. With a light all of its own, an emblem at the base of the blade shone most brilliantly of all: Amilum.
Everyone present beheld it with awe. Corred and Androcles, with their mouths gaping, wondered at the weapon that had come from a place they could only imagine.
“First, the Sword,” Creedus said, ceremonially, “whose blade is ever ready to cut, and will not fail the faithful who wield it.” Slipping it right back into its scabbard, he placed it back at his feet. “Second, the Promise, which is greater. Because only in its fulfillment can we be saved.”
Only the crackling of the fire filled the air for a moment. The image of the Sword still burned in their minds, making the Story of their heritage more alive.
“As for your swords, and our hope in the coming redemption . . .” Creedus addressed them all again, “the first you must keep ready, and to both we must all hold fast, with all our strength. What you fix your eyes upon, you will become, even if it is the very thing you fear.” He searched all those gathered. “We are still at war with the host of Mornoc. If you lose sight of the Promise and your sword collects dust, your very identity will be weakened.” He held up his finger and leaned forward as the light of the fire danced in his eyes. “Keep your swords sharp.”
Chapter 2
8 Years Later
A waning moon, dimmed by thinning clouds, cast its faint glow on the wooded landscape below. The leaves of the trees were once again falling, coloring the forest floor in shades of orange, red, and brown, permeating the air with their scent. The changing temperatures gave rise to a mist from the earth’s warm surface that hung suspended, still as stone. The crack of a stick was as good as a shout.
Through such a scene a young man swiftly made his way on foot along a well-used path. His steps were sure and he traveled the path with a seeming knowledge of every twist, dip and turn to the very texture of its surface.
Steadying the sword at his side with his left hand, Corred swung the other to match his gate. Little could be heard of his travel apart from the sound of his breathing and the occasional crunch of leaves. The color of his clothes matched the season in drab shades of brown and olive. The hood of his shirt hung loosely, allowing for better vision. His dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, and though his features were not distinguishable in the dark, the length of his stride spoke of his youthful strength. And though he traveled without a companion, Corred was not alone.
From a higher point in the woods, against a thicket, a silent figure bent low to the ground to hide his outline. He was carefully watching Corred’s path. His dress was black, matching dark eyes and on his back hung a pouch full of short spears. His hair was just as dark except for a few blond tips still clinging to black roots. Crouched motionless, he looked ahead, seeking a point of ambush. Once located, he quickly turned back into the thicket to carry out his attack.
As Corred made a turn in the path, he heard the snapping of a twig in the distance. His attention was drawn to the hill on his left, but there was no motion to accompany the sound. His pulse quickened and his senses grew more alert with each step.
Moving with the agility of a predator, the dark figure exited the opposite side of the thicket and stood behind a tree to wait. As he slowly raised his hand to the pouch on his back, his long fingers felt one of the spears, and stayed there. For a brief moment the light of the moon revealed the hunter’s features: hollow eyes, gaunt cheeks, and a sinister glare. His wide, black eyes absorbed all of the light available, shifting to and fro in search of his quarry. He walked his grip down the shaft of the spear when he heard the crunch of leaves to his right. Several seconds passed. Then, from his periphery, he spotted Corred running through the brush fifty yards out of range. Cursing behind clenched teeth, the hunter flew down the hill and pursued his target along the very path he had been watching. The spear was now in his hand, held at shoulder height, ready for release.
His pursuer now flushed from hiding, Corred fully realized the source of his alarm. Pulling his sword, he hit the full length of his stride. Fear threatened to take over, but he fought the panic and searched for a possible advantage. Ducking under the lower branches of an evergreen, Corred picked up a rock in his left hand. As the gap between he and his attacker lessened, Corred gripped his sword all the tighter. In the darkest part of the woods, he stopped on the face of a leaf. Rolling the stone ahead of him, he slipped behind a tree.
The hunter quickly released his spear in the direction of the sound, burying it in the stump of a fallen tree. Slowing to a standstill, he listened quietly while pulling a second spear from his pouch. After a moment of silence, he backtracked toward the place he had last seen his prey, stepping lightly. A low, angry growl escaped his throat.
Every muscle tensed and ready, Corred waited for the opportune time to either attack, or run. As the burning in his chest subsided, and he began to catch his breath, he listened carefully for his enemy’s movements. A minute passed before he again heard the crunch of leaves. At the snapping of a twig, now further away, he drew a deep breath and took off at a full sprint, aiming for the main path out of the woods. Within a few steps another spear flew just behind him, skipping across the forest floor.
Pushing so hard that he barely touched the ground, the hunter attempted once more to catch his prey. But this time, the intensity of his pursuit seemed to be well matched by his target’s flight. Unable to keep pace, the hunter hurled a second spear down the path with the full force of his body behind it. It found its mark.
The spear tore through Corred’s shirt and cut his shoulder before lodging in a tree just beyond him. Without slowing, he soon broke from the trees and passed into a field of long grass; he was almost there.
On the other end of the field was a cabin, set on the outskirts of a small village. The light from a lantern on the doorstep of this cabin brough
t back his shadow as he neared the end of his flight. Corred’s legs were screaming, but he didn’t stop. The windows of several of the cabins ahead of him lit up the night. Not everyone in Oak Knoll was yet asleep.
Slowing his pace just a little, he kept going until he reached the third cabin on his right. Made of wood plank and logs, it rested several feet above the ground on a foundation made of mortar and stone. The chimney, rising from the foundation along the front wall, smoked lightly.
After carefully returning his sword to its sheath with trembling hands, Corred reached for his wound gently. The thick plumes of his breath matched the rise and fall of his chest as he ascended the short set of stairs. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he cast sideways glances into the dark.
Knock, knock, knock. Corred’s knuckles left a few spots of blood on the door before he returned to holding his wound. The sound of shuffling feet inside could immediately be heard. A young lady in a white gown opened the door a few inches and looked out to see who was calling at such an hour. Her eyes grew wide when she saw who it was.
“Corred!?” She opened the door and let him in.
Taking a last look back to where the glow of Oak Knoll faded, Corred stepped inside. Some of his hair clung to his face as he took a seat in a chair just inside the door. In a breath of relief, he spoke: “Tell aunt and uncle I’ve been wounded by a spear.”
The young girl’s lip quivered with fright as she hurried into the next room. “Aunt, uncle! Corred has been hurt!”
The light of a fire flickered throughout the room, revealing its thick rafters and simple design. But its warmth was lost on Corred. He remained motionless against the wall, catching his breath, still listening for the sound of footsteps outside the door.
From the bedroom rushed a middle-aged man and his wife, each carrying a candle.
“Where were you hit, son?” the gentleman asked.
“In the shoulder. It’s just a cut,” Corred responded. His face, initially flushed from the chase, was now growing pale.
“Oh my,” his aunt exclaimed as she drew near to observe the wound. “I’ll get my things to clean it up. Galena, get some herbs, dear.” With that she hurried back through the door she had come from while Corred’s younger sister ran into the kitchen.
“Returning from Hill Top?” Corred’s uncle asked with high eyebrows. There was little shock in his voice as he observed his nephew with a calm concern.
“Yes. He knew the path well. I barely escaped.” Corred looked out the window. The light on the steps of the first cabin he had passed still flickered peacefully. With a sigh, he lowered his head and closed his eyes.
His uncle placed his candle on a stand next to Corred’s chair. With his hands on his plump waist, he inquired further. “Were there any others from Renken that you could have traveled with?”
With his eyes still closed he took a long breath. “No.” When he opened his eyes, he glared at the opposite wall angrily. With a curled lip he added, “It was a scout.”
Corred’s uncle scowled slightly at his nephew’s bitterness. “Have no part of hate.” Stepping nearer, he bent over and placed his hand on Corred’s good shoulder. Ignoring his wound he looked him in the eye. “You are a son of the Promise. Stop clinging to things of the past, all they have left to do is fade, like your enemies. Even those who were once our friends will pass, like the leaves of Fall. Pray mercy for those who have forsaken hope.”
Corred struggled to believe what his uncle said. He took another deep breath and shivered, hanging his head. He knew it was true.
“I am sorry. I forget myself,” his uncle said. “Come, sit in front of the fire and warm yourself.” Corred’s uncle moved his chair as Corred repositioned himself in front of the fire.
“Thank you, uncle.” Corred fell back into the chair leaning over a little in the direction of the flames.
Galena rushed into the room with some crushed herbs and a bowl of soup. With loving care she placed the bowl in Corred’s hands. She swept her long blonde braids over her shoulders, and stood back to give her aunt room.
Corred’s aunt returned with an old wooden tray that carried two earthen bowls, several rags, thread and a short, curved needle. “Logen, dear, fetch my table from the kitchen?”
Uncle Logen quickly grabbed the table and placed it to Corred’s right, just under his wounded shoulder. “Shae, you’ll be wanting your stool as well?” Uncle Logen asked loudly, returning to the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” Aunt Shae answered as she set her tray on the table.
Corred pulled his arm out of his shirt and Aunt Shae went to work immediately, dabbing his cut with a rag and cool water. He winced at the first touch, but then sat silently sipping his soup with his left hand. The sweat on his face was beginning to dry, plastering some of his hair to his forehead. His handsome features became more distinguishable in the light of the fire.
Corred turned to Galena and asked, “May I have some bread?”
Without answering she hurried back to the kitchen and returned with part of a loaf.
“What happened?” Aunt Shae asked anxiously.
Corred finished drinking a mouthful of soup. “I was returning from Hill Top where grandfather and the others were meeting. I took the path I have taken a hundred times, but this time a scout was waiting for me, not long after I entered the woods.” His voice became animated as he described the encounter.
“Did you have a chance to confront him?” Uncle Logen asked. He stood behind Corred’s chair observing his wife’s work.
“Yes, once. But it was too dangerous. He would have certainly run me through before I had been able to strike a blow. The pursuit was nearly the full length of the wood. I was only able to escape after fooling him with a diversion.” He was still a little tense, trying hard to relax as his aunt threaded her needle.
There was a moment of silence as his aunt began sewing the wound. Focusing on his food, Corred blocked out the pain and continued. “His attack was so intense; I have never felt such hate from a man.” He shivered just thinking about it.
“Scouts are hardly men,” Uncle Logen said objectively. “They don’t have a loving sinew in their bodies. Anyone who despairs to the point of becoming the very thing they once feared, is . . . lost.”
Corred handed his empty soup bowl to his sister and nodded passively, taking the bread. “Thank you, Galena.” He quickly changed the subject. “Tomorrow I am going to see Einar. He will want news from Hill Top, and he will certainly want to know about this.”
Uncle Logen nodded and looked at his wife knowingly. Like parents to Corred and his sister, they knew how much he had suffered at his enemy’s hands, and the hurt ran deep. It lay in a place where Corred still tried his hardest to disown it, deny it. Only his sister was left.
Galena had not held on to her pain the same way. She had allowed it to break her, and now she was healing.
“You’re not going anywhere unless you get a good night’s rest,” Aunt Shae proclaimed. “You can sleep here in front of the fire. I want you warm. I know it’s only a good scratch, but don’t you take it for granted.” As she finished applying the crushed herbs, which she mixed with water to make a sort of paste, she looked to Galena. “Bring some blankets, dear.”
“Thank you, aunt.” Corred kissed her forehead.
* * * * *
A strong wind howled outside, sending a burst of air down the chimney. It swept across the floor, into Corred’s face. Awakening with a start, he rolled onto his wounded shoulder and groaned. He instinctively reached for his sword, which lay next to him. The sound of rushing feet echoed from his dreams.
Several large coals glowed faintly still, providing a little light. Corred leaned on his elbow and listened carefully, disoriented. Heart pounding, eyes bulging, he waited for a knock at the door, a voice, or a bump on the wall . . . something. Nothing came. It was silent.
Sitting up completely, he looked out the window toward the first cabin in the village. It was pitch black.
The lantern had gone out. Returning to his back, he wrapped himself in his blankets and drifted again into a restless slumber.
Chapter 3
When Corred arose, the clouds of the night before had moved on. Before anyone else had stirred, he dressed himself and stoked the fire, adding wood from the pile that sat in the corner under the window. The thick pane had a slight frost in the corners where moisture had gathered. It had grown quite cold over night, whitening the grass with one of the first frosts of the year.
While the fire slowly came back to life, filling the room with its sweet smell, Corred unsheathed his sword. With the flat side of the blade resting on his knee, he sat down and looked it over carefully. The sword was commonplace, nothing special about it, but it was well kept and its edge was visibly sharp. Corred drew a small, flat stone from his pocket, spat on it and diligently sharpened a section of the sword that had lost its shine.
Pulling some of his hair, he ran it lightly over the blade; it cut with ease. Next he held the sword out with a straight arm, looking down its shaft. Pleased with its appearance in all regards he returned it to its sheath and leaned it against the stone of the fireplace.
As he stood in front of the fire Uncle Logen emerged from his bedroom rubbing his hands together. “Quite the crisp morning, eh?”
“Quite,” Corred responded dryly.
“Your aunt and sister are in the kitchen as we speak, preparing breakfast,” he said, grabbing an armful of wood for the cooking fire. “Or, at least once they have these,” he added with a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Hungry?” he paused to ask the obvious.
“Very,” Corred replied, unable to keep from smiling at his uncle’s simplicity. “Is there anything to be done?” he asked.
“Not with your right arm, there isn’t,” Uncle Logen answered over his shoulder.
“Did he ask if he could work?” Aunt Shae inquired from the other room.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 2