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

by Jaffrey Clark

  Corred shifted in his seat and began. “More of the same; most have grown too comfortable. It was poorly attended.” Corred tucked some of his hair behind his ear and leaned on his knees toward the fire. “A man from the Northern Villages was there. He was coming to Wellman to see my grandfather and others of the Véran to voice concerns of scout attacks. At Hill Top he spoke of three men killed in an ambush along the Rundum River, east of the villages, not far from some of the trading posts. The signs were obvious. Apparently, there are very few attending the gatherings in the north as well.”

  Einar listened quietly. He leaned the stirring rod against the wall, sat up straight, clasped his hands and rested them on his lap. “What has been the response to these attacks?” he asked.

  “Naturally the town officials from those villages attribute it to roving thieves, but it is clearly untrue. These men had been hunting for meat, not furs. They had no boat full of goods for trade, no money bags.”

  Einar took a deep breath. “Even if the town officials don’t honestly believe their own explanation, they don’t want it to be a scout attack. They know that they are not ready for any kind of conflict and they don’t want to have to prepare for one. Trust me, the lack of vigilance in Wellman, Oak Knoll, and here are not exceptions to the rule. Every town, village and settlement in between has become lax. And do not underestimate the ability of people to explain away the occurrence of evil. It’s in our nature, Corred. History repeats itself because people forget the past. The records of our fathers are a testament to it.” Einar knit his brow. “I know I preach to a preacher; it’s the people out there that need to hear the truth, though they won’t listen. I have tried. There is a stubborn resistance even here in Renken that continues to grow.” He sighed deeply. “When it comes, and someday soon it may, I fear there will have to be great loss to awaken the Lowlands to the enemy that still lives among us, an enemy that has always lived among us. I just pray that there will be enough strength to answer if such a thing ever happens.”

  Corred turned to look his friend in the eye. “It is indeed alarming, but that’s not where it ends. On the way home from Hill Top last night I was attacked.” He watched Einar’s reaction. “I barely escaped with my life, and my attacker left the same spear that cut my shoulder driven into the step of my cabin.” He pulled his shirt back to show his bandage. “He also took the lantern, as if to claim my life.”

  Einar raised an eyebrow. “I am glad you are okay.” After a pause he continued. “Did you confront him or was it simply a foot race for Oak Knoll?”

  “I had the chance, but I didn’t risk it. I never would have reached him in time to fight hand to hand.” Corred shook his head, recounting the fear he had felt.

  “Who else knows?” Einar asked.

  “I spent the night with my aunt and uncle, and Galena. Aunt Shae stitched me up. I also told Garrin when I met him on the way into Renken, but he brushed me off as usual.”

  “I know how you feel. Though we are respected by some, they are becoming fewer. There is even an official here in Renken that has begun to think little of us, and not out of ignorance.”

  “Who might that be?” Corred asked.

  “Lord Raven, himself,” Einar answered quietly.

  Corred started at these words. “Lord Raven? Since when has he become hard of heart?”

  “Only recently,” Einar answered. “Though I am familiar to Lord Raven, he has coldly declined my latest requests to visit him.”

  “That is certainly unfortunate for us,” Corred said with hurt in his voice.

  “Our enemy is cunning, Corred. We have not had peace for nearly fifty years because Mornoc has abandoned his purpose in existence. He is at least at work in politics, weakening men from the inside out. That’s where our weakness is, on the inside. I worry that Lord Raven has some ill advisor poisoning his good sense. In the meantime, it would appear some of us are being marked for death.”

  “Yeah, like me.” Corred ran his hands through his hair. He was visibly distraught.

  Einar watched his movements. Leaning over to join Corred, he looked into the flames and spoke under his breath, as if the very words were fragile. “A deliverer from the West, . . . to bring an end to exile and the beginning of renewal, for the hope of every heart and the life of every soul.”

  For a long moment they both contemplated these words. The whole weight of their hope depended on them: the old Promise yet to be fulfilled.

  Einar slapped Corred on the back. “Let’s have something to eat; we’re going to need it.”

  Corred looked at his friend inquiringly.

  Einar smiled widely. “Your grandfather has called me to join him in Wellman. Come with me.”

  “I’d love to. I haven’t been there in weeks and would very much like to be back.” Corred responded quickly. “What did he say it was about?”

  Einar stood up. “I don’t know, but I don’t need a lot of reason to visit your grandfather.”

  Chapter 4

  Several miles south of Oak Knoll, a lone traveler ran through the woods carrying a lantern. The glass bowl covering the wick was blackened at the top from the night before. His dress was black and on his back was a pouch full of short spears.

  Moving swiftly, he made his way along a subtle trail, through thick woods at the base of a rocky hill. His gaunt face betrayed some of its youthfulness, but it spoke also of an unnatural strain. He followed the trail to the lowest point of the woods and there entered a cave. In the entrance he lit the lantern he’d been carrying with one that hung from the cave wall. Crouching slightly, he followed the cave into the heart of the hill.

  At thirty yards, the tunnel gradually began to open up, heading into the earth. As he continued, the jagged walls began to grow moist and the air grew warmer. In sections there was a steady trickle of water along the floor at the base of the walls. Deeper and deeper he went, leaving the sun behind. Taking one last turn, he hung his lantern on a nail in the rock, the beginning of a long row of lanterns of all shapes and sizes. From there he followed the lights to a place where the cave opened up into a large chamber.

  In the middle of the cave a long stone table was lined with men of a similar dress, feasting. It was an underground banquet hall lacking all of the fineries expected at a banquet. The square room was well lit by a massive candle chandelier that hung above the table and several lanterns that hung at each doorway and along the walls. The air was filled with the smell of meat, ale, and burning oil.

  At each of four entrances, one on each side, a guard stood at attention. Above one of these doors, etched in stone, was the name “Casimir.” Ignoring the guards, the returning scout walked up to the table and joined the feasting.

  Every man at the table wore a pouch of short spears on his back, black clothing, and had dark hair and eyes. The only things that set them apart were their facial features, length of hair, and height. They were all thin and haggard, like men near death, but there was an apparent ferocity about them all.

  The scout took his place at an empty spot on one of the wooden benches and immediately tore into the first piece of meat within reach. All of the meat was in the form of whole carcasses, just cooked, but quite rare. Lining the table were pitchers of cold ale, earthen cups, and tin plates. The sounds of feasting permeated the atmosphere.

  “Did you bring his lantern, Selcor?” a scout asked the new arrival in a guttural voice.

  “Yes,” Selcor replied over a mouthful of meat.

  They both focused on their food for a minute or so longer before Selcor added, “I made him bleed, but he escaped.”

  His companion paused to contemplate the words then washed down his food with some ale. His bushy hair hung over his forehead in wavy strands. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off.

  “Hail, your Mallith!” A voice cried from the other end of the table. The command echoed loudly through the chamber, ringing into the tunnels.

  All in attendance rose
to their feet on the outside of their benches and turned to face the entrance at the far end of the table, the one with the name “Casimir” carved above it. Some spit food out of their mouths onto their plates, or swallowed what was left to more quickly assume a position of attention. Once there was complete silence and every one of them was on their feet, a great gangly figure walked through the stone doorway and paused just under the light of the lanterns to his left and right.

  A black robe covered the form of a man no less than eight feet tall. He stood slightly bent over but with square shoulders. In his right hand he carried a long club with a heavy metal sphere on the end, adorned with five large spikes. His long black hair was lined with thick strands of gray and his beard was kept short, appearing just as dark against his pale skin. There were scars on his cheeks running down from his eyes like tears, and his hands and forearms were scarred in a similar manner, as if burned. Like all of those present, he too carried a pouch of spears on his back.

  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. The giant slowly extended his right arm, holding the club out in front of him. In unison all of the men at the table pulled a spear from their pouches, saluting him with the point of their weapons.

  “Casimir!” they all bellowed in one voice.

  Casimir lowered the club to his side.

  The scouts all returned their spears to their pouches in unison.

  Casimir proceeded to walk with long, slow strides around the table, observing each of his soldiers carefully. No one dared to return his gaze, but kept their eyes on the door that their captain had entered, all except for Selcor. He shifted his weight slightly, peering at his captain out of the corner of his eye. It did not go unnoticed.

  Casimir stopped mid-stride. Turning to face his scout, he tossed aside his club. Removing his pouch of spears also, he laid them on the stone floor. Two of the guards quickly ran to pick up his weapons and move them far out of the way; one of them labored under the weight of the club.

  Pointing the full length of his arm at Selcor, he spoke. “Turn and face your captain.” His voice was deep and raspy and his teeth shone white as he sneered.

  Without a second’s hesitation Selcor grabbed a spear from his pouch and hurled it at Casimir, running toward him with a second spear already in the other hand. His movements were swift and there was no reservation in his aggression.

  Everyone present turned to watch the fight.

  Casimir caught the first spear by the shaft and snapped it. He dodged the second, which was aimed at his head, while taking a step toward Selcor.

  They met each other as Selcor released a third spear with all his might. Casimir dodged even this last attempt, though very narrowly, and it hit the back wall.

  Moving in close, Selcor threw a quick punch, which Casimir easily blocked with his left forearm. Lunging at his captain, Selcor landed a second blow on the outside of Casimir’s leg. His third jab, meant for the captain’s stomach was blocked as well, and Casimir knocked him off of his feet with a single punch to the chest. Selcor slid back toward his bench head first, reeling.

  Casimir followed quickly and grabbed Selcor by the shirt as he gasped for breath. Lifting him off of the ground Casimir placed him in a strangle hold from behind. Allowing Selcor to draw one last breath he applied pressure.

  Selcor grew red, then pale, pulling viciously at the long arm around his neck, kicking wildly to free himself. Even a few well placed blows to Casimir’s ribs with his elbows, Seclor could not lessen the monster’s grip on his neck. The room began to swim around him.

  Casimir whispered in his ear, “You’re learning, youngster.” There was pleasure in his voice as he inflicted pain. He turned toward the group with a hard stare. They quickly returned to form, unwilling to bring the same wrath upon themselves.

  Selcor’s resistance began to lessen and his grip on Casimir’s arm became weak. Just before he went limp, Casimir dropped him.

  Slumping over, Selcor gasped for air, and rolled onto his back.

  The two guards that had been tending Casimir’s weapons hurried over to return them to him. Without looking at them he held out a hand for them to stop. Standing at full height he addressed the table. “Never half-kill your enemies; annihilate them. Never leave them wounded to strike back.” He continued pacing the length of the table as he had before with Selcor still doubled over on the floor. “Do you think that they will spare you, who once walked among their villages and ate their food!?” He paused to look over a few of his men before continuing. “We will show no mercy. This is Mornoc’s world. Those who will not honor him and serve him are our enemies, and for that they must die!” His voice shook with anger.

  Selcor slowly rose to his feet, and returned to attention with a scowl.

  Casimir looked at him proudly. “Give him more spears and more ale. He is a good soldier of Mornoc.” He held out his hand for his weapons. “Soon, he’ll be a better one.”

  The guard that had been holding the club released the weight of it into Casimir’s hand where it rested lightly. Slinging his spears over his shoulder Casimir walked toward the door he had entered and paused to address the hall again. “Prepare yourselves. Our time is approaching.”

  Once he had disappeared into the tunnel and out of sight, the hall returned to feasting, as if nothing had happened.

  One of the guards poured Selcor a full glass of ale while a second placed more spears in his pouch. Slamming his fist on the table, he took his cup of ale and drained it. With cursing, he ripped at his meat. Even before he had swallowed, the remaining blonde tips of his hair turned to black.

  * * * * *

  When the sun had reached its highest point in the sky, Einar and Corred left Renken on foot and headed for Oak Knoll. They walked around, rather than through the town, passing instead through the fields that surrounded Renken.

  It had grown much warmer since that morning, providing for very comfortable travel. The warmth had a similar effect on the birds, which were now actively flying about in the fields and among the trees that scattered the land to the south of town. The air was filled with their songs.

  Corred made the return home carrying the same supplies as when he had left. Einar brought with him a pack full of necessary provisions, a roll for his bed, and a sword. His sword had a wide blade and heavy oak handle, braided with leather, long enough for a double grip. It hung from a weathered leather belt along with a hunting knife of similar design.

  As they walked they spoke freely about anything and everything that came to mind. The latest hunts they’d been on, trees they’d felled, people they’d met. For Einar there were always the different pieces of woodwork he’d done, mostly for the wealthy of Renken’s eastern district. But, it wasn’t long before the conversation turned back to Corred’s dangerous encounter from the night before.

  “I am still amazed at his ferocity. I could hear him cursing under his breath as he searched me out.” Corred felt better the more he talked about it.

  “It is a fearful thing to know that another living being wants only to take your life. Battle alone is fierce enough before facing an enemy like ours.” Einar paused to gather his thoughts. “Mornoc and his soldiers have never been interested in preserving their own lives. War for them has only ever been about the destruction of their enemies. As you know, Mornoc has commonly destroyed whole villages, towns, killing every living thing, unless the inhabitants swore allegiance to him.”

  After walking for a while longer, Corred wondered aloud, “If he was just a scout that had followed me in the woods, I cannot imagine facing a captain of Mornoc.” Corred shook his head attempting to imagine it.

  “I only know one man still living who has seen a Mallith in battle,” Einar said, leaning toward Corred, “and that is your grandfather.”

  “Yes, he has told me a little about it, but no more than I would learn from the tales that everyone has heard: heart of stone, hundreds of years old, giants among men.”

  “I am sure your grandfather c
ould tell you more. Such an experience would not readily leave one’s memory, and what I heard as a boy was plenty to give me nightmares,” Einar said with a lighthearted laugh.

  “Well, they have become the objects of nighttime tales,” Corred said. “It would be quite another story to face one in its wrath, even with the Sword.”

  Einar nodded long and hard. “Corred, I am so very grateful that we have both lived during a time of peace such as this, but I have an uneasy feeling it may be coming at an unseen price,” Einar said. His tone was serious, and he seemed burdened by his admission. “The lack of interest in recounting and celebrating the Promise is proof that Mornoc’s silence is not working against him, and I am certain he knows it. An unsuspecting victim makes the hunter that much more bold to attack.”

  Corred thought about it for a moment, certainly not willing to disagree after his experience from the night before. The thought sobered him.

  “A gathering of the Heads of Véran would be very much in order if we are to address the people’s complacency,” Einar thought aloud.

  “Is there really enough cause for such a thing?” The answers had been given the night before, but his curiosity was speaking for him.

  “You’re the one with bandages,” Einar said with a smirk. “It has been a long time since members of the Véran from the Northern Villages, Shole, Renken, and Wellman have gathered together for any event. Another ill effect of the peace we all so greatly enjoy.”

  “What about Port?” Corred asked.