Daily they left behind their wives and children, vowing to care for each other’s families should they not safely return home. In this way, they were not so independent from one another, but rather from the rest of men. One might certainly say however, that the rest of men were dependent upon them.
Throughout the years, leaders would rise from among their kind, warriors to lead the children of Homsoloc in the war against Mornoc and the evil that he spread. But this was a dying trend, for there had not been war for many years and men had grown comfortable with it; the rule of money and influence had taken center stage. Those with a smooth tongue and persuasive speech were the leaders now. Valiance in battle was no longer needed, or so it seemed and many believed.
But still some things remained true. In the foothills of the Altus Mountains, the Horsemen continued watching, catching, and taming wild horses as they had for hundreds of years. The majority of them remained honest, hard-working men of the northern frontiers.
On the side of a small hill, three particular Horsemen prepared their evening meal. The horses they rode were tied loosely to the lower branches of a nearby tree. Two jackrabbits roasted over a fire as they began their meal with some bread from their packs. The fire did not burn exceptionally high, for wood was scarce and they couldn’t afford a short, hot blaze.
Waiting patiently, they reclined against their saddle packs. Each contained some heavier clothing for colder conditions, a roll for their bed, rope, gloves, and meager rations to survive should they be unable to find game. With their every breath a light plume of steam could be seen in the light of the fire, as the cold of night continued its descent over the land.
It was clear by their dirty blonde hair and similar features that the three of them were brothers. One kept his hair short while another let it grow to his shoulders, but all three had the same eyes. Their thick hide pants were still covered with dust from riding throughout the day, and the sleeves of their thick shirts were rolled up in anticipation of the task at hand.
The middle of the three looked at his bread with a longing in his eye before taking another bite. “I should have brought more. I’m hungry enough to eat a leg of venison,” he said.
The youngest shook his head with a smile. “Gernod, you’re hungry enough to eat a leg of venison at every meal.”
Gernod was a hefty fellow and certainly appeared able to eat as much as he longed for. He chewed his bread slowly, as if that would make it last longer, watching the main meal cook over the flames.
“Well, until we return home with a few catches, no one is going to have a leg of venison,” said the oldest. As he meticulously checked the rabbits with his knife, he asked, “Lanhard, did you bring many apples?”
“Yes, Bernd,” he responded, not exactly pleased with making such a statement in front of Gernod. “I will share them as always, if we can’t find enough to eat along the way.”
Once he determined that the meat was cooked well enough for eating, Bernd evenly divided it among them.
The only utensils in use for the meal were knives, as delivery was really the only main concern, not the manner in which it was done. Each of them sat against his saddle with his lap as a table to ensure that not a single scrap was lost.
Making fast work of his meal, Bernd turned to watching the sky, cleaning his teeth with a bone.
Lanhard leaned back against his saddle, satisfied with his meal, once again ready to talk. “We’re fortunate I’m such a good shot. I wouldn’t have wanted to eat dried venison for the fourth night in a row.”
“Agreed. I wish I were as great an archer as you,” Gernod responded, now in a better mood, having satisfied his hunger. “Honestly, wouldn’t you say we truly have one of the greatest archers in all the North sitting here in our midst, Bernd?”
Slowly lowering his gaze, Bernd responded with a smile, “I don’t know, Gernod. A few of the young ladies back home could give him a run for his money.” He tossed the bone into the hot coals.
Lanhard laughed, fond of the teasing. He seldom took himself seriously, but then again he seldom lacked confidence either. “If only the two of them had been running together, I would have only needed one arrow.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t wait for that opportunity or we really would have had dried venison,” Gernod replied. He finished his tin cup of water with a gulp and proceeded to wash his hands with a little water from his canteen.
“Go easy on the water. We are going to need it tomorrow. We’re a ways away from the streams at this point.” Bernd said, observing his younger brother.
Gernod nodded.
Bernd was the quiet thinker and the voice of reason among the three while Gernod and Lanhard tended to enjoy the challenges of life for their danger. Bernd was not shy by any means but he did prefer using his head when his back was not needed. They were the perfect mix for the job. Bernd always had a plan, Gernod had the strength to handle most anything, and Lanhard had a talent that money couldn’t buy.
Gernod looked around as if for something else to eat. “Lanhard, do you have many carrots?”
“A few. But I want to make them last. I’d rather not run out before the return home.” He went ahead and tossed one to his brother.
After adding a few of the last sticks to the fire, Bernd returned to stargazing. He folded his hands over his stomach and leaned a little farther into his saddle, stretching out his legs on the moss that covered the ground. The sky was clear and the stars were out in full as far as the eye could see. “I never tire of the night sky,” he said quietly to anyone who would listen.
Gernod and Lanhard joined him in his admiration, agreeing in their silence. They all looked to the same places in the sky for familiar formations of stars. For a while they lay quietly recounting all the ones they’d been taught as children, and now knew so well from years and nights just like this one.
“I am thankful for the reminders that lay up there,” Bernd said. “Not that I would forget the stories, but . . . it does me good to be reminded.”
After a lengthy pause, Lanhard observed, “The Sword is especially clear tonight.”
“It’s that time of year,” Gernod agreed.
A line of several large stars extended from a cluster of smaller ones, like the hand of a warrior gripping the hilt of a long sword, low in the western sky. Something of an arm followed and it faded from there. But, depending upon how you saw it, there was more to it than just that. The extent of the formation lay with the beholder. There was traced throughout the whole of the sky, the outline of a rider. He had a helmet and shield, a robe flowing behind him. Not everyone saw the same thing, but regardless of what he looked like, he was there, riding fast, coming in strength to strike his foe.
“Speaking of swords . . .” Bernd sat up quickly, added the last of the wood to the fire and drew a short sword from under his saddle. It was sheathed in thick hide with a molded wooden grip. The cross of the handle was tarnished but not rusting and wider on the ends than at the middle. Pulling it from its sheath, he leaned in toward the fire to bring it into the light. It shined like metal just polished. Satisfied that the edge was visibly sharp he left it alone, returned it to its sheath, and slipped it back under his saddle.
Lanhard and Gernod took little notice of this practice, accustomed to it to the point of apathy. They too carried a similar blade, though Lanhard was more of an archer.
“Boys, I’m getting my rest. Tomorrow we cross the Rundum and ride to the streams at the base of Mount Elm. I expect we’ll see more than a few horses to our liking. Bless the women and children. Good night.” Bernd pulled out his blanket and rolled onto his side.
“Agreed on all terms,” Gernod replied, and followed suit.
Lanhard remained awake for a while longer, watching the sky, thinking through a day now passed. Only once he could hear his brothers breathing soundly did he pull out his blanket. As he made his bed, he listened for the sounds of night. It was too cold for crickets, but the hoots of an owl coming from
the opposite hill more than made up for them.
As he looked in that general direction, Lanhard thought he caught a glimpse of a shape against the starlit sky moving along the edge of the hill. He instinctively reached for his knife, which he kept sheathed and strapped to his saddle. Watching until he was convinced it had been a trick on his eyes, he relaxed and let sleep overcome him.
* * * * *
Hundreds of miles south of the Altus Mountains, the enemy was not sleeping. All through the night more scouts arrived, some carrying lanterns, others empty-handed. Entering the mouths of caves at the roots of wooded hills, they followed long dark tunnels to one of four doorways to the Hall of Casimir. As their numbers grew, so did the number of lanterns lining the tunnels, bringing their operations to light. They came from miles around, traveling on foot. Some came from the east, others from the west, and a few from the south. They were an army in motion, secretly preparing for war.
The stone banquet table swarmed with activity as more scouts arrived than were leaving. Guards and cooks rushed back and forth to supply the table with enough meat and ale to match the need. The candle chandelier above burned continuously in a place where the sun did not rise. The sound of feasting was accompanied by the occasional scuffle over a choice piece of meat. If there was conversation it was coarse and dark, like everything else.
After a day’s rest Selcor exited the hall through the door he had entered the night before. He went alone without a word to anyone, rubbing his chest, sore from his fight with Casimir. With his pouch packed full of spears, he quickened his step the higher he went, up toward the surface, called on by the evil that controlled his heart. He had a mission, and it was not yet complete; there were lives to claim.
The slightest bit of moonlight shone across the doorway as he ran out of the cave and headed north. Selcor passed a few more scouts in the woods while the sunrise was still hours away. Offering a quick salute with the tip of a spear, he ran on, pressing the pace.
* * * * *
The town of Wellman, several miles farther west of Oak Knoll and nearly ten times its size, lay in the shape of a circle. Its cabins and huts of all different sizes surrounded Lord Wellman’s mansion and the town hall in a series of expanding rings. Wellman sat in a valley of sorts, surrounded by thickly wooded hills to the west and south known as the Bryn Mountains. To the north the landscape was much more open, dotted with crops and barns here and there, separated east and west by one main road that cut due north and forked out to the surrounding region.
Since the town’s establishment, the family of Wellman had been in control of its affairs, filling the seat of lord with its finest young men. Wellman was also home to many of the Véran. The effect of their presence had been very beneficial, and their constant interaction with Lord Wellman had provided an influence that countered that of the times. Though not heralded in Wellman at large, the Promise was at least revered, which was more than could be said of many places in the Lowlands.
Just as the light of a new day began gathering on the horizon, Corred awoke to the sound of the town bell ringing loudly. Leaping from his bed, he joined Einar in quickly getting dressed and strapping on his sword.
“What’s going on?” Corred gasped, working hard to focus in the low light.
“I know of no good reason for the town bell to sound at such an early hour,” Einar responded with an equal tension in his voice.
When they opened their door, Creedus was already awake and standing on his front step. The Sword already hung from his belt, and his left hand was resting on the hilt. His long, now completely white hair and beard hung loosely about his shoulders and chest, but for an old man, he stood tall.
“What is the alarm?” Einar asked, wiping his eyes.
“I cannot tell,” Creedus responded without looking their direction. “We rarely hear the bell ring. Something ill is afoot.”
Before he finished speaking a rider could be seen fast approaching from the center of town. The sound of his gallop filled the still air with an intensity that was out of place for the time of day.
Einar and Corred looked at each other with concern as the answer quickly approached. Creedus waited calmly for the rider’s arrival.
He pulled his horse to a halt in front of their cabins. “Creedus, you are needed in Lord Wellman’s house.” The horse was as agitated as the man’s voice, twitching and turning this way and that.
“What news do you bring?” Creedus asked.
“A man was killed last night on the western side of town. Some others are missing. Please, hurry.” With that, the rider turned tail and rode as fast as he could back to the center of town.
“Get yourselves together and meet me at Lord Wellman’s mansion,” Creedus said loudly. There was a just anger in his voice as he pulled his coat from a peg inside the door and slung it over his shoulders. “A foul fiend will give account!” he half-yelled as he walked away.
Several heads looked out of their doors to seek an answer for the commotion.
Corred and Einar threw on their coats and quickly grabbed a piece of bread, a meager meal, but fitting for the occasion.
Wellman’s chimneys smoked lightly, not yet stoked for breakfast. A light frost covered the rooftops waiting to be touched by the warmth of the sun. All was quiet; the streets were empty apart from a few people going house to house to either inquire of or to spread the news of what had happened.
Corred stopped a young woman to ask her the details.
“An enemy soldier has been seen, three men are dead, and three are missing.” She was no more than fifteen herself and visibly shaken by the news.
“A soldier you say?” Einar asked.
“Yes, sir. A scout, as they call them.” Not sparing another moment, she hurried on to the next house, holding back tears.
Einar and Corred jogged the rest of the way, taking one of the many streets that ran straight into the center of town. The closer they came to the town hall the more the town came alive; the dreadful news worked its way to the edges of Wellman like ripples on a pond. Husbands and fathers were taking stock of their own loved ones and their most precious belongings. All but a few houses still had the nighttime lamp burning on the front step. From among the houses, a few other members of the Véran were also jogging toward Lord Wellman’s mansion, coming out of the woodwork.
At the center of town the mansion stood taller than any of the other buildings, only slightly taller than the town hall next to it. The hall doors were closed and its chimney was cold. In contrast, the chimney of Lord Wellman’s mansion was billowing smoke heavily.
As Einar and Corred arrived, with a few others trailing behind them, several messengers ran out of the front door with letter pouches over their shoulders. One of them carried a short sword, the others a bow and arrow. Without a single thought to further preparation they mounted their horses, which were waiting by the town hall, and took off. The only farewell they gave was the sound of their gallop and flying clods of dirt. They took the main road headed north.
“I suppose we will learn the meaning of their haste inside,” Einar said as he ascended the stair with Corred.
Opening the front doors, they were greeted by the heat of the fire in the front hall; it had been burning for some time. Creedus recognized their entry with a sober nod. He stood before Lord Wellman, who sat in a large wooden chair at the end of the hall. His eyes were red with crying and rage as he gripped the arms of his chair. He was not wearing his customary robe, but rather the dress of a common man, unprepared for the arrival of guests. His shoulder length gray hair was messy and un-kept from running his hands over his head. Known to all as a strong leader, it was staggering to see him so completely undone. On his right was a small gathering of women by the hearth weeping, some of them loudly. They too were not appropriately dressed for a public showing, one of them being his wife. Her younger daughter and her servants tried in vain to console her.
Corred’s heart sank into his chest. Where is she!? Certa
inly she would be here with all the others. His mind began to race as he thought of explanations for her absence, not wanting to believe what he feared was the case.
“Is this your Véran?” Lord Wellman asked of Creedus with disdain. His lips quivered with emotion.
Eight more men filed in behind Einar and Corred.
“Yes, my lord, and well able to serve you.” Creedus did not take Lord Wellman’s anger and grief personally. “Many more will be arriving within days.”
Lord Wellman glared at them all. “Determine who has done this thing and kill them.” Looking now at the Sword that hung from Creedus’ belt, he added. “Perhaps that sword will finally be of some good among men. Find my children, and bring them back.” Trembling, he shook his fist in the air. “I will be avenged!” With that he rushed out of the greeting hall and back into the rooms of his house.
The women who had been weeping made no such move. A few of them were curled up on their knees on the floor by the fire, overwhelmed with grief. One of them looked at Creedus with teary eyes, searching for hope. She was Lord Wellman’s youngest child.
“Your brother and sister will be found,” Creedus said with authority. Addressing Lord Wellman’s wife, though she did not look at him, he added, “Do not despair, they will be found.” Creedus walked out of the house signaling the others to follow.
Corred felt the weight of the words. He tried to hide his concern, but it was in vain. The calm he had initially maintained slowly left his face as he began to imagine the worst. Where could they have taken her!? Why would they have taken her? He fell in with the rest of the group outside.
Once the doors were closed behind him, Creedus remained atop the stairs and looked over the group. With a deep breath he relayed the brunt of the news. “Lord Wellman’s eldest son, Pedrig, has been slain. Several of our enemy’s scouts slew him and his servants as he returned from a hunting trip earlier this morning.” Without looking he pointed his right hand upward.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 6