Halfway down, Creedus and Beathan slowed at a point where the path and the forest floor on either side had been disturbed. Sure enough, there were signs where the leaves had been pressed down, leading into the woods. Creedus stopped and observed the tracks, following their line with his eye.
Beathan and Reed peered through the boughs of the trees, bracing for what might come next.
Corred watched his grandfather’s face as he looked through the forest; his eyes widened.
In a flash of light, Creedus drew the Sword and cut the air as if deflecting an imaginary blow. The shaft of a black spear shattered loudly against the blade.
From the east, two scouts ran toward them. Their soft steps could barely be heard. Each held a spear shoulder high, ready for release. Darting between the trees, they charged the group of armed men with abandon. 60 yards, 55, 50 . . .
Beathan pulled back, leveled his aim, and released the first arrow.
With lightning fast reflexes, the scout coming from higher on the hill ducked between two saplings. The arrow deflected and flew high, missing its mark.
Beathan drew another arrow.
40 yards.
The second scout threw a spear with the force of his whole body behind it.
It sank into the tree beside Beathan’s head, causing his second shot to sail wide.
“Corred, Einar, Boyd, save the captives!” Creedus yelled under his breath. “Go!”
Another spear was released. Creedus deflected it again with another equally agile block. It snapped in two on the trunk of the tree beside him.
Without another look at their attackers, Corred and Einar sprinted down the path with the wind on their heels. Boyd released an arrow at the closest oncoming scout and followed them while pulling another arrow from his quiver. His shot hit one of the scouts high in the shoulder, slowing him only a little.
In a rush of sound, the scouts met the three who had stayed behind. Corred could hear a cry of pain from behind but did not dare to look. He stayed low. Reaching the spot the captives had last been seen, he flew over the final hill, barely touching the ground. Through the rush of wind in his face he could hear Einar’s steps close behind him. The ground was wet, and at the speed they were running, it would be easy to lose control going down the last hill. Gliding over the wet leaves, Corred’s footing hung on a thread, but he pushed all the harder. When a low branch hit him in the face, he slid down a section of the path with one hand on the ground. Like he had a hundred times before, he picked up a stone in the same movement, his second weapon.
Breaking out of the woods, Einar and Boyd came along side him. Einar’s sword was in his hand. Boyd carried an arrow in his right hand, ready to lay it on the string.
The grass was thick, making it difficult to keep up the speed as the light rain mixed with the sweat on their brows, stinging their eyes.
Lord Wellman’s children were already halfway across the open field. They too were running, but only as fast as they could be forced to. One of them turned back and spotted his rescuers.
“Tristan,” Corred said through his labored breath. He could see Olwen running beside her younger brother. Finding new strength at the sight, he gritted his teeth and pushed harder, drawing his sword.
Einar matched his speed.
Boyd knocked his arrow.
When the scout who followed the group turned to see that they were being pursued, he dropped the rope he had been carrying and turned to face them.
Gwen fell to the ground, exhausted.
Before the lead scout became aware of the situation, Tristan attacked him from behind, taking him to the ground. Olwen struggled desperately to free herself from the wrestling match that ensued.
As Corred and Einar charged with swords in hand, Boyd stopped suddenly and released a shot.
Corred heard it hiss by on its way to the target.
The arrow was true, hitting the scout in the chest just as he released a spear. It soared wide of Einar, disappearing in the grass. Unable to lift his arms for another spear the scout fell to his knees.
Einar rushed in and finished him with one powerful swing, spilling his pouch of spears on the ground.
Without taking his eyes off of Olwen, Corred sprinted to where Tristan fought for his life. Olwen’s cords had become entangled in the struggle and pulled her to the ground, threatening to draw her in.
Just as the scout rolled Tristan over and regained control of the situation Corred threw the stone he had been carrying. It struck the scout in the side of the head, knocking him off balance.
Tristan did not respond to the advantage.
Jumping to his feet with a spear already in his hand the stunned scout turned to face his newest attacker.
A second arrow from Boyd’s bow struck the scout high in the arm before he could throw; his spear fell to the ground.
Corred met with the injured scout just as he pulled a second spear with his good arm. Their weapons met in the air, shattering the scout’s spear. Corred struck him twice before he hit the ground.
In a matter of seconds it was over.
Tristan and Olwen lay exhausted in the grass.
Everyone gasped for breath.
Olwen crawled to her brother’s side. He was just now regaining consciousness from a blow he had received to the head. Olwen held back her tears no longer. Turning to Corred she cried out. “Help him, he’s been hurt. Help my brother.”
Corred responded quickly. Wiping the blood from his sword on the grass he sheathed it. Helping Tristan to his feet, it was clear that he would be unable to run any longer. There was a welt rising on his forehead and his nose was bleeding again.
“I’m okay,” he said with slurred speech. “I just need a moment to catch my breath.”
Olwen tore a piece of her already ruined dress to wipe the blood from his mouth, but before she could reach him he slumped back to the ground.
Einar joined them. “He’s in no condition to walk back to the horses and we haven’t much time. These scouts will be expected by their commanders,” he exclaimed. He grabbed Tristan’s arm and slung him across his broad shoulders. “I’ve got him. Help her,” he said to Corred.
Olwen’s quivering hands were clenched as she began to sob, no longer able to control her fear. “There are two more of them. They will come back and kill us.”
“They have been dealt with,” Einar said confidently, though he did not know for sure. “We have horses not far from here but we must get back to the cover of the woods. Hurry.” With that he started running.
Corred extended his hand. “We will not let any more harm come to you or your brother. Come, we must go.”
Taking his hand she followed closely, unwilling to let her brother out of sight.
With his bow slung over his shoulder Boyd was already leading the way, carrying Gwen in his arms like a child. She had fainted from fatigue and could walk no farther.
With all the remaining strength that they had, the six of them hurried back to where they had left Creedus and the others in the heat of conflict. Ahead of them Creedus stood at the edge of the woods with his sword still in his hands, watching the field.
By the time they reached the woods, Creedus was down on one knee. Beathan stood just beside him and inside the trees with an arrow on his string. There was a cut on his face and his shirt was torn.
Corred and Olwen arrived first.
“We have killed them both,” Einar said under heavy breath as he reached the edge of the woods. He lowered Tristan to the ground softly.
Creedus nodded.
Boyd laid Gwen beside Tristan as she slowly opened her eyes. The color was almost gone from her lips. He pulled a small canteen from his quiver and gave her a drink before pouring some of the water on Tristan’s face to refresh him and wash his wounds. Boyd announced the boy’s status as he cared for him. “His nose is not broken but he’s had a good knock to the head.”
“Where is Reed?” Corred asked.
There was a pause. They
all looked at Creedus and Beathan.
“He has fallen.” Creedus lowered his head.
Corred looked up the path to where two bodies lay next to each other. One was dressed in black and the other was Reed. Protruding from his torso were three black spears. Driven into the trees around him were two more.
“He took one of them for me once he had been mortally wounded,” Creedus said, rising to his feet. “He took the other to save Beathan.”
There was a tear in Beathan’s eye as he continued watching the woods, nervously feeling the fletchings of the arrow still on his bow.
“I slew the first, hand to hand, and the second ran when Beathan struck him with an arrow. Judging by the speed with which he fled, he was not badly injured.” Sheathing his sword, Creedus observed everyone’s injuries. “We must go, before he returns with a greater number.” Pointing to Gwen and Tristan he said, “Help them to their feet. We have been fortunate not to have all lost our lives, but this trial is not through.”
When they came to Reed’s fallen form, Creedus removed the spears carefully and picked him up. He trembled not only under the weight of his friend’s body but under the gravity that his friend was now dead, another of the Véran lost.
Chapter 7
On the bank of a small stream, with the grandeur of the Altus Mountains beyond, Bernd, Gernod and Lanhard stopped to water their horses. Ahead of them stood Mount Elm, surrounded at its base by thick woods comprised primarily of that tree for which the mountain was named. From east to west the open land rolled on, a sea of grass. The blue sky above was spotted with clouds, casting their shadows over the plain as they slowly drifted by.
Dismounting, they filled their canteens with the crystal clear water. Gernod tossed some on Lanhard, starting a short exchange of larger splashes. Normally it would have escalated but they reached an unspoken agreement that it wasn’t exactly summer anymore and the water was quite cold.
In the distance a herd of horses was feeding freely.
“There they are boys,” Bernd said with a smile. “There must be over fifty good catches.”
Lanhard took a deep breath of cool, clean air. “What a beautiful sight.”
“It only gets better up close. Let’s go,” Gernod said placing his water back in his saddle bag.
Promptly finishing their rest, they mounted their horses and waded through the shallows, scattering the minnows into deeper water.
“Should we approach from the east, keeping the lower hills between us and them?” Lanhard asked.
“Sounds good to me. The breezes are coming from the west so they won’t spook by scenting,” Gernod responded.
Bernd had the final say. “From the east it is, keeping between the hills. Let’s hope the breeze holds true.”
Taking one last look at their destination, they cut between two bluffs just high enough to hide them from view. They kept their pace to a slow trot, working in and out of the hills. When the occasion allowed it, one of them would ride a little higher to mark their target and track their progress.
The sun had by now reached its height in the sky. With that in mind, they took pains not to rush the process. If they spooked the herd before the time was right, they would be forced to start the hunt over, and that with a far more alert quarry. Even if they caught a desirable specimen, it would take the rest of the day to subdue it to the point where they could control it through night.
When they were within less than three hundred yards, they slowed to a walk, keeping out of sight until they were within less than a hundred. A couple of buzzards coasted on the winds above, which remained in their favor. Indifferent to the whole scene, they were concerned only with finding some carrion to fill their stomachs for the day. Passing overhead, their shadows flew by as if trying to keep up.
Bernd stopped his horse just before the crest of a large bluff. Peeking over the top, he caught a glimpse of the back of several spotted horses grazing in a flat section of the plains. Turning to his brothers behind him, he nodded. The wind tossed his hair across his face as he flashed a knowing smile and pointed to his nose. They were in the right position, so close that they could smell their quarry.
At only seventy yards away, Bernd exercised the element of surprise. With a quick kick to his horse’s sides he darted over the top with Gernod and Lanhard close behind.
The reaction of the herd was immediate; ears perked, eyes widened and with a host of snorts they were off, a shifting maze of whites, tans and shades of brown. Running into the wind, they headed west, leaving nothing behind but dust and trampled grass. Staying just south of the herd to avoid the cloud, the three brothers each readied their lariats.
Gernod quickly split away and rode into the herd after a young colt as the leaders of the herd began turning north; Lanhard charged ahead and caught up with them. Moving in closer to join him, Bernd singled out a mare on the fringe and pointed her out; she was a rich brown with bright white feet. Working together, Bernd and Lanhard skillfully managed to separate her from the group, allowing Bernd to get his rope around her neck. This scared her even more, and she split completely from the herd as it continued its turn toward Mount Elm. Despite her burst of speed, Lanhard stayed close on the opposite side to hem her in and keep her from pulling too hard on the rope.
Far behind, Gernod was already off his horse and trying to control the young, frightened colt that he had caught. He was having a far easier time than the other two, as the mare Bernd had roped decided to pick a fight with her new masters.
Turning one way then the other, she rose to her hind feet and kicked frantically. Lanhard jumped from his mount with another rope and began the difficult process of convincing their new catch that she had nothing to fear. With the rope wrapped around his shoulders and a bridle in one hand he threw his arms in the air, focused on keeping in front of her as she turned circles. Her desperate movements tested Bernd’s skill in keeping her at a safe distance and the rope taut at the same time.
In defiance she rose again to her hind feet, kicking wildly, daring Lanhard to come closer. Armed only with agility, he stayed just out of reach so as to avoid her violent flailing, but close enough to make it clear that he wasn’t leaving.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Lanhard raised and lowered his voice until she came to rest on all fours. The roar of the herd was fading now and the sound of his voice became her central focus.
Even when she had stopped fighting Bernd’s rope she bit it nervously. With a snort she looked at Bernd and back at Lanhard, turning her head to the side to get another look. Her dark ears were low against her head, signaling that she had no intention of submitting.
Bernd loosened the rope just a little as Lanhard took a step closer.
Up on her hind legs she went, tossing her head and kicking, making her displeasure known with a fearful whinny. Stomping hard with her hooves, she turned to run again, but Bernd was right there to pull her rope taut and circle her back toward Lanhard.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
Numerous times the process was repeated, each time enabling Lanhard to get closer. Eventually, he was able to toss a rope over her neck in order to make the transition from Bernd being in control to making himself the center of the mare’s attention. Bernd kept his rope around her neck for back up. Slowly, her trust was being earned.
In the distance Gernod was already attempting to place a bridle on the young colt he had caught, a much less formidable project than the one Lanhard had undertaken.
“Hey now, hey. Hey now, hey.” Lanhard dropped his volume even farther to soothe the mare’s nerves, keeping his hands up and out for her to see. Her ears were now perked, but she continued to back away before Lanhard could touch her.
Bernd kept silent, attentively assessing the situation. Lanhard’s mount stayed on the outside of the skirmish, curiously watching the process unfold. Neither he nor Bernd’s mount had been captured wild, but rather born and raised in captivity, loyally devoted to their master’s will. Quietly waving their tails a
bout, they watched a process they had seen many times before.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Whoa now, girl.” Lanhard took a step closer.
This time the mare did not back away. She licked the white surrounding her nose and cocked her head nervously.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, girl,” he repeated. He kept eye contact, allowing her to read his intentions.
She continued to twitch nervously but relaxed her stance a little.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, girl.” With one more step Lanhard could have touched her but he didn’t. Instead he remained still. Hands extended, he looked her in the eye, speaking softly.
She lowered her head ever so slightly and snorted.
Slowly reaching into the pocket of his shirt, Lanhard drew out half of a carrot and again extended his hand.
Bernd watched from his saddle, the rope that had begun the process now slack, resting in his glove. A big smile was on his face as he admired his younger brother’s work.
“I’m not going to hurt you, girl,” Lanhard said. He waited patiently, not advancing any farther, always looking her in the eye. His soft facial expressions matched his words of comfort, slowly dispelling the mare’s fears. The carrot sat in his hand.
After a minute or so of Lanhard’s reassuring whisper, the mare gave in. Taking a step toward him she sniffed the hand that held the carrot. She retreated quickly, widening her big black eyes. With her nose in the air she waited for Lanhard’s response.
“You’re okay, girl. You’re okay,” he continued saying.
She was the one changing. Again she stepped forward and this time took the carrot. Backing up again, she enjoyed the gift from a safer distance, still convinced her fears were warranted.
“There you go, girl, you’re okay.” Lanhard reached for a second carrot and held it out, this time not as extended, drawing her closer to him.
Looking at him thoughtfully the mare responded again. Approaching him gingerly she took the second carrot and let Lanhard’s hand brush the side of her face.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 8